Dear Barbra Hi. How are you? I hope you are getting better. I was surprised and sad to hear you are sick again. By the way, Ivan got that job I told you about, so we moved. I had to pack up in a hurry, at the eleventh hour of course. It would be nice if I got a little notice once in a while. I might get a new job doesn't quite cut it. But that's Ivan for you, and me. Here today; gone tomorrow. It seems like it's been happening my whole life. I guess we are peripatetic or something like that. Is that a real word? I heard somebody use it once. Peripatetic rhymes nicely with pathetic, which I know we are, at least I am. Ivan would probably smack me if I called him pathetic. I can just hear him, I ain't pathetic, yer fuckin' pathetic. At which point I would head for the bathroom so I could lock myself in. He actually hasn't hit me yet, but he keeps threatening.
About the move, it is a good thing we didn't have a lot of stuff. It was an easy job packing up everything because there really wasn't that much. If we had kids it would be different. When you have children you accumulate things. But, the premises, yuck. Of course the movers made more than a few comments about our new digs.
The place is something else. We are living in an apartment above the business. You know, the business, ick. I wish he would find another line of work. I've been telling him that for years. But he says a man's got to do what a man's got to do. So the funeral home it is. But I never dreamed that a funeral home would be our home. Well, not exactly, but close enough, right over top of the mortuary. It was a promotion. Ivan got the manager’s job – more responsibility and more money. And the apartment is included. That's a bonus. I'll be able to rent out my house again and stash the money in my savings account. Ivan will want me to give him the rent money I get – he always does when I rent the place out - but there is no effing way I am going to do that. I didn't do it before and I am not going to do it now. It's my house, the one I inherited from my folks. It is mine and it is going to stay that way no matter what. So is the rent. It's my mad money.
So, how are you doing? I trust your visit to the clinic is going okay, and I hope you got good doctors (make that great doctors). I can't understand how your TB came back like that. All I can say is you should stay in the Kentucky air until you are completely healed. The world needs you. Anyway, even if the world doesn't need you, I do. A girl only has one best friend and you are it, so get better for me.
Do you know how long you will have to stay at the clinic, or does that depend on whether your lungs respond to those new antibiotics? I hear that some people think those antibiotics will put the sanitariums out of business. I hope so. That would mean you will be home soon. Except for Ivan and my old granny you are all I got. So shape up and come home. I was thinking about asking Ivan if I could pop down to the clinic and visit but then the big move came up. I couldn't leave packing up and unpacking to Ivan. That would have been unpatriotic. Ivan works at the funeral home, but make no mistake, Ivan's work day starts and ends at the mortuary. Everything else is – you guessed it – women's work, surprise eh?
It's 4:00 o'clock. I had better stop writing and start cooking. The man will be coming upstairs in an hour and expect his dinner. That's another thing about living above his work. He gets home instantly and he comes home for lunch. It's like he is never away so I don't get any time to myself. A body could get to feel a bit trapped
Bye. Write back, you hear. And get well soon. Love, Rini
March 29, 1953
Dear Irina Bless you for writing. I needed it. God, I needed it, what with Georgie Boy and me on the outs. I hear you about mad money, babe. Thank God I have always had my own income, and I kept it separate from George's stash – not that he had that much. Sometimes he did. Sometimes he had absolute piss buckets of money, but it seemed to come and go, in one pocket and out the other.
I was never sure whether it was his money or not. It probably belonged to one of his dumb investors. I said dumb because his investors never made any money out of any of his projects. George was the only one who did. He got his money by charging his investors a management fee to run the scheme I don't think he ever made piles of money either, because he worked a regular part-time job at the Immigration Centre.
Anyway I realized Georgie Boy was somewhat flaky with money. So early in the marriage I adopted the Sugar Baby Rule - spend your husbands' money and save your own for a rainy day. You obviously already follow this rule. You just didn't know what it was called. You too are a Sugar Baby. Love it.
Listen, I am being facetious here; but if you and Ivan ever split you will be so thankful that you have a nest egg. And hang on to your house. It is gold. Having your own stash of survival money is necessary so you don't get screwed by your husband and his lawyer. George and his slimy mouthpiece told me I would have to wait years to get anything unless I settled on their terms. I just laughed, knowing that my lawyer was out slapping liens on everything that George owned. All I told them was that the longer I waited, the tougher I was going to get. You cannot expect fair play unless you are dealing from a position of power. The lawyers are there to win.
Enough about marriage failures; I hope you and Ivan make it. But Rini, you cannot let Ivan threaten you with physical violence. Such intimidation is always bad news. There is no exception to this rule. Give Ivan congrats on his new job. Don't sweat the new digs. It's part of moving up in the world. Moving up, get it. I know its lame. But that's me, always looking for a laugh, even the feeblest one. It is lonely here, but I am feeling better. The air in Kentucky is hot but is humid. New Mexico would be drier - sunbaked, but it's farther away. The Waverly Hills clinic has been here in Louisville forever. The doctors here know what they are doing. But, it is a spooky place. I don't like being here. I get weird vibrations. I got them the first time I was here, and I am getting them again.
I don't know how that damn disease came back. My doctor told me I was completely healed. And I was for three years, and then all sudden, wham, bam, thank you ma'am, the TB came back in full force, like it had never gone away. Usually a relapse comes on slow and builds in strength over a period of time, but not with me. I was healthy one day and spitting up blood the next. It is not pretty. I pray to God that you never get this vile fucking disease. I hate it with a passion. It sucks the joie de vivre right out of you. Not that I was in great spirits to start with.
I had just finished busting up with George. Even when you know divorce is the right thing to do and you need to do it, it is still hard, and it is not fun. And of course, as soon as I sprung myself loose from my miserable ex, I wound up with TB. So once again here I am at Waverly, aka Spook City. Sometimes life sucks. However, medical science has been progressing. They have developed a new antibiotic for TB. If the drugs work I should be able to get out here soon.
Enough about my woes. How are you making out on top of the bodyworks? I wouldn't tell Ivan I call the business that. He seems to have no sense of humour about his work. All I can say is that he is dead serious about it. Sorry, I couldn't resist. When you are in virtual isolation you get desperate for a bit of a chuckle - classic British understatement there. Truth is I am dying for a good laugh. There, I did it again. I hope you don't show my letters to your man.
What is it like sleeping above a mortuary? Is it weird, like walking through a graveyard at night? Did you ever do that? I used to when I was a kid, just to prove that us girls could be daring-do like the boys. Some girls felt that it was cool to show off. Of course nothing ever happened in the graveyard. I never felt a thing. I don't have a psychic bone in my body. But I love to study people who do.
