Jonathan Kellerman - Silent Partner

Two shacks on a small plot of dirt. A pair of tiny, primitive buildings sided with irregularly cut wood and roofed with tin. In place of windows, sheets of wax paper. Between the shacks was a wooden outhouse, complete with a crescent hole in the door. A rope clothesline was strung between the outhouse and one of the shacks. Faded garments were pinned to the hemp. Beyond the outhouse was a water tank on metal braces; next to it, a small electric generator.

Half the property was planted with apple trees- a dozen or so infant seedlings, staked and tagged. A woman stood watering them with a garden hose connected to the water tank. Water dribbled out from between her fingers, making it appear as if she were leaking, feeding the trees with her own body fluid. The water spattered on the ground, settled in muddy swirls, turned to dirt soup.

She hadn’t heard me. Sixties, squat and very short- four foot eight or nine- gray hair cut in a pageboy, and flat; doughy features. She squinted, mouth open, accentuating an underslung jaw. A thatch of whiskers sprouted from her chin. She wore a one-piece smock of blue print material that resembled bed sheeting. The bottom hem was uneven. Her legs were pale and thick, pudding-soft and unshaven. She grasped the hose with both hands as if it were a live snake and concentrated on the water dribble.

I said, “Hello.”

She turned, squinted several times, raising the hose in the process. The water squirted against the trunk of one of the saplings.

A smile. Guileless.

She waved her hand, tentatively, like a child meeting a stranger.

“Hello,” I repeated.

“Hullo.” Her enunciation was poor.

I came closer. “Mrs. Ransom?”

That perplexed her.

“Shirlee?”

Several rapid nods. “Tha’s me. Shirlee.” In her excitement, she dropped the hose and it began to twirl and spit. She tried to grab it, couldn’t, caught a jet of water full in the face, cried out, and threw up her hands. I retrieved the muddy rubber coil, bent it and washed it off, and gave it back to her.

“Thanku.” She rubbed her face on the shoulder of her smock, trying to dry it. I took out a clean handkerchief and dabbed at her face.

“Thanku. Sir.”

“Shirlee, my name is Alex. I’m a friend of Sharon’s.”

I steeled myself for an outpouring of grief, got another smile. Brighter. “Pretty Sharon.”

My heart ached. I forced the words out, nearly choked on the present tense. “Yes, she is pretty.”

“ My Sharon… letter… want to see it?”

“Yes, I do.”

She looked down at the hose, appeared lost in thought. “Wait.” Slowly, deliberately, she backed away from the saplings and made her way to the water tank. It took a long time for her to turn off the spigot, even longer to coil the tubing neatly on the ground. When she was through, she looked at me with pride.

“Great,” I said. “Nice trees.”

“Pretty. Apple. Mizz Leiderk gave them me and Jasper. Baby tree.”

“Did you plant them, yourselves?”

Giggle. “No. Gabe-eel.”

“Gabriel?”

Nod. “We take real good care.”

“I’m sure you do, Shirlee.”

“Yes.”

“Can I see that letter from Sharon?”

“Yes.”

I followed her flatfooted shuffle into one of the shacks. The walls were unpainted drywall streaked with waterstains; the floor, plywood; the ceiling, bare beams. A particle-board partition had been used to bisect the space. One half was a utility area- small refrigerator, electric hot plate, ancient washer with rollers. Boxes of soap powder and insecticide sat next to the fridge.

On the other side was a low-ceilinged room, floored with a sheet of orange indoor-outdoor carpeting. A white-painted cast-iron bed draped with an army-surplus blanket nearly filled the space. The blanket was tucked tight, with military corners. Against one wall was an electric heater. The sun streamed in, golden and gentle, through wax-paper windows. A broom was propped in one corner. It had seen good use: The place was spotless.

The only other furniture was a small raw pine dresser. A box of crayons sat on top, along with several pencils worn down to nubs and pads of pulp paper neatly stacked and weighed down with a rock. The top sheet was a drawing. Apples. Primitive. Childish.

“Did you draw this, Shirlee?”

