Dear Digby (6 page)

I’m writing to you because I’m depressed, and I keep thinking that if I write down how I feel, it will help. I lost my baby a year ago today. I miscarried at six months—he just came too early. His name was Patrick. The doctors don’t want me to get pregnant again—there were some complications. I don’t want to get pregnant again, either. You see, I want Patrick. Can you believe that I’m sitting in the room that was supposed to be his nursery? It’s 3
A.M.
, I’m all alone in here—they’ve taken out the bassinet and toys—but it’s still white and empty and
expectant,
it’s still a nursery waiting for a child. The thing I wanted to tell you was that I
talk
to Patrick when I’m alone like this, in the house, or when I’m driving in the car. I sing him songs, nursery rhymes. I tell him how I feel, I tell him what kind of day it’s been. This is the only comfort I have in the world right now—all the rest of it, my home and my husband, mean so little. You see, I saw him through glass. I got out of bed against orders and got down to the Newborn Intensive Care Unit. I saw him mothered by a robot, all the tubes running in and out of him and the respirator pumping his lungs. I screamed and fought, but they would not let me hold him. They wouldn’t even let him die in my arms when
that
time came. I hit a nurse so hard they had to resuscitate her. My husband told me later he thought I’d lost my mind, he told me he was mortified by the way I acted. I tell you I could have smashed through that glass wall with my bare fists, and I
should
have, I should have smashed them all out of the way, and held him in my arms—but they got me, they stuck a needle in me and sedated me. Now my husband and my mother have decided I need therapy—because they found out I talk to Patrick. Will I go? Yes, because they’ll make me. Will I give up Patrick?
No, never.
I will kill myself first. I have a gun. I have pills. Please understand—I’m sorry about this letter. I don’t know you, but I just had to write this down, write it to
someone.
If they take Patrick from me now, it will be the end.

Tracy St. Martin

Erie, Pennsylvania

I slid down in the tub and inhaled, staring up at the ceiling, up at the ersatz Tiffany lamp casting its stained-glass shadows on the Sistine-ceiling cracks.

Then I polished off the roach fast and pulled myself out of the tub. I hurried (before I could change my mind) across the living room to the telephone, found the area code for Erie, Pennsylvania, and got long-distance information and a number for an Allan St. Martin on Tamarack Street in Erie. I dialed the number.

A young woman’s voice, very tentative, answered on the third ring.

“Hello,” I said quickly. “This is Willis Digby from SIS magazine.”

“What?” she said. “SIS?” Then there was such a long silence, torn by quick, vicious rips of static, that I thought she’d hung up.

“Hello?” I called into the night.

“Yes?”

“Is this Tracy St. Martin—the one who wrote me the letter?”

Another long silence.

“Yes. This is Tracy.”

“Tracy …” I glanced at the mirror on the wall, then away, fast, shocked at my wild, semistoned face.

“Hello?” she said.

“Tracy, I’m calling because I got your letter. … I just wanted to tell you that I’m so sorry about … Patrick.”

“Oh,
God,”
she said. The anguish in her voice cut through me. “Patrick.” Then: “Is this a joke? You think this whole thing is a joke, don’t you?”

“No,” I said,
“no.
I do not. That’s why I’m calling you up like this. I just wanted to let you know that even if you go to therapy, I think you can hang on to Patrick, you don’t have to let him go.
Don’t
let him go,
fuck ’em all! Excuse
me,” I said. “I didn’t mean that last comment.”

“It’s okay,” she said. It sounded like she’d begun crying very softly.

“Just don’t kill yourself. You see, that
would
be a bad joke. That wouldn’t make sense here.”

“Why?” She began sobbing outright.
“Why
is that?”

“Because …” I was sweating.
God, give me a reason fast,
I prayed—I looked at the mirror again, then away. “Because,
granted,
though it’s a terrible life, one of its few bittersweet rewards is
foiling
people. I’m not going to give you any of that ‘gaze at a grain of sand’ shit. On the other hand, think of the personal satisfaction you might derive from
not
letting certain jerks you know stand around at your wake sipping sherry and saying, ‘I told you so.’ I mean, stuff like ‘She was a lovely girl, but she just couldn’t
take it;
after the baby’s … tragedy, she just went downhill, she folded up like—a little toy fan.’”

