Correspondences

 Correspondences 

“Do I hear rightly that you are getting letters from your dead sister?” Uncle Albert asked. [See here.] This was almost four months ago during the World Cup knock-out stage, a 92-degree day, smelling of dust and dead grass. The sun was a blur.

     There was some back and forth because I didn't want to know how he knew that but I knew I was going to ask. From Roz. And eventually, I admitted that I had been. Then, he wanted to know if I’d told Dr. Feight about them. I think he said, “Don’t you think you ought to talk to Feight?” And I’d said, “No, I don’t.” But then I’d said, “Well, maybe.” Maybe I should, I’d thought.

Today I did. “I’ve been getting letters from Moira,” I told Dr. Feight. “Uncle Albert thought I ought to talk to you about it. But this was some months ago,” I said. "Back in July."

     He asked what she wrote about, Dr. Feight.

     I told him, “Mostly about when she was Spain, but also about when she was in Morocco.”

     “But she was never in Spain, was she?” he asked. “Was she in Morocco?”

     “No,” I said. “Neither.”

     “Mmmm.”

     I said, “But she could have been, maybe. It could have been good for her. Spain anyway. I don’t know about Morocco.”

     “It could have saved her life, do you think?” he asked.

     “Yes,” I said. “I think so.”

     I hesitated, then: “Spain anyway. I don’t know about Morocco.”

     “Mmmm,” he said.

“We’re getting a new car,” I said. “Well, it’s not exactly new. We’re buying it from friends who are leaving for Belgium. They’re like the Peter Finch character in that Paddy Chayevsky movie. They’re fed up, and they can’t take it anymore.”

     “Network,” Dr. Feight said.

     “Yes.” I knew that; I'd only forgotten it for a minute. “Only they’re - our friends - they’re just going to get away altogether. But they can’t take their car - it’s a Chevy Volt - so we’re buying it.”

     “Why Belgium?” he asked. He was being unusually talkative - inquisitive.

     “I’m not sure exactly. Outside Brussels somewhere. He lived there at one time, maybe.” I wasn’t sure, but I’d heard something like that. Belgium, or Denmark. He’d lived somewhere.

“It’s a maroon-burgundy color,” I said. “The car. Our old one is about to give out. We don’t need two cars, but we’ll keep it until it does.” Give out, I meant.

     “That’s where Heart of Darkness begins,” he said. “In Brussels.”

     “I hadn’t thought about that,” I said. I knew it, but I hadn’t thought about it.

10.25.18