A Letter to Elise

Miss Elise, the master has gone. I found this on his desk.  I am sure he would have wanted you to have it. —v/r Breaux

27 November 19—

Dearest Elise, 

Thanks for the letter. I guess. I hope the holidays find you well. Best wishes to you and your family. 

Sorry, sorry for the blank postcard. It made me think of you—you were always vanilla beans and daises, while I kept at sunsets and scarecrows— I saw it. Bought it. Addressed it. Didn’t send it. Hadn’t enough neurons or minutes to craft you a proper message. Distracted after almost running over a pair of kids in the Alley. Anyway the caretaker threw it into the mail. The alley? The oak alley, that is. As you might guess from the return address, I quit the station and headed out to the old family place in Thibodaux where I can hide and write in peace. It’s been empty for years. 

That is, same troll, new bridge. 

I don’t know what else to say except I hope you are still all infectious sighs and marmalade thighs, as I am still sadnesses and small bits of 3AM beauty.

So, you wanted me to tell you the story, again of the corpse and the defrosted icebox? Nah. And you want to know how it went with Jeanne? Nah.

You always liked my stories, I don’t know why. Regardless. I’m no longer in the city to entertain you. So, nah. Sorry. Also, I haven’t spoken to Jeanne in over a year. 

In any case, my dislike of (and frightening loneliness in) the city made me somewhat prolific in my writing. I realized this solitary talent is best for me. So here I am, just my miserable self. I don’t think those blank-faced children lurking about count, nor does T-Breaux who comes around once a week to tend the house and grounds.

I would, of course, like to see what you’ve been working on. While I more easily motivate people to tears or laughter with my words more so than my actual person, you are unpolluted by it all. I was always awestruck by the undaunted moxie. Freckled and fantastic, against my wanton and wounding.

One little bird told me you’d given up the arts for the nurse corps. I'm glad to hear you are still at KPOW. Although, I would have gladly broken my head during the War, if you were a nurse. Honestly, I did break my head in the War, in a sense, and for a short time, you nursed it. You're a busy girl, as always, and this continued correspondence is mucking things around between us. Its over. I’m over. I’m throwing myself to the ghosts. Seriously. Those kids, I mean. If I haven’t made it clear, they are dead. 

Breaux sez (at least according to family tradition) they are a couple kids who drowned in a cow pond. Long ago. He sez the peeshwank (to use his word) fell in and his sister went in after him. They got stuck in the muddy bottom. The family lost a lot of livestock that way too. The land has never been properly improved. It’s low and undrained along the river. That’s why this place hasn’t had cattle since the Civil War (that suggests that those children might have died over a century ago). Breaux sez the impoundments are intact and the ponds are still out there in the fields albeit grown over by the decades. He sez I am liable to fall in if I go looking.  So I should not.

Anyway. You've lots to consider. I am aware that my misanthropy—my disaccord with humanity tends to lead me to replace traditional affections with any sort of emotional rile I can get out of myself or others; that is, writing to old flames. That said, I will restrain on commenting on your thoughts about love because I don't want my thoughts to be ugly. Anything I could say on the matter could be easily construed as regret or jealousy.

But, not knowing where to begin, I will try to thoroughly answer your silly questions…

1. Am I getting some rest? ...a little at least. 
2. I don’t have friends here. I’ve been hiding in my room since the incident. I haven’t really been out in 8 months. No friends except the children, a boy about 5 and a girl about 10. I see them about the grounds of the planation. Usually darting behind a tree or gliding past a doorway—or as earlier—standing stock still in the middle of the road, as I swerve around. Oh. And I brought my cat Chainsaw of course. 
3. I’ve had Threepenny Opera on the turntable since beginning correspondence with you. It reminds me of that year. I am reminded of a “perfect moment.” I mean “perfect” not in a good sense, but in a literary way: I was slumped in the audio booth spinning the Rezső Seress (you know the one) on vinyl. It was raining and I was frustrated and thinking that I should stray from you; You clomped by in a yellow rain coat with your straight-armed duck-walk that you do when late or determined and I sighed and the record droned: and…Oh, well. Enough. 
4. Last time I cried. Ah, now we’re down to the bone and gristle. I guess, I would say it was your letter that made me a bit teary-eyed. It wasn’t really what you said but the undercurrent I felt from it. First, it sounded like your sights we’re set lower than the Elise I knew. I think you have a lot more to offer, I mean you sound so milquetoast about this new beau. All you said was that was he reet clobbered over you or something. I am not trying to quote you or knock him. I just felt like you deserved more fireworks before you settled down to be a wife and nurse. Certainly, you deserve more than passionless marriage just to not be alone. I can’t image ‘treating you like a princess’ and ‘having you cry yourself to sleep’ are concepts that easily co-exist. So. Now, I’ve said too much. Anyway.  I felt sad about that. Like losing you a second time.
5. A toughie. Honestly, except for a few times. I’ve always felt lonely. And I’d like to not feel this way in some way other than pills and booze. However, like I said previous, I kind of stopped trying. But I would like to produce a body of work that makes people understand about the everyday people who fall through the cracks. The friendless and shiftless. But if I died tonight—and who knows, I just might— I would have a large body of text about how I failed as a human. I never seem to get onto the bigger issues.
6. Christ, The toughest question of all. Laugh? I assume you mean a natural, honest, life is good, laugh. Without the death-rattle, black humor, sarcasm most of my laughs have. When I do spend time with people, I’m guarded—why laugh when the world is about the implode. Or the laughs are probably too whiskey epi-centered that I would not call them honest laughs. Without being too opportunistic, then, I’d like to suggest the “year of Elise” was maybe my only belly laugh-time. Maybe the time discussing the stupid cafeteria menu, or the Miss Jennifer’s misadventures or the baby vomit tinned ham incident; I don’t know. That time was the only time I’ve felt… Young. 

Ahh, well. I’ve just made an ass of myself, letting my mind wander on a cold eve about the good and bad (and regretful-jealous) times; hopefully this is not all too wrist-slashing delicious. But in my defense, I am trying to say the proper things. So, keep it cool, cute and quizzical, kitten, and I’ll try to not stay long-winded and short-lived. Aside from the kids giggling under my bed, I am doing OK. I probably won’t kill myself at all. Joking, of course.  Ignore this sizzling piece of over-sentimental tripe. I’m just biding my time, getting much writing done, plucking at ladies’ heartstrings from my little lair.

[You say you've been reading my old stuff and say It's fantastic. “It conjures up memories of the studio, Jackson Square and chicken salad picnic at the arboretum.” I will also never 
forget the chicken salad].

Oh well, just rambling and avoiding work, now. Specifically, I’m ignoring the kids lingering in the foyer just beyond the study as I write, beckoning me out again. Their faces are blank, as I said, but maybe not so dumb. There is a knowing look about them. I saw it many times in the War. Whatever is beyond this life—they’ve seen.

Good night. Dream of Lollipops and Chicken Legs. I am going to see where the kids lead me. I bet it’s amazing.

Yours,
Frank (défunt)

PS— It. Is. Amazing!