More silence. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. I mean, listen, Tracy. I know this comes across odd now, but it sounds to me like you’d rather bump off your husband and your mother than yourself.”

Amazing. I heard laughter. Another sob. Then more laughter, higher pitched.

“If I were you, I’d
flaunt
my grief for a while. I’d talk to Patrick wherever and whenever I wanted to—let
them
back off for a while. Try to love your craziness while it lasts, you know? Personally, I think we should all have a Holy Crazy Lady we pray to. To save us. I even have one in mind.”

“What is she like?”

“She’s …
unusual.
Like Mary Poppins on the skids. You know, twenty years later with the shakes, no teeth, and a fright wig. Trying to fly up with her umbrella, but ramming into buses, getting caught in power lines. Poking meter maids in the eye with her umbrella. You know the type. Or
I
do. Spoonful of acetylene.”

Tracy was laughing softly and sniffling. “This is so
weird,”
she said. “I work part-time as a manicurist and I thought I’d heard
everything
there was to hear. I’m
amazed
you called me—I’m amazed you even read my letter.” I heard her blowing her nose, a discreet little honk.

“Of
course
I read your letter. I read every letter personally. SIS stands for nothing if not systematic,” I squawked, shameless. There was another blast of static. “Besides,” I continued when our connection kicked in, “I
know
how you feel. I …”

“I believe I’ve heard
enough!”

A male voice, nasal and twangy,
very
irritated, split our airwaves.

“Allan!” I heard her gasp. “How long have you been
on?”

“I picked up at the beginning of this …
crank call.
I heard e
verything,
Tracy. Including the bit about you writing to SIS magazine!”

She gasped again.

“Listen, Allan—” I began.

“No. You
listen to
me.
You think you can call up my wife and tell her she secretly wants to
murder
her mother and me? Or that she should
flaunt
her
craziness???
Who the hell are you? I’ll
sue
your ass!”

“Allan,” I said, “you sound exactly like Jerry Lewis! Has anyone ever told you that? Your voice has certain subtle intonations—like a drive-in speaker! But I’ll try to overcome that impression! Let’s be reasonable—did it ever occur to you that
eavesdropping
is creepy and wrong? Violates privacy? Or, even more to the point, that Tracy doesn’t need you to make her feel guilty and crazy right now?”

“Yeah,”
said Tracy, “she’s
right.”

“Get off this phone and out of our lives!” he roared. “What about
my
privacy?”

“Stop talking to her like that,” said Tracy. “I don’t like it, Allan.”

“Tracy, hang up.”

“No. You
hang up!”

“Well,” I said, “that seems to make a majority here for flushing
Allan.
If you ask me …”

“No one
asked you. I’ll tell you what
I’m
going to do. I’m going to hang up this phone and come downstairs, Tracy, and hang yours up too. And then we’re going to turn the phones off for tonight—we’re going to forget about hearing from this maniac. Forever. And if she calls back tomorrow, I’m calling the police. Do I make myself understood?”

He didn’t wait for our answers—I heard a determined click.

“Miss Digby, I guess we have to say good-bye now. Thank you so much for calling me up tonight. I feel kind of … better. You’re a very …
unusual
person.”

“Thanks, Tracy. I’m feeling a bit perkier too. Like I was saying, I know pretty much what you’ve been going …”

The sound of arguing voices, then: “Allan, don’t do that, don’t hang up—Allan, you
jerk!”

Then just static again, broken connection—and I was left alone again with my strange, familiar interlocutor, the night. And those other voices, the ones I’ve come to welcome and trust, the ones who talk to me, soothe me, cajole me, get me through to dawn.

“Lily?” I called. “Lily?” And Lily was
there.
She told me she’d listened to everything and she loved me. Lily would always love me.

Three days later, Minnie W-W-G hustled over with a registered special-delivery letter for which I had to sign. It was from Iris Moss.

Well, well, well,
Willis.