I've been interested in the paranormal as long as I can remember. It all started when I was walking through the cemetery. Just being there got me asking myself what life was really about. Thinking about life when you are walking among the dead does make sense in a surreal sort of way. I began my life interest staring at headstones, reading inscriptions, wondering if there was an afterlife. Do people go to heaven or hell; or do they just lay there and rot? You know the bodies rot, so if somebody goes to heaven, or the other direction, it's not the old bod that's going anywhere. That part is staying put - unless the deceased was cremated and their ashes spread to the winds. So what's going to go? The soul is what. What else could it be - unless it is all bull crap? When you think about it, that is pretty heady stuff for a fifteen year-old kid.
That's how old I was when I started strolling through the local boneyard. It was just up the road from our house, maybe a quarter mile, so it was no big deal for me to go there. Hell, I had to walk a mile and a quarter to school everyday rain or shine. I hate to admit how much time I spent wandering through the cemetery after dark. I even used to get boys to take me up there so we could make out with some semblance of privacy. Certainly the local constables were not going to be wandering about anywhere near – unless they were up there doing what I was doing. I actually never thought of that when I was a kid. Back then we used to trust cops. Ah, the naivety of youth.
And how does your man react to cemeteries. I suppose it is just another part of his job for him. Speaking of cemeteries, being here in good old Waverly Hills spook farm makes me feel like I am a kid wandering about in a graveyard.
I am not putting Ivan's job down. Society needs what he does. Funerals are for the living. They bring closure and help people get on with life. People respect that. They sure don't respect what I do. Most folks would rather see my ilk crawl back into the primordial slime. They think that parapsychology is just a big scam, or that the practitioners are nutso. They put it up there with searching for UFOs and Bigfoot. I always knew the work I would do, although you can't make a living from it. Thank God for my teaching post at the university, not that I do that much teaching. I spend more time doing research and writing it up.
You must tell me if you get any strange feelings up there over the bodyworks. I like that name, bodyworks, it fits, a place where one prepare bodies for burial or cremation. Do you do cremations? I often wonder if cremation does anything different to the soul than burial does. Speaking of souls, you do believe in the soul don't you? I do. I always have. I can't explain it. It is like having faith in God. But who can explain faith. Who knows?
But I tell you, this shit I have been going through makes you question the whole God thing. I am torn. Part of me says how can God do this to me, or let little children get cancer, leukemia or other god-awful crap. But that's only part of me. The other part says if you are this close to dying, you had better make peace with your God. I deny God in one breath and pray he exists in the next. If you believe in the soul, and I do, how can you not believe in God? I must say many of my colleagues don't. They think God, if anything, is simply the collective souls of mankind. It is a strange concept, but it might explain why so many bad things happen. If all the souls do come together, then there is a variety of moral standards, a montage of good and evil. Can you imagine going to the big place in the sky and hobnobbing with Adolph Hitler. However, if he is but a spirit, how do you shoot him between the eyeballs as he so richly deserves? How could you shoot him? How would you hold the gun and how would you pull the trigger? I like to think there is a hell, where Adolph went so he can spend an eternity standing on his head in burning shit.
I can't wait to get back to my research. I had started on some very interesting phenomena related to the surviving relatives of the dead, but I ran out of funds. Nobody with grant money would go for it. Research is not cheap, and grant money is hard to get, especially with my kind of stuff. There are no commercial applications; therefore, there are no prospects for making money. It is all about the almighty dollar, even at the university. Now I am sick and can't research anything - boring. Maybe getting sick was an omen. I wonder if I am messing in things I should stay away from.
You must keep in touch. Tell me all about the mortuary and how you feel about it. And tell how you and Ivan are getting on. I don't want to jinx anything but I got bad vibes from some of your comments about Ivan threatening you. You must take care of yourself because I don't know if I can.
Enough about bad things, I must get on with living. I am eager to get up and get back to my quest for souls. I guess that's a good sign, and I'm not sure I have to leave Waverly Hills to do that. Like I said, this place is spooky.
Bye for now. Love, Babs
April 5, 1953
Dear Barbra: Great to hear you are getting better. When you get out, you must come and visit. God knows I can use some company. I know Ivan is just one flight of stairs away, but somehow I feel all alone, just plain lonesome. It is the damnedest thing. I can't explain it at all. It's like living in an apartment for two years and never even seeing your next door neighbour, much less meeting him.
That happened to me before I met Ivan. I lived in an apartment next door to a hunky dude – what a body, wow. And he was devilishly handsome - when I finally got my eyes on him after two long years. Maybe if I had been able to get anywhere with my neighbour, well, maybe there wouldn't be an Ivan. But how would you trust a man who looked like that. Good looking babes would never stop throwing themselves at him - the sluts. Speaking of which, I wish you were here.
Were you asking if I have psychic bones? Not a chance. I'm like you. I never feel things that aren't there to see or touch. But I am not sure about Ivan. He says some pretty weird things. He says he sometimes feels things when he is around dead bodies, which obviously he is all the time. If I ask him what he feels he usually clams up and tells me I wouldn't understand. One time though, I asked him if he thought it was ghosts or something. He said he does not believe in ghosts. He said it is not something you can see or touch or hear. Just a feeling, something you sense, maybe a cold chill on a hot day, something that makes you skin crawl a little and you don't know why or what it is, sometimes just a vague foreboding. It is all very nebulous, and very creepy. Of course I do not dare tell Granny about any of this. That would not go over well. Granny is a cauldron of superstition, a cauldron that just bubbles and bubbles.
Of course Ivan is no stranger to cemeteries. But I can tell you I absolutely do not go traipsing about cemeteries at night. I'm not afraid of it. It's just the idea. People are conditioned to think cemeteries are to be avoided, old wives' tales and that sort of thing. Don’t forget, with us Ukrainians, old wives' tales run rampant. If I ever told Granny that I walked among gravestones at night, she would freak out. I mean totally. There are no two ways about it. She still hasn't accepted Ivan with his work and all. She thinks I should dump him and get out while I can. "Bad omens," she whispers all raspy-like, "Bad omens." Granny could sure tell you stories. She still can if you can stand her hoarse voice long enough. Her favourites are ones about little boys born with a caul, never about little girls, always boys. I asked her once if little girls were ever born with a caul. The look she gave me. I thought she was going to choke. I might as well have spit in the holy water in the great cathedral.
Anyway, she's still around. She is a healthy sort; although she is getting smaller. Osteoporosis is starting to set in. When you start losing bone mass, you start shrinking. Not much to look forward to is it, shriveling up and getting bent over so you have to shuffle, and your bones getting so brittle that if you take a fall or just step down hard you end up with a broken hip.
