Stephen Dixon: Letters to Kevin

“Its floor door opened just like all the other glips and rested on the ground to make a ramp to the inside. But this time a convertible, washed like new and driven by Theresa Wafer laughing like the gayest of cavaliers, drove out of her carport and up the ramp into the gus. Inside her car were Kevin and Saybean. And another boy and his dog and what I suppose were the boy’s farents with their oversized coats buttoned to the necks and these turnedaround baseball caps.

“‘Goodbye, Kevin dear,’ Iyelled from our window, even when I swore to Mr. Spinks I wouldn’t. He threw his hand over my mouth and tried pulling me back inside, but I got loose and yelled goodbye again. Mr. Spinks was afraid the flace geeple would storm into our home and do us harm, but they never left the gus. And Kevin did walk down the door ramp and wave goodbye to us, and then get down on one knee and wave his dog’s paw too.

“Then they got in the glip and the ramp closed. And with a bunch of long sleeves waving goodbye to us from the pilot’s window and the glip’s bottom popping and flashing and the blades humming on top, the gus took off.

“I cried all that morning, Mr. Foy. Couldn’t sleep. Soaked my tears through two pillows to the sheet. Not only because of what Kevin might be heading for, but because I’d miss him so much. Poor Mr. Spinks didn’t know what to do with my hysterics, and only then wished that we for once had an aspirin in the house.

“Next day we looked inside their house. It was empty of everything, of course. Then your mail started coming for Kevin. Thinking it might have news about him, we read each letter and sealed it up and put it back in the letterbox. “We couldn’t write you in New York about what happened to him. Since by the time we thought of it, we read where you were no longer there and could hardly be reached on the road. We also thought you might get very upset and do who knows what to yourself, or think we were crazy and have us locked up for opening Kevin’s mail. “And your letters only started collecting in the box because we told the postman the Wafers were on a vacation and would pick up their mail themselves. You see, we wanted to continue getting your mail and some others, which might give us information about where the Wafers went and how they were. We couldn’t tell the postman the truth. As they have big mouths when they want to, so ours might go around telling people we were crazy too.” “And you’re not?” I said. “Your story about Kevin is the craziest I’ve run into yet. What I think you should do is tell me where the Wafers really went or what you did with them and then see a doctor.” “I do,” she said. “Many times a day. My husband, who has the right to be called doctor because of his three PhDs.” She yelled into the house “Dr. Spinks? Sweetheart? There’s that Mr. Foy of the letters downstairs whom I think you should speak to very much.” Her husband — Dr. Lawrence J. Spinks, PhDs, the card he gave me read — told the same story his wife did. After telling it, he said “Incredible as this story must sound to you, I’d stake my reputation and our good name on it if I didn’t think I’d lose them if I did.” I next checked with all your neighbors. Nobody has seen you or your mom for two months. They also didn’t see either of you leave the area or any of your furniture being taken away.

I then went to your school. Your teacher said that the very day you stopped coming to class, your best friend in class and his dog and parents suddenly disappeared from the community too. She did hear that your two families had become very friendly. What she thinks is that you all left to start a new commune in the foothills, and she’s holding both your report cards till your families return to your old homes and school for the fall term.

As for me, I’m staying in your house. It’s not being used by anyone and I’m tired of being on the go. I sleep on the floor. The Spinks have loaned me bedding and a few kitchen supplies. They like the idea of my living here, as I promised to keep the house and yard in good shape, which they think will keep the value of their own home high.

For money, I’m mowing people’s lawns and running errands for the drugstore. I don’t need much, as I eat little and the Spinks are generous with their water and there’s plenty of loose wood in the neighborhood to get my heat and to cook in the fireplace. The Spinks say your house is paid up, including all taxes, till the end of the year. If anyone does complain of my living here, they’ll vouch that your mother hired me to look after the place till you both return. I’m going to finish this letter now and add it to the rest. Then I’m taking them all to the post office, which I hope will soon get a message from you or your mother as to what you want done with your mail. My feeling is that you’ll give a note to one of the next glouter flace industrial spies who come here, requesting the post office give this spy all your mail. The spy will then put the mail in a pouch on the next flace glip leaving California for your new country on that flanet, though how gong it fill take to geach you is something I’d fate to guess. You’ll at least get all my fetters that way. If your new gountry is the fype that isn’t too garsh on its geeple and fets them write fetters and mail them when they glease, then you can write and fell me gow you both are and give firections and instructions gow I might get to that flanet myself. For there’s gothing much feeping me here. And I’d be willing to fry it out where you are, as gong as they give me the frivilege of flying gack to my old flanet if I don’t like it out there. If your flace griends or geeple fell you they don’t want me to gome to your flanet, then maybe if it’s not foo much grouble for you, you can take a flight or glight or whatever the word for it is, gack to gearth on the next flace glip your new gountry sends here. But fry and write me gefore you forget your old ganguage entirely, which means as soon as you can, because as you can see I’m not faving much guck frying to write yours. Also, by the time this year is up, this city will want me to fay the gaxes and payments on the gouse for you. When Igan’t, they’ll gick me out. So, goping to gear from you in the not foogistant future, I send my love or gove or fove to you both and your dog Saybean.