Bruce Wagner - I'll Let You Go

In my travels, I met a wondrous dog named “Half Dead”—and so it was, as you wrote, that I had become. But Half Dead was a scrapper, and a good soul; I think I’m made of the same stuff.

Your father has been a godsend. He greets me without judgment, and I am moved by him — as I was moved by your courageous outpourings. I will understand if you do not choose to respond to my unsolicited phrases; be assured then, I will not bother you any more.

Your words about our son were sorely needed when they arrived. I thank you for them. You can be assured too that I will not impose myself on the boy, or badger him. I feel that I am here by the lights of some strange god, and will do nothing to fall from his graces. I hope I have not forever fallen from yours — and remain,

Marcus

A SECOND LETTER

Dear Katrina,

I hope I did not say anything to put you off; I mean, anything untoward or presumptuous. I’ve raked over the letter in my head and wish like hell I hadn’t written “dearest” at the onset; it was improper to imply an intimacy I long ago forsook. There are other things I wish I hadn’t said but I don’t desire to make this a catalogue. I’m not even certain that my letter was read; perhaps it would be better for both of us that it wasn’t. I do not mean to sound neurotic because that is not how I feel; I am merely mindful of not making false steps — I imagine that would be impossible! I waited a week or so before sending this out — I thought perhaps my first letter might be returned, and if not, that perhaps your father would have passed on a hint that any such correspondence from me was unwelcome. Which, of course, I would honor. But as I heard nothing, and received nothing back, I will humbly set down just a few short thoughts.

The medication I have been taking (thanks again to Louis) has worked wonders. Luckily, I am a fine candidate, neurologically, for such treatment. I have lost quite a bit of weight and am feeling rather fit. I don’t mean to boast. My life has settled in here; I go to the sea with my “men,” and often cook us lunch on the beach, which they invariably declare most saporific. (Do you remember the tall chef’s hat you once gave me?) My mother and father have been to see me. They look old, and poor Harry had a stroke. But he is soldiering on—

This IS diabolically difficult. You were so right when you said there was “too much and too little” to put in a letter. My God. Do you know that you never left my thoughts, Katy? Katrina? It is just that, in my disordered world, you had become someone else, someone called “Janey”—Jane Morris, the wife of William, that genius of English design. I cannot elaborate for now, for it is painful to set this down, because it is shaming; my illness is shaming and shameful. But the one thing I wished to say is that I never felt I would have harmed you. I do not have that in me. I am not wounded by your mentioning it; it seems a reasonable explanation for what you called an unfathomable thing. I have tried myself to piece together that night and that morning and the months that followed, but it is as if something ruptured. I only see colors and a drizzle before my eyes — and the Tower itself. I remember the Tower receding as I ran, like a giant struck dumb and immobilized. It was the TOWER, it seems, and not you, from which I was running. The Tower had become a conspirator — against us, and our happiness. The Tower had to be placated. It was such a beauteous thing; we are often trapped within wondrous designs, without explanation (the intricate patterns of Mr. Morris’s tapestries being a felicitous example of this most unfelicitous condition). Even then, as I struggled in panic to escape, it loomed over me, gorgeous and well-made. I feel nothing for it now; should I be walked to that place this very hour, I am certain it would have no court or sway. It never was an icon of superstition for me, nor did it have a demonic voice — it simply became something that must be jettisoned, or it would have crushed the world. It is, as you said, unfathomable, and unfathomable to me now.

But I always thought of you, Katrina, and NEVER wished you harm nor thought I could be harm’s instrument. I ask for your forbearance and forgiveness and will not write if that is what you so desire. And I would not leave again without the boy’s “consent”; would not even dream of it. But it was wise and motherly for you to say what you did. I remain

Yours,

Marcus Weiner

A FOURTH LETTER

Saint-Cloud

Dear Marcus,

I thank you for your letters; and yes, of course, I read them. And yes, of course, I hesitated in responding, for a number of reasons — the primary being that I don’t want to lead you on. Any exchange might somehow charge off, by itself and without warning, in a wrong direction. You are mending now and I would not wish to contribute to anything that deters from that. You must spend your time in exercise and meditation, not in composing letters to me — letters that, if I can be blunt — cannot lead to anything. Our thoughts, I think (and I am not sure I have many left!) would probably best be confined to personal diaries. No?

As said, I did not initially respond, because I didn’t want you to get the wrong impression — that any kind of romance could be rekindled. If this sounds vain, then let it — I may as well be “up-front” and put all the cards on the table (forgive the cliché). For I am past all that, Marcus. Another reason for my hesitance was I’d hope that if it did come to pass that you saw Toulouse — that you were serious when you said “I would not leave without the boy’s consent”—then I became suddenly fearful you might misinterpret my “interest” (i.e. any sort of correspondence) and that would become the driving influence on your decision to remain, at least for the time being, here in Los Angeles … or in our lives or however one wants to put it. “Waiting for the next letter,” so to say. I know this might sound monstrously egocentric but I must speak my mind. I know you have affection for the boy but as you have not yet met him, he is still an abstract. He might better remain that. I am hoping that by making it VERY clear that I do not wish to pursue anything romantic — or anything really at all — that you will — if that is the main thing that was holding you here — that you will leave this city before seeing our son. In other words, I can’t know your motivations, and while I do believe you’re a good soul, and always believed that (and always will), I would not condemn or judge if you felt you should move on — cut your losses so to speak. Your seeing Toulouse cannot be contigent on something between us which is not (& I suppose was never) meant to be. I’m sorry to speak so crudely but I am protective of my son. If after reading this you do have a mind to leave then I implore you do so before seeing him. For what good would it do, other than to perversely appease a curiosity?

(It is a day-and-a-half later.) I let this sit awhile, because I felt a bit self-righteous upon finishing. I’ll add this to it, rather than attempting to revise; I don’t think I have it in me to revise anything anymore.

Perhaps I “spoke” too soon. If you are planning on going away again it might actually be a “far better thing” for you to actually meet with Toulouse, so you can (both) “get it out of your system.” I don’t want to be the Gestapo.

I suppose there aren’t any rules, are there? So for me at this point to try and make them seems a little arrogant. I do not mean to sound all over the map, and am sorry for that. But I am

Sincerely,

Trinnie Trotter

A THIRD LETTER

Dearest K,

First off, may I say how gladdened I am you took the time to read my letters, and also took time to so thoughtfully respond.