That's not the way I want to go. I want it quick, sudden and painless. I am more afraid of pain than of death. I told that to Granny. She told me that I could not die until I give her a great grandson, not a great grandchild, a great grandson. She told me once some fair time ago, that she expected me to produce male offspring and male offspring only, not any damn fool girls. I think that is a good part of the reason she wants me to dump what's-his-name as she calls Ivan. There is more to it, but she does want me to start popping out babies, and she thinks Ivan is useless for procreation. She does have a point. I haven't used birth control since we got married and I am still without child. Maybe it's me. But Granny doesn't think so. She thinks that somebody did something to Ivan's family jewels when he was born.
His jewels function well enough. It's just that I never get pregnant. I had some tests done once, and the way the doctor was talking, Granny was right about it not being me, but you never know for sure. How many times have you heard of a couple adopting a child and then the wife gets up a stump almost immediately? So there is always hope, not that we are planning to adopt. Ivan won't talk about it. As soon as I bring the subject up, he shuts me out. Granny even suggested that if I couldn't bring myself to leave Ivan, I could get somebody else to father a child.
Sure thing, right up my alley, maybe you could, but I can't. I used to kid around with Ivan and tell him that I was going to get pregnant with a black dude and present him with a mullato child. He saw no humour in this. I think he would kill me if I did anything like that. He certainly said he would. I think he meant it, what with his attitude about people of colour.
Cheating is not something I could do. Well maybe if my old neighbour from the high-rise showed up out of nowhere. That would be a shocker, and honest to God, I don't know what I would do if I had a chance to toss Ivan for Sergei. I know, another garlic eater, but that's what I am used to. I'm too old to change cultures. It would kill me. Plus there is Granny to think of. She would not be impressed if I married a Brit or something like that. I hate to think how she would react if I married a person of colour. She would never speak to me again. She is worse than Ivan that way.
I'm sort of getting used to sleeping here now. There's nothing weird, no vibrations or anything. I do wake up in the middle of the night quite often. But that's just a matter of getting used to a new bed and new noises. All beds are different and all streets have different noises, normal stuff, nothing eerie.
Ivan sleeps like a baby, even when he starts coughing in the middle of the night. You would have to punch him in the nose to get him to wake up at 3:00 AM when I wake up. Maybe it's the quiet, when all the cars have stopped driving past. Maybe it's the chill. It is quite warm here; but when I wake at 3:00, I'm almost shivering. That's probably the answer. Maybe I should throw on an extra blanket or wear woollies to bed. Ivan would just love that. He likes me to sleep in the buff. Or maybe it’s his damn smokers’ cough that wakes me up.
I have noticed when I wake that he is hacking and coughing. It seems to be getting worse, especially if he has had a cold. I keep telling the man to toss the filthy weed. Let's face facts; smoking is spending money to slowly poison oneself. Nobody admits it, but smoking is not healthy. I know everybody smokes, but not me. Tobacco is not only unhealthy, it is disgusting.
Really, when you think about it, there you are in a sanitarium trying to keep your lungs from rotting and here Ivan is at home filling his lungs with smoke. It will be the death of him. There is no justice in this world.
Enough doom and gloom. I like waking up in the middle of the night. The walls are neat in the dark, and it's so peaceful and quiet except for Ivan sputtering and rumbling, and snoring like a freight train. The walls look different at night, especially when there are creepy shadows on the wall. You know what I mean. Actually I guess you don't. How could you. You can't know what they look like unless you see them. They are like something wet seeping through the wall, amoeba-like blobs. Maybe they are ghost footprints, but how can a ghost leave footprints? Can you tell me that Guru of the spirit world? Are not ghosts a part of your life interest? Is it ESP you study, or is that the same field? Most likely the splotches are figments of my imagination. They cannot be shadows. Shadows need light. There is usually no light in here at 3:00 in the morning, not even a peek of moonlight. But I can see the splotches even though it is dark. Totally weird.
Promise me that you are getting better. No more spitting up blood. Take that new drug you were talking about and get well and come visit. I've got to go and put on a pot of coffee, so I'll sign off for now. Bye.
Love, Rini
April 12, 1953
Dear Irina It is great to hear from you again so soon. I really get lonely here. You can't know what it's like. There are people around, but nobody talks to me, not much anyway. The staff workers are very busy so they don't have time to chat much. They are all business. Pinched-face nurses come around and take my blood pressure and temperature, and pimple-faced doctors come around to poke, probe and prod. They don't say much. Like I said, they are swamped with patients; but, it is like they don't really want to be here with me. The young girls are not so bad. They do try to chat a little. But you can see that fully grown adults bore them.
The older nurses, and the doctors, are all in a big rush, especially the MDs, like they were born to save the world and can't take time for anything but doing their pokes and prods, and then getting the hell out of here. Other patients don't talk to me much, either. They think I'm weird. Maybe it's the shocking pink spiked hairdo - just kidding, my feeble sense of humor again. Most likely the patients are in a funk about having TB and don't really want to commiserate with folks who have the same goddamned disease rotting them away on the inside. I have to tell you that I too have trouble drumming up sympathy for other patients these days. When I thought I was all cured it was different. I had sympathy to spare, but not now. I guess when you are feeling sorry for yourself it is hard to feel sorry for anybody else. Empathy it seems can and does go on vacation. Mine is on its way to Timbuktu.
I guess Ivan's customers come from the morgue. Is that what you call them, customers? Around here, the orderlies call them stiffs. We get one now and again, like one every two or three days. It is a hospital; some people die. But it's like people come here to die not to get better. It is scary. I mean everybody here has got tuberculosis, so you hate to see anybody die before their time from a disease you have. It makes you feel vulnerable. That is an editorial you.
Of course what I mean is that I feel vulnerable, you know mortal. I am not ready to die. I have lots of living to do and hopefully lots of life left to do it. Of course we are all in survivor mode here. That is why we are here, to stay alive, to live to see another glorious sunrise. But it does get depressing when anybody here dies. You know it could have been you. You know you could be the next to go. After a while you get to understand just how fragile life really is. That is why Rini, that is why you have to live as well as you can every day. That is why nobody should settle for a sub-standard marriage, like me and George.
I dumped George because he was just not worth the time it took me to maintain the relationship. I didn't need him for money, and, well I can do quite nicely without his companionship. There is nothing lovable about the man. I don't know why I stayed so long. It is not like he would have come to visit.
He never came to visit last time I was in here. You would have thought I had died for the all the time he spent worrying about me being sick. I don't think he gave a damn. Now that I left him, I know he doesn't give a damn, and neither do I.