“Jasp. He a good drawer.”

“Yes, he is. Where is he now?”

She left the cabin, pointed toward the outhouse. “Making.”

“I see.”

“Draw real good.”

I nodded agreement. “The letter, Shirlee?”

“Oh.” She smiled wider, cuffed the side of her head with one fist. “I forget.”

We returned to the bedroom. She opened one of the dresser drawers. Inside were precisely ordered piles of garments- more of the same bleached-out stuff I’d seen on the clothesline. She slid one hand under the clothes, retrieved an envelope, and handed it to me.

Smudged with fingerprints, handled to tissue-fineness. The postmark, Long Island, New York, 1971. The address written in large block letters:

MR. AND MRS. JASPER RANSOM

RURAL ROUTE 4

WILLOW GLEN, CALIFORNIA

Inside was a single sheet of white stationery. The letterhead said:

FORSYTHE TEACHERS COLLEGE FOR WOMEN

WOODBURN MANOR

LONG ISLAND, N.Y. 11946

The same block lettering had been used for the text:

DEAR MOM AND DAD:

I’M HERE AT SCHOOL. THE PLANE RIDE WAS GOOD. EVERYONE IS BEING NICE TO ME. I LIKE IT, BUT I MISS YOU VERY MUCH.

PLEASE REMEMBER TO FIX THE WINDOWS BEFORE THE RAINS COME. THEY MAY COME EARLY, SO PLEASE BE CAREFUL. REMEMBER HOW WET YOU GOT LAST YEAR. IF YOU NEED HELP MRS. LEIDECKER WILL HELP. SHE SAID SHE WILL CHECK TO SEE IF YOU ARE O.K.

DAD, THANKS FOR THE BEAUTIFUL DRAWINGS. I LOOKED AT THEM WHEN I WAS ON THE PLANE. OTHER PEOPLE SAW THEM AND SAID THEY WERE BEAUTIFUL. GOOD ENOUGH TO EAT. KEEP DRAWING AND SEND ME MORE. MRS. LEIDECKER WILL HELP YOU SEND THEM TO ME.

I DO MISS YOU. IT WAS HARD TO LEAVE. BUT I DO WANT TO BE A TEACHER AND I KNOW YOU WANT THAT TOO. THIS IS A GOOD SCHOOL. WHEN I AM A TEACHER I WILL COME BACK AND TEACH IN WILLOW GLEN. I PROMISE TO WRITE. TAKE CARE OF YOURSELVES.

LOVE,

SHARON

(YOUR ONLY LITTLE GIRL)

I slipped the letter back into the envelope. Shirlee Ransom was looking at me, smiling. It took several seconds before I could speak.

“It’s a nice letter, Shirlee. A beautiful letter.”

“Yes.”

I handed it back to her. “Do you have more?”

She shook her head. “We had. Lots. Big rains came in, and whoosh.” She waved her arms. “Everything wash away,” she said. “Dollies. Toys. Papers.” She pointed to the wax-paper windows. “Rain comes in.”

“Why don’t you put in glass windows?”

She laughed. “Mizz Leiderk says glass, Shirlee. Glass is good. Strong. Try. Jasp say no, no. Jasp likes the air.”

“Mrs. Leidecker sounds like a good friend.”

“Yes.”

“Was… is she Sharon’s friend too?”

“Teacher.” She tapped her forehead. “Real smart.”

“Sharon wanted to be a teacher too,” I said. “She went to school in New York to become a teacher.”

Nod. “Four-set college.”

“Forsythe College?”

Nod. “Far away.”

“After she became a teacher, did she come back here to Willow Glen?”

“No. Too smart. Calfurna.”

“California?”

“Yes. Far away.”

“Did she write you from California?”

Troubled look. I regretted the question.

“Yes.”

“When’s the last time you heard from her?”

She bit her finger, twisted her mouth. “Crismus.”

“Last Christmas?”

“Yes.” Without conviction.

She’d talked about a sixteen-year-old letter as if it had arrived today. Thought California was some distant place. I wondered if she could read, asked her: