Letter in November

By Victoria Richard

Letter in November

The grass has grown since he has been gone. It touches my waist now – it had been cowering underneath my heels when he left. Tim cutting the grass; it had always been a sight, the threads of sweat streaking down his back, flecks of green confetti plastered to his bare shoulders. In all these years he had always looked the same. Always.

Between the mailbox and the house a path had been cut from the tangle of overgrowth. Usually Rebekah got the mail, but it had rained all day the day before and her boots were getting too tight. A few months ago, tears had formed in her eyes when the loose heels would scrape the soft skin of her ankles. Now she pouts because there’s no room for her toes.

Teddy’s clothes are getting smaller too. But he spends most of his time in my lap or in the crib. Not running around, not squishing mud between his toes.

I can’t remember the last time we went to the store and shopped freely - I mean really bought clothes -and a little extra tin of cookies, a treat for after dinner. The last time I remember, I was holding Tim’s hand. Holding his hand and watching him smile, not at anything in the world around him, just a secret thought.

We were going to the new neighbor’s house for dinner. She was cooking soup. I needed to bring something, a loaf of a bread, a dessert, something to make us seem like grateful guests.

“What’s her name again?”

“It’s something Spanish.”

“Maybe I should bring something Spanish then,” I had joked.

Tim offered the faint curve of a grin and stared away down the wild piles of groceries.

I would rather let my boots get wet than Rebekah come out here in her bare, blistered feet. Everyday when I check the mail, I pray there’s not another letter from Tim. I don’t want another apology, another reason why he couldn’t let Maria go to England alone. Hell, I don’t even want him to come home anymore.

At first, I would lie face down on his side of the bed and stick my nose hard into his pillow. I would breathe his scent until I felt like it had choked me to the core, like my eyes were going black and my ears were filled with water. Then Teddy would cry out, screaming for my breast and the solace would crumble.

“Teddy’s crying!” Rebekah would shout through the door, her four-year-old’s voice catching an edge of annoyance. She had hoped that Teddy would be like one of her doll’s – only crying when you had the time for him to.

Here we are. Tim has gone to England with Maria to see some magician doctor that can fix her legs. What’s wrong with them? I don’t know. I’ve sat in that woman’s living room a thousand times and I don’t think I’ve ever heard her say a thing about it. I’ve never seen her without a pair of those hand-me-down heels with their scuffs down the leather sides. What of her broken legs? She never said a thing. Tim’s the one who loves to lie.

He’s probably fucking her - fucking her as I walk to see if there’s another bill in the mail – fucking her as I put the kids down to sleep – fucking her as I swallow my pills – fucking her as I clean the oven – fucking her and fucking me.

The sunset is tainted by all the clouds in the sky, dimmed by their loathing grayness. But still, it paints a nice pink on the grass.

She can have him if she wants. If her legs aren’t broken now, they can be. Just wait till he touches her.

She can be on house arrest, writing his goddamn poetry, sitting in the windowsill like a perfect porcelain wife. She’ll bury every line like I’ve buried the children he beat from me. She’ll bury her degrees, she’ll bury the coins she’s saved in her chest. Then she’ll move them, put them in the toe of her shoe. Tim’s hands wander too much, tug at every piece of cloth.

I’ve started putting my coins on the cabinet now. They’re in a glass jar, waiting to catch the sunlight when it comes. I can see them. The children can see them. The birds can see them.

There’s a stack of mail today: the electricity bill, the water bill, and of course, a yellow letter from Tim.

“Tell the children that I’ll miss them.”

I should have gone swimming with Maria, I should have taken off my pants and let her see every green-purple bruise.

Next to the coins, there’s a bottle of pills. I can’t say – if I saw my wife take those every day – I might would leave too.

Victoria Richard is a writer and photographer from McComb, Mississippi. She is currently studying English and Creative Writing at Millsaps College in Jackson. Richard aspires to reveal unique and fresh looks on the worlds of nature and abandoned buildings through her photos, but says that her literary goals have more free flowing sources of inspiration. She is currently focused on writing on issues of social unrest, especially those caused by the CoVid-19 pandemic. Whenever she isn't pursuing these goals, she can be found studying or playing with her cat, Stormi. Richard also works as a researcher at the Eudora Welty House and Garden and has recently received a fellowship to conduct a study on the correlation between the work of Welty and Elizabeth Bowen.