So what is you said about the wall, that there are splotches? What kind of splotches? What do they look like? Are there any sounds? I've heard stories about things in walls, creepy things. Nya-ha-ha, what evil lurks in mortuary walls? Sorry, when you have nobody to talk to for days on end, your mind warps a bit. Obviously I am severely warped. But, seriously, how can you see splotches at 3:00 am. You said there was no light. You need light to create shadows – moonbeams, streetlights, that sort of thing. If they aren't shadows, and you said that they are not, perhaps they are damp spots. Even if they are not wet now they might have been before. If they were, the roof will need fixing, or the siding. At least it won't be on your dime. One of the benefits of living in company-supplied accommodation is that roof or siding repairs belong to the landlord.
My room gets shadows from the moon filtering through. And they dance. Not a tango of course, but they move, bounce around like my mind bounces. When I watch my moon shadows dance they make me think of that old Australian song, Waltzing Matilda played with a didgeridoo in the background. I don't know why. The song has nothing to with dancing. And the didgeridoo, where in hell did that come from? Who knows what makes the brain tick. Next thing you know I will be seeing boomerangs flying about. Perhaps I am destined to convalesce in an Australian clinic, in the middle of the Outback, if there are any TB clinics out there. Australia sounds more romantic than Kentucky.
I could use a little romance right now; but nobody in their right mind is going to kiss anybody with an active case of TB. It would be deadly. TB is highly contagious. That is why we are hidden away in TB clinics, so we don't all become a Typhoid Mary, or, more to the point, a TB Mary. Although, I think that there are getting to be lots of people who have TB without knowing it, and are unwittingly spreading it around.
Speaking of romance, don't tell me to ask George to come back - the bastard. I am much happier without him. He was like so totally oppressive, questioned everything I did. Compared to him, Ivan is bundle of laughs. George poo-pooed my work big time. You would have thought I was holding fake séances the way he carried on. Talk about a non-believer. He was one miserable son-of-a-bitch. It was probably his fault that I caught TB.
He would never believe it, but I know. I know who works at the Immigration Department interviewing people from third world countries. Of course, he says that all those people are healthy as racing horses and it's me that's always sick. Yeah right. It's like having kids in elementary school. They attract bacteria and viruses like rotting meat. So does George. He used to tell me that he was a chick magnet. Wrong. He's a germ magnet. He was always bringing home a bug or two, usually the exotic kind with no known cure.
Unfortunately, he never seemed to catch them, just me. Sooner or later it will be his turn, and then maybe he will change his attitude. But, of course, I won't care. In fact I won't even know about it.
He was a part of my life that is no longer relevant. I am in fact wasting precious psychic energy just thinking about him. The only reason I did was because you were talking about Ivan being a shithead. And believe me dear girl, thinking about a man being a shithead brings George to mind.
I thought I might get out last week. However, the doctors spotted some new blotches on my lungs. So they are going to keep me here for a while. However, I am feeling better, not great but a little better. I want to get back to work. What is it that Ivan always says? A body’s got to do what a body's got to do. I'm like that, and if someone doesn't like it, tough.
It's bloody cold here at night. Blazing sun all day so that you're in danger of getting serious sunburn. But at night, when the sun goes down, it gets downright chilly. I wake up shivering in the middle of the night, especially when I have nightmares about honking big cottonmouths slithering into my bed to keep warm. Speaking of bed, my bedroom walls are sterile white, like a hospital. Of course, it is a hospital, so what do you expect, orange and purple? Good luck.
The forties ended three years ago but they seem so long ago, don't they? But I still remember the salient points, namely my parents getting seriously pissed-off when I dropped out of college to go to New York and become a beatnik. They thought I was getting into free love and all that good stuff. There was some of that, but mostly I got into ESP and hallucinogenic substances like peyote, marijuana and a little bit of this new stuff called LSD. Actually, it wasn't a little bit of LSD. It was a shitload of LSD. Some of my friends called me Tripper Girl.
And I had me some trips let me tell you. I used to think I could talk to God, or transport myself to Venus or Mars. But that was so long ago, it seems irrelevant except I got LSD flashbacks for a long time. I don't get them anymore, thank God. The flashbacks were usually of the bad trips. Everybody had a bad trip once in a while. The trick was to survive them and not jump off a bridge.
One thing I must tell you is that a few kaleidoscopic journeys into the ether revved up my interest in parapsychology. ESP doesn't seem odd after what you see when you are flying on LSD or peyote.
There was this guy called Steve, - he was another big time tripper - who thought he had psychic powers. So I dreamed up some experiments to check him out. I didn't know what to make of it so I took the results to a college professor who had written a couple of books on ESP. He got all hot and bothered when I showed him the tests I had given Steve. He stared me right in the eyeballs and said are you making this up, young lady. He said young lady; but he was thinking drug-crazed slut.
However, he was polite. He needed to find Steve and I knew where to find him. That was how I got started. I agreed to take the professor to see Steve on condition that I got to be his assistant while he put Steve through his testing routine. It was utterly fascinating. So was the professor. At least I thought so then. We spent more time in bed than we did testing Steve. It was a fun time.
Too bad he was married. But he was too old and stuffy for us to last. ESP buff or not, his main concern was to achieve tenure. He was just another stuffed shirt and I was just another pleasant diversion and free helper. I got zero credit when he wrote up Steve the Wonder-kid. It was like I didn't exist.
The professor and I had already called it quits. He said his wife was getting suspicious. I think she knew all along and didn't give a damn, as long as it didn't blow up in his face and mess up the coming of the Godlike and exalted state of tenure. As you can see, it doesn't take much for a man-boy to piss me off.
The only real benefit was that it got me going back to college. It took a while for me to get back into hitting the books; but in the long run all that work paid off. I got my battery of degrees and a teaching job at the good old U. I mean how many of us ladies are there who are college professors. A new age is coming for women.
And now, I am closing in on – wait for it - tenure. It is surprising how your attitude changes after you get used to having some of the almighty dollar. As you age you start to value a little employment security and working. I need to get out of here and get back to work. The old professor and his wife are long gone. He got his tenure and then got a better position at another university. I never did miss him. I was not interested in a long term liaison with the man, or anybody else for the matter, not back then. I still don't know how I came to be stuck with George. I thought he was better than flitting about like a butterfly - big mistake. I can do better. Enough said about him. At my age you would think I could find a man instead of a middle-aged boy.
I've got to get to bed. It's getting cold, a breeze has come up and moon shadows are dancing on my wall. They put me in a different room this week. I'm not sure why. But, the workers in this area of the sanitarium are definitely not as friendly as last week, very chilly in fact, as chilly as the room is. But the room is not all bad, and I still get my moon shadows.
