Pen Pal(5)

“That can’t be right. What about the flickering lights?”

“Could be a problem with the local power grid. You might want to ask a neighbor if they’ve got the same thing happening. Parts of the network around here are over a century old. Whatever the cause, it’s not coming from inside the house.”

“And the exploding light bulbs? That’s definitely not normal.”

“It’s more common than you think. Either the manufacturer didn’t put enough insulation in the base so the filament overheated, or there was a loose connection between the bulb and the socket that made the current jump. Just make sure you don’t buy cheap bulbs from now on, and also make sure they’re screwed in real tight.”

I’m getting a little exasperated. Did he even check the wiring or was he up in the attic smoking pot this whole time?

“Okay, but the doorbell rings when nobody’s there. And what about the burning smell when I run the dryer? How do you explain that?”

He hesitates. I sense him carefully choosing his words.

“I mean…you have been under a lot of stress lately, man.” He adds sheepishly, “What with your husband and all.”

For a moment, I don’t understand. Then I get it, and I have to take a breath before I speak so I don’t bite off his head. “My mind isn’t playing tricks on me, Eddie. I’m not hallucinating electrical problems.”

Uncomfortable under my stare, he shifts his weight from foot to foot. “I’m not trying to be disrespectful. All I can tell you is that when I was in a bad place, I thought I heard whispering voices and saw shadows move.”

“Did any of that happen while you were under the influence of mind-altering substances?”

His expression is pained, which I take as a yes.

Either way, I think our business relationship has reached its conclusion. Maybe whoever I get to do the roof can recommend an electrician who’s sober. “Never mind. Thanks for coming out to check. What do I owe you?”

He stuffs the small power meter into the back pocket of his jeans, bends to pick up his toolbox from where he left it on the floor, then straightens and shakes his head. “Nothing.”

“No, that’s not right. You should be compensated for your time.”

His smile is lopsided. He flips his long hair over his shoulder. “I appreciate it, but it’s my policy that if I don’t find a problem, the visit is free.”

I have a sneaking suspicion he just made up that policy on the spot because he feels sorry for me. “Are you sure? I don’t want to take advantage.”

“Nah, we’re cool. But maybe if one of your friends needs a handyman…?”

“I’ll recommend you. You bet. Thanks, Eddie, I really appreciate it.”

He grins at me, flashing that crooked tooth. “I’m outta here, then. You take care now, okay? And call me if you want my doc’s name. He’s really the best.”

I force a smile and lie. “I will. Thanks again.”

“I’ll let myself out. See you around.”

He leaves. When I hear the front door open and close, I go after him to make sure it’s locked. Then I go into the kitchen for a glass of water, but stop short when I see the envelope sitting on the table.

Even from halfway across the room, I can see the LOVE stamp in the corner and the neat block printing in blue pen spelling out my name.

My breath catches in my throat. My heart starts pounding. My steady hands begin to tremble.

Then all the overhead lights in the kitchen ceiling grow brighter.

With a sharp buzz of noise, they flicker and go out.





3





Dear Kayla,

You didn’t respond to my last letter, which I understand, because you think we’ve never met. You’re wrong. I could bore you with the details, but for now just trust that I know you.

In every way one person can know another, I know you.

I know the sight, sound, taste, and smell of you.

I know your darkest darks and your lightest lights.

I know your dreams, your nightmares, and every secret you’ve ever kept hidden, all those nameless desires you never admitted even to yourself.

I know the shape of your soul.

I know your hands tremble as you read these words, and your heart beats as fast as a hummingbird’s wings. I know you want to tear this letter up, and I also know you won’t.

How I need to touch you. How I need to hear your voice. I can’t, of course, because I’m here and you’re there, but the distance doesn’t make the longing go away.

I can still taste your skin.

Dante





4





I stand next to the kitchen window with the letter in my hands and read it again in the gray afternoon light. Then again. Then once more, because it’s so bizarre, my brain refuses to come up with any plausible explanations for it.

Probably because there aren’t any.

The overhead lights flicker back on, illuminating the room.

Throwing my arms in the air, I say to the ceiling, “I wish you’d done that when Mr. Everything’s Great Eddie was here!”

Then I fold the letter, put it back into its envelope, set it on the table, and pour myself a glass of red wine. I gulp it down, deciding on impulse that I need to make sure the house is secure. I go from room to room, checking window latches and door locks until I’m satisfied that I’m locked in tight.