So you are a
woman!
Ha! I say,
ha!
The reason I say “ha” is because I have come to the conclusion that my hypnotic-rapist may not be of male persuasion at all, but rather a
female.
These stains (which I found yet again this morning) may not be semen on my panties, but rather gynecological
juice
from the she-bitch in heat (excuse my profanity) who gets into my undergarments as I sleep and licks me, rolling her tongue over my cringing clitoris in passionate whorls of lust!

I have decided it is
a woman dressed as a man
who sneaks into my room. I see the whole sordid picture. I see that it is not semen that has been pumped into my vagina, it is your own female sexual arousal juices, your lubricants that facilitate sexual congress. You seem to me the type of person who would pursue vibrators and dildos, and in public places.

Editor of Letters, indeed! I spoke to my friend Basil Schrantz (a gentle man who wants nothing more than to be an Oral Surgeon), and he informed me that he is aware how you gain access to my room at night dressed as a man. He insists on remaining in my room, as I sleep, to protect me. So BEWARE! You will have to contend with Basil Schrantz if you plan to continue your frenzied tonguings of my labia major and minor.

I will write again, with details. Do not forget: I am
on
to you! I can have photographs taken! DO NOT PRINT THIS LETTER. Do not print my other letter to you either—I do not authorize it. If you do, I will sue you! (Or charge my professional writer’s fee, which is $625.)

Do not try to contact me by telephone. I know how you are capable of sending germs (or worse) through the wires.

Utterly Disagreeing,

Iris L. Moss

Iris Moss’s first letter had already been sent to the printer, I picked up my pen.

Dear Iris,

Basil Schrantz is wrong. I
do
dress as a man occasionally—but I don’t fancy unconscious sex partners. Have you noticed Basil dressing up in female garb ever? Most specifically as a nurse?

Listen, Iris, let’s not be enemies. I have this sense of you and me: that we can somehow help each other. I would like to continue to write to you. I like the thought of writing to a woman who’s such a
fighter,
at least during waking hours.

I repeat, with regret, I cannot
pay
you for your thoughts. Your first letter has already gone to press; I promise this most recent one will not be published.

Sincerely,

WJD

The phone on my desk rang.

“Willis Digby here.”

“Hey. Are you the crackpot there who sent me this smartass letter?”

“Who is this?”

“This is Dino Pedrelli. I wrote you frustrated old maids a letter about three weeks ago, and here I get this poison pen response that’s tellin’ me I’m
impotent.”

He said im-poh-tent. I remembered the letter suddenly. Dino the Dong.

“Yeah. So what do you want from me now? A balloon?”

There was a choking sound on the other end.

“Jesus. God. A man goes to work, he picks up a magazine to read on the subway, and he sees all this vicious crap”—he choked again—“he takes the time to write in, to
write in
to you bitches—and this is the thanks he gets? Tellin’ me I’m im-po-tent?”

I hung up after Dino described in detail a few of his most recent sexual encounters, after he wept badly, after he’d promised me he would “make me pay” for this transgression.

“Guess what?” I called across to Page when I’d hung up. “Dino Pedrelli is
not
im-poh-tent.”

She frowned and went back to her typewriter. “
Im
potent, Willis,
im
potent,” she corrected.

G
ET BACK, THE
voice was screaming through the bullhorn.
Get back, lie down, keep your eyes and mouth covered. Lie flat, cover your eyes!

The crowd was stumbling and screaming, a single blinded animal. The tear gas hung in sick orange streamers in the 90-degree air. The police, in their riot gear, kept on coming. I felt a leather hand on my neck—it picked me up by my T-shirt the way a kitten is plucked up by the ruff. I wrenched around to get a look at my manipulator—and got a nightstick flat across the face. I saw the cop’s face—big nose, helmet, mail-slot mouth—in a kind of 3-D ripple: green, red, then, mercifully, black.

When I came to, I heard someone screaming. I sincerely hoped that it would not turn out to be me. Nothing worse than catching yourself in a cliché. As it turned out, it wasn’t me, but a fat Mamma-Cass-like woman nearby who had just caught a glimpse of my face. “Look at
that,
I’m going to faint!” she bellowed to someone. “Look at what happened to that poor girl!”

Someone else began pressing a cold wet cloth against my nose. I brushed the cloth away and stared up into a blond, sympathetic moon-face. “Ah’m jus’ tryin’ to hep,” she said.