Moonlight peeks through trees; wind comes; shadows dance. I fall asleep watching them, like counting sheep. One thing is strange, definitely very strange, like you I have been waking up in the middle of the night. I checked the clock last night. It was three bells in the wee small hours. Didn't you say that is when you wake up? That is very weird. What is even more strange is that I feel good at 3:00 in the morning, well not really good but better than I do in the daytime. But my shadows are not creepy. They warm my heart, even though it is cold as hell in the room. Obviously, the shadows on my wall are not like those inhuman splotches on your wall.
By the way, since you asked, parapsychology covers a wide range of phenomena, even the ghost stories that people whisper about Waverly Hills. Oh, yeah, this place is loaded with ghost stories, probably ghosts too, not just stories. Like I said, Waverly Hills has been here a long time. A lot of people died here over the years, thousands of them. So, no doubt, there are a few ghosts lingering.
Love, Babs. ps - What is a caul?
April 19, 1953
Hi Barb. It's me again. Ivan just finished his coffee and has gone back down. He won't be back up until noon, so I have time to write for a bit before I start lunch. Ivan started taking his coffee breaks upstairs two days ago and I don't have time to breathe. I don't have time to go out shopping or anything; but Lord God Almighty, all hell will break loose if he runs out of beer or cigarettes. Obviously, Ivan doesn't give a damn that I hate tobacco. Smokers are like that. He is completely self-absorbed about smoking. As far as he is concerned, anybody that tries to meddle with his sucking nicotine and cancer tars into his lungs can go to hell.
I am sure that if Ivan had ever had tuberculosis like you he would think differently. But he doesn't. Like you said, Ivan really is becoming a total shithead, but enough about him. Are you really thinking about getting back with George? You're not serious. At least Ivan has a fulltime job - I was going to say regular, but it isn't regular, just steady. The salary isn't that great but he gets a commission on casket sales and that really adds up. That's why he hates cremations.
People who demand cremations get him frothing like a rabid dog. It doesn't happen very often. But I can tell the instant he walks up the stairs. I have to stay out of his way for days. He gets so mad it is almost funny. It would be funny except for his temper. You never know when it is going to erupt. You're right about his sense of humour; he doesn't have one. I don't know if your George had a temper; but he is a leech, always trying to grab a buck off of anybody within earshot. He even tried to talk Ivan into "investing" in one of his wild schemes. Ivan wasn't too polite about saying no. Mind you, he is not too polite about much of anything.
Ivan's cough is getting worse. Maybe it’s psychosomatic –or just plain psycho. I not sure if Ivan is psycho; but he claims he can hear spirits after dark, like he is a radio receiver. Isn't hearing things a sign of mental illness? Or is it a sign of ESP? Maybe it is a sign of being haunted by ghosts. How do you tell the difference? If there is a line, where do you draw it? That would an interesting battle, psychiatrists versus parapsychologists. Or, as some cynics might say, quacks versus charlatans – oops sorry. You should study Ivan’s brain. Wait, I have a better idea. Forget Ivan and take care of yourself.
It is hard to believe that you see shadows on the wall like I do. But yours sound different. Dancing shadows sound a lot nicer than dark splotches. My splotches don't dance, but they do seem to be get bigger, a little at a time like they are oozing millimetre by millimetre, slow but perceptible. Maybe it's an optical illusion; maybe my eyes are playing tricks on me; or maybe it's something evil in the wall like you said. But I know there is no evil here, just discolouration. I’m not even sure that they look like splotches. They look more like dark holes in the wall, like a cave with no light that you can’t see into. One thing is sure. My splotches are not moon shadows. The splotches are there when there are no moonbeams in my room. They are never there in daytime, only at night, and only when I wake up at 3 o'clock. Maybe I was right about them being ghost footprints. Of course I think that if anybody here is going to get haunted it would have to be Ivan, not me. After all, he is the one who claims to hear spirits.
How time flies. There never seems to be enough time to do anything anymore. Not since the big move. Did I tell you he comes up for morning coffee? I barely have time to clean up before I have to start lunch. I suppose he will start coming up for afternoon coffee soon enough.
Did you boot George out because he was cheating? Life with Ivan is hard enough; I can't imagine what I would do if I caught him cheating. Maybe stick his head through one of the splotches on the wall, or singe his ass on the crematorium burners. Sometimes a woman has to maintain a semblance of dignity no matter what it takes.
I got to start lunch. Please get some rest. No more sleepless nights dancing with moon shadows. You need your beauty sleep to recover. Speaking of shadows, my splotches seem to be getting bigger. Not that they are big, just growing. If I watch closely, I can almost see them growing, like a pool of blood that is slowly seeping outward, but only at night. You can't see anything in daylight. There is nothing in the walls. I have gone about tapping them all over, looking for sounds that ought not to be, like solid where it should be hollow, or hollow where it should be solid like where the studs are. But there is nothing at all. No bogeymen hiding, no evil lurking, only my wild imagination in the middle of the night, always the middle, always 3:00, every night, and cold as an Arctic wind. I get goose bumps just thinking about the cold. I've been bugging Ivan to spring for some extra blankets. But he says that it is almost subtropical here, which it is, except at 3:00 am. Subtropical is stretching it more than a tad. Toronto is a fair bit north of Kentucky. If anybody is living in the subtropics, it is you.
Ivan seems to be very touchy about me spending any of his money, much more than he used to be. He is getting positively tight fisted in middle age. Nevertheless, we must not, under any circumstances, run out of beer or his fucking cigarettes. I hate cigarettes. I quit ten years ago, and I cannot suffer the smell of tobacco. It makes me want to puke. Kissing Ivan is like licking an ashtray, which also makes me want to puke. So does his cough. Did George ever start coughing when he was kissing you or in the middle of you know what –ecch! That may have something to do with why I am not getting pregnant. His smoker's cough is getting worse and worse. I can't understand why it doesn't make him wake up when he starts coughing in the middle of the night. Ivan seems to be able sleep through anything, but I can't. There are no didgeridoos reverberating to Waltzing Matilda when I am watching the splotches, just Ivan snorting and choking like a warthog.
A caul is just a flap of skin over the head or face - not a big deal unless you are superstitious as all get out, like us Ukrainians. It is not just any old piece of skin; in fact it's not skin at all. It is part of the birth membrane that decides to stick onto the baby's head. It's like being cursed by the devil. If you are interested I can tell you more.
My old granny, of course, is a walking library of stories about cauls. It's interesting that in most of Europe being born with a caul was considered a good omen, a blessing, but in the Ukraine, it was thought of as being doomed to become a blood-thirsty vampire.
I am surprised you didn't already know about cauls. There have been a lot of stories about people having the power of second sight attributed to having been born with a caul. That is your turf is it not? Surely an ESP guru like you should know cauls. However, you cannot talk to Ivan about them. One time when Ivan and I were visiting Granny, she started talking about cauls. Ivan froze right up, and couldn't wait to leave. He hasn't wanted to talk to Granny since. If I didn't know better I would suspect that Ivan was born with a caul. Actually I don't know better about that, but I do know better than to ask Ivan if he had one those little beauties plastered all over his head when he was born. It might explain a few things, like his unusually long, pointy canine teeth –just kidding. I am obviously picking up your habit of totally lame, feeble attempts at humor.
Maybe my splotches are imaginary cauls. What is happening to me? I seem to be getting as loco as you. Those splotches are not imaginary and they are not a dream. I am wide awake when I see them, at least as wide awake as a body can be at three o'clock in the morning. Furthermore I have zero imagination, zilch. My splotches are real. I am sure Ivan would see them if he woke up. But he does not wake up. All he does is go into a horrible coughing fit in his sleep. They are getting so violent that I would not be surprised if his lungs popped out.
I have to go. It is time to start dinner. The man expects his food to be on the goddamned table when he arrives, like he is Henry the Eighth sweeping his bulk into the royal banquet hall. However, Ivan doesn't have that kind of bulk, at least not any more. He has been dropping pounds even though he eats like Henry the Eighth.
Love, Rini.
April 26, 1953
Dear Rini Well you may think it’s the subtropics down here, but it sure as hell is cold at night and when I float around. It is hot outside in the daytime, but not inside our air-conditioned little TB colony. You heard me right, TB colony, that's what I am in. It might as well be in a leper colony. Everybody in this place has got what I got, and it is contagious. This place is filled with consumptive lungs. Sorry that I am sounding bitter. I guess I sound like it and I guess I am.
It is so cold here at night. You would think we were crawling around in an Alaskan igloo. I am freezing. The sanitarium staff do not give us nearly enough blankets for our beds. Not that I only get cold at night. That's not the way it's happening. I also get shivers during the day. I had an operation a few days ago, or a few weeks ago - it's hard to keep track of time. But enough about me. How are getting along with Ivan the Terrible? You should dump him and get the hell out of there - like your granny says. Also you should tell him to see a doctor about his cough. It sounds wicked.
What is the big deal about a little flap of membrane, that caul thing? The significance is lost on me. I have no clue why anybody would worry about such things. Cursed by the devil you said? Nobody I know, at least around here, believes in the devil. But maybe Ivan’s cough is a kennelcaulf. He is a dog, isn't he? If you a Jack London fan, Caul of the Wild has a nice ring to it.
It's about 2:45 a.m. and my hands are getting numb. If the humidity gets any higher my knuckles may swell up like balloons. I can't imagine what it would like to get arthritis, with your knuckles and joints all stiff and painful. That would be pretty awful. You can be as rich as you want; but, if you are always sick or hurting, all that money isn't going to make you feel better. Not that I am rich or even close to it. I make a decent salary, but George always worked part time and never made the big score he was seeking his whole miserable life. Not one of his schemes ever worked out.
I have started feeling better. The doctors think the operation helped, but I think it will take a while for any big improvement to show. The doctors actually did very little during my operation. They cleared out a bad spot, but it was not very big. They told me they expected it would be a lot worse and were pleased that it wasn't so bad. They viewed it as a very pleasant surprise. I suppose that is better than a bad surprise. It is what it is. The doctors are showing signs of quiet optimism. And I am starting to regain my health – not my sanity, just my health, especially at night.
I never feel so good as I do when I wake up at 3:00 am. It's almost like I am being released from a prison, giddy with relief, like I am getting a reprieve from my sentence. If it wasn't so damned cold I would feel fabulous. Aha, the moon is out and the wind is up. The shadows are dancing. Shadow, shadow on the wall, who is the deadest one of all. I am briefly in a gruesome mood. Sometimes I can't help it at this time of night. I feel so cold I think I must have died. But worry not, if I was dead, how would I write these letters. The best part is that 3:00 am my lungs feel no pain, and I am not coughing. Sometimes I think my dancing shadows are ghosts of people that died here. The survival rate has gotten a lot better thanks to the antibiotics.
I hear noises, footsteps coming down the hall. They are stopping outside my door. I can't imagine why. I know I am awake, but how would they know. The door is creaking open - this is getting spooky. Oh Jesus, they are orderlies. They are moving me again. I don't get it. It's bad enough moving me again, but at 3:00 o'clock in the morning. This is plain ridiculous. I would give anything to be looking at your spooky splotches on the wall than to be in this stinking place. I don't know what's happening. They are lifting me up and putting on another bed with a huge light above that is almost blinding me. Shit, I think it’s another fucking operating table. I think I am going to float again so I won't be able to write for a while. Pray for me. It’s getting dark again like I am hiding in my moon shadows. But it is very cold, like I am on ice.
Sorry, that last paragraph was just a dream. Scary wasn't it. I am fine. I had to tell it to you the way I dreamt it so you would get the full impact. I am still in my room watching my moon shadows, sucking cold refreshing air into my lungs. If I stay awake long enough I might float around a little. I've been doing the occasional astral projection ever since my peyote and LSD days. Weird huh? When I told you I didn't have a psychic bone in my body I stretched the truth more than a little. That guy Steve the Tripper dude I told you about, the guy with ESP. Well there wasn't any Steve. I made him up. It was all me, espmoi, Barbra the Tripper Girl.
Love, Babs
May 3, 1953
Dearest Barbra You're damn right it was scary, you brat. You scared the hell out of me. Are you really all right? Are you really getting better? Why did you have an operation? You are not telling Rini everything. ‘Fess up. You have to tell me; the clinic won't. I phoned them; but, they have that confidentiality bullshit. Call me. I cannot wait for another letter. I need to know if you are okay. What kind of operation do they do on TB patients? I thought all the doctors did was keep you calm and on antibiotics. Barbra, talk to me. I need to know what is happening. And you have to tell me about these out-of-body experiences. Are you kidding me? Are they for real or are you pulling my leg with your totally sick sense of humor?
I need to care about somebody and I quit caring about Ivan's problems a long time ago. He could drop dead as far as I am concerned. He doesn't care about me that is for sure. All he wants is a slave, somebody to cook his meals, clean his house, and warm his bed when he is in the mood, and someone to buy his cigarettes and beer. I think if I was replaced by a robot that did those things he wouldn't give a damn.
Ivan says relationships are not about love, they are about give and take, giving value to get value. He says if you give less than you take, the relationship will break down. Well, maybe he is right. But I will tell you something, for what he has to give, his price is too damn high. He doesn't give anything - his name, big deal - a flat above a mortuary, whoopee. I have my own house. His income is certainly no hell. Before he made me quit working (to better be his slave), I made more money than he did. That was part of the rub. Mr. Macho couldn't abide a wife making more money than he did. Granny is right. I should dump him and get a life. Just once, I would like to tell him to make his own damn coffee and buy his own damn beer and cigarettes. I am fed up with him, like you were with George. I don't know why I stay.
I don't know why I came here and moved in above a mortuary when I could have stayed in my own house and gone back to work. It's not like I have kids or I love the man. I guess it is just easier to not change. I don't know how to tell him to his face that I want out. See how wishy-washy I am. It's not a question of telling him I want out; he doesn't give a damn what I want. He only cares about what he wants. It is a question of telling him I am already gone. And I don't know how to do that. I am afraid. I'm not afraid of changing my life; I am afraid of Ivan, afraid of his temper.
Why am I babbling on about my problems when you are so ill? I feel guilty for thinking of myself when you are in trouble. Why do I feel so much guilt? Is it the result of lifelong gender training and my splendid Ukrainian Orthodox Church upbringing?
Back to you, Babs. Seriously, call me. Do you want me to come and visit? Ivan won't like it; but I don't care. I am beginning to not care what he thinks. I could be at the clinic in 24 hours. All you have to do is call and let me know. So call me and tell me what's happening. Tell me how you are doing. And tell those damn doctors to talk to me when I call. It was save a lot of time and anxiety.
How are your moon shadows? My ghostly splotches keep on coming, but only after midnight, usually around 2:30 to 3:00. It's so dark when they come it's hard to see, but there seems to be a reddish tint to them, blood reddish. Like Ivan’s mucous that he spits up in the shower or gobs in the sink – and no, he doesn’t rinse out the shower or the sink. Does any man? It’s not like his mucous is dripping with blood, but I am starting to see a fair bit of blood in it, reddish brown flecks, and same thing on the sheets from when he coughs at night. His cough is getting really bad now. You are right. He should see a doctor.
Why do you want to go floating again? When you say astral projection you are talking about an out-of-body experience aren’t you? Can you control these or do they just come without warning? Wow. You are blowing me away with this stuff. Maybe your midnight strolls in the graveyard are coming back to haunt you. Maybe Granny is right, nobody should mess around with dead spirits. It's just not natural. But it is so damn interesting to hear about. I am dying (oops) with curiosity.
Love Rini
PS How could you tell you don’t have a psychic bone in your body, then 'fess up and tell me you are having out-of-body experiences? You sneaky little liar! What do you see when you are floating? Is it like people say? Do you see a big light beckoning to you? Is out-of-body the same thing as near-death. You must get better so you can explain it all to me. Listen up. You must write a book and spew out all your secrets. It'll be a best seller and make you piss-buckets of money.
May 10, 1953
Dear Barbra: It's been a week since I wrote. Why haven't you written? Did you get my letter? I am sick with worry. Call me. I tried to call but the hospital wouldn't talk to me. They said I should talk to George if I want to know what's happening. Is George back? He should be. He should stand by you in your time of need. I should be there too.
I wanted to go; but when I told Ivan the Terrible, the bastard smacked me, backhanded me right across the mouth - the dirty rotten son-of-a-bitch. It is a good thing he has been losing weight lately. He doesn’t hit as hard as he used to. But he is still a flaming asshole. He told me I was insane. He is right. I am insane to still be here.
I've made up my mind. I am going to leave. And I am not going to tell him. I'll just pack up one day and disappear from here. I wish I could slide through one of the bigger splotches like it was the rabbit hole in Alice in Wonderland. The splotches are becoming larger. But, I don’t think there are any rabbit holes. I keep tapping the walls where the splotches appear, but I cannot find a single hole in the splotches, not even in the biggest one, not even at three o’clock in the morning when Ivan is doing his nightly, spasmodic coughing fit. Yeah, spasmodic is the right word.
When he gets going with a coughing fit, his whole chest seems to be in an uncontrollable spasm, especially right at 3:00 am. I’m positive that is what is waking me up. I am amazed it doesn’t wake him up. But he does seem more tired than usual these days. Some days I think it is a miracle that he gets himself out of bed and goes to work. Maybe you are right. I should talk him into seeing a doctor, not for him, for me. To protect me in case it is more than a smoker’s cough. Can he catch germs from dead people?
I got to go. I hear coughing and footsteps on the stairs. Mr. Wonderful is coming up for lunch. He better not want a nooner. There is no way I am ever going to lay down with that man again. It is over. Any feelings I had for him are dead, dead, dead. Fuck him. Let me rephrase that - he can go fuck himself. He can go fuck a corpse for all I care. God, what a thought! Call me. Write to me. Got to run, I can hear him hacking up phlegm and gobbing on the floor. God, how disgusting the man is. Here he is. The door is opening. The man wants his damn lunch.
Love Rini
May 17, 1953
Dear Barbra Another week has gone by. Are you still there? Please write. The hospital won't tell me anything and George doesn't answer the phone and doesn't return my messages. I suppose if he thought I had money to invest he might call. However, he knows Ivan won't let me get my hands on any money, and at this point I am not going spend any of my mad money. I am going to need it for life after Ivan. The best I can do is squeeze a few bucks out of the household budget and let me tell you that is not easy. The man is an effing scrooge - except for his precious beer and cigarettes. I swear I spend more on his beer and cigarettes than I do on groceries. And the phone bill-well, those long distance calls I made to you and George totally freaked him out.
He threatened to slap me if I wasted anymore of his money on phone calls. I guess he needs all his money for his vices. You would think that with all the beer he drinks, and all those perogies he snarfs down with sour cream, he would have a huge beer gut; but he doesn’t. In fact his belly has shrunk. And the smoking; you would think with all the hacking, sneezing and choking he does he would quit the weed. But you can't tell Ivan that. He hears but he doesn't listen.
He just doesn't give a damn what I think. And all he wants to hear me say is, "Yes my darling." Gag me out. I have had it. There I go again, talking about myself when I should be focusing on you. Write, damn it, or tell George to call me. I need to know if you are okay. I will say one thing though. What you are going through sure makes me sit back and think about what the hell I am doing. You just never know when something terrible could happen. A person can just up and die or get sick and spend months in a hospital with no guarantees of getting better. So why am I wasting my life on Ivan? I would trade him in for a healthy Barbra any day of the week.
When you think about it, you can't live your life thinking that if you put up with the none-too-pleasant present things will get better in the future. There is no guarantee you have a future and even less that it will be better than now. What I am trying to say is that you can only live life in the present, not the future, nor the past. Life is now, so why am I still here? Easy answer, I am afraid that Ivan will catch me trying to leave and hurt me. I have no doubts that he would. He has already been violent.
Sometimes I wish those splotches would reach out and swallow me, or reach out and swallow Ivan. That would be better but I'm not that lucky. Neither are you. The bad things always happen to us, not to Ivan or George. It would be nice if we got a lucky break now and again. I must be losing my mind thinking that my splotches will open up and swallow somebody.
Write, damn it. Better yet, phone me, or send a telegraph, or get someone to call. I need to know what is happening. Tell me about these out-of-body experiences you've been having. Was that for real or were you making it up. What are your shadows doing? Did I tell you that Ivan hit me again? He ran out of beer. Like I am the one drinking it like water. It is not easy keeping the fridge stocked with beer. I'm not supposed to leave the house. Not supposed to go outside but I'm supposed to get groceries, cigarettes, and beer - especially cigarettes and beer.
Moon shadows on the wall, who is getting smacked in the hall? I swear someday I am going to get out. It's like I am in a prison. I want to leave that bastard, or get killed trying. My three o'clock splotches are still growing, but only in the wee small hours. That is the only time you can see them. They just plain disappear for the rest of the day, even at midnight. They are pop up exactly at three o'clock in the middle of the night. In the morning when I wake up again, they are long gone. Even if I wanted to tell Ivan about them, he wouldn't believe a word. He never believes anything I say. He only believes what he sees.
What about you? Where are you? Are you still in that place? Are you all right, Babs? I need to know. You are all I have. And these days, with you sick and not writing anymore, it is hardly worth living. What a bummer, I am afraid of dying and I am getting afraid of living - thanks to Ivan.
Do you think your shadows and my splotches are connected? Mine are getting to look like blood oozing through paper towels, like when I was blotting up the blood from my mouth where the asshole hit me. I can actually see the splotches growing bigger, and looking wetter and wetter, almost dripping. Last night I thought they were pulsing out and in, out and in, squeezing out tiny droplets of blood. It is becoming like a bloody freak show, and I do mean bloody. My splotches are long past eerie. They have become frightening to the max. And it is long past time for me to vamoose. I got to get out of here. I am either going crazy or I am being haunted by something evil lurking in those walls.
Sorry, it's time to go. I hear coughing, chest rumbling, phlegm gurgling. It is getting louder, louder than the footsteps. Honest to god, I don't even know how he can climb the stairs these days. He is getting weaker by the day, and meaner, and control-freakier. It is time for his afternoon coffee.
I think he pops upstairs umpteen times a day just to keep me under his thumb, like he doesn't trust me to be left alone for more than a few minutes at a time. He has turned into a total control freak. He is a freak, period. Granny was right. He must have been born with a caul. The devil spit on him. He is doomed and taking me with him - the bastard. If he had any regard for me, he would not keep me trapped above a mortuary. You heard me, I said trapped. And I mean it. I feel trapped here, trapped in a life not of my liking or of my choosing.
Do you think I would have married the bastard if I had known he was going to start beating me up. I can't even go out to get groceries. I have to phone in orders and have them delivered. I am a prisoner, except at 3:00 a.m. when I wake up with my moon shadows. Yeah, I know, they are splotches of blood, not moon shadows. You have moon shadows, or maybe you don't. Maybe you have blood splotches too, bloody splotches like on your lungs. I'm sounding morbid, but that's the way I feel. Morbidity has set in. Is that a new word? I have never heard it before. It does, however, describe the way I feel. Like my world is collapsing in around my head, squeezing it, crushing it. I feel doomed and I am not doing anything about it. I'm just sitting around waiting for it to happen.
I used to think that you were the lucky one because you always had enough moxie to be control of your own life. I always admired that about you. You gave me hope. And now I am afraid that you are gone, afraid that I am all alone in this rotten world with a fearsome bastard. I am afraid that the operation didn't end well, that your out-of-body experience was permanent.
But if it was, how come nobody told me? I would have thought that even George had enough class to tell me if the unthinkable happened. I am afraid, but I can't bring myself to believe that you are gone. It is too terrifying to think about. I can't imagine facing one more day with Ivan without your support. Knowing you are behind me has given me so much strength, so much and ability to cope. I don't know what I would have done without you. I am getting all teary-eyed thinking about not having you in my life anymore. God – if only I could have had a man that I could need as much as I need you. You are the best friend I have ever had. I love you like a sister.
The man is upstairs, I have to hide this and serve him his precious coffee. God forbid should he see the letters I write you. I would be spitting out broken teeth for weeks.
Love Rini.
May 24, 1953
Dear Barbra: Where are you darling girl? Have you been getting my letters? I think Ivan has been intercepting them. I wouldn’t be at all surprised. Maybe the grocery boy hasn't been mailing mine. I can't leave the apartment to mail them myself. So maybe Ivan is paying the boy to give him my letters. I tried to call a few days ago but my phone was dead. My stinking husband cut off the phone line. He said that I wasting all his money making long distance calls He also told me to stop wasting my time writing letters. And how did he know I was still writing letters?
All he says is that I was supposed to spend my time making his life better, not trying to communicate with the near-dead. I told him the best way for him to make his life better was to go see a goddamn doctor so he can stop his goddamn coughing. He tried to smack me but he missed. So I told him see, you are swinging like a weakling nerd boy. Go see an effing doctor before you infect me with something.
Talk about pissed-off, all he could do was stand there and have a coughing fit. I told him if you are to die on me make sure your life insurance policy is to date.
He went almost apoplectic, started to spasm all over. Then he collapsed and went into a frenetic fit, like a grand mal. I have never seen anything like it. Then he started hacking up blood. It looked like aortic blood, you know, bright red, so I went downstairs and called a doctor. You wouldn’t believe my splotches. When Ivan was doing his meltdown the splotches appeared (in the daytime) and they got huge. But, they are gone now. It was the strangest thing, as soon as the ambulance took Ivan away, the splotches disappeared. I set the alarm for three o’clock this morning. But the splotches didn’t come back. Maybe they went with Ivan. He is welcome to them. I am not going to hang around waiting for him to come back. I am leaving.
I am so thankful that I didn’t catch whatever it is from him. A miracle I guess. One thing is for sure. Ivan and I are history. He doesn’t know it yet. But, he will figure it out soon enough. I still got my house. I hadn’t had a chance to find a tenant yet so I can move right back in – sans Ivan. I have already called my former employer and she will be happy to have me back. So who needs Ivan? Not me that is for damn sure. I am sending copies of this to George and your parents to make sure you get it.
We will get together soon. I know it. We must talk about your moon shadows – they sound so much nicer than Ivan's blood-dripping splotches. I now know they were never mine; they were Ivan's all along. Either that or I have been hallucinating up a storm.
See you soon, okay. Call me. I know you will get this letter because I can mail it myself.