House of Leaves (75 page)

Adoringly and always lovingly yours,

Mommy

October 15, 1983

Dear, dear Johnny,

What beautiful words you have in you and so evenly placed and wisely arranged. Daddy would have been very pleased to read such grace, especially coming from his twelve year old son. He might have even been a bit miffed by some of the words which I’m pretty sure he wouldn’t have understood. (“Changeling”—did your COED teach you that one?)

Your mother aches for you. The Director says he’s never seen me better and believes the day might come when you and I will even get to see one another. Until then, corporeal detachment must do. My spirit unpaired speeds to your side, protects you from harm and forever and ever lights your darkest moments.

From the one who will always love you most,

Mommy

December 24, 1983

My dearest and only son,

The Director just told me you are moving to another school following the holidays. I was surprised to learn about
it
from him and not you.

You must never be afraid to tell me your troubles. Tell me all. I will always be grateful for everything you do. It’s not the what but the doing alone that fuels me with such continuous rapture. You never have to fear angry words from me. I promise.

Apparently your fists refuse to rest.
15
battles in just one week! Is that true? My you do have a mighty heart. Even Marine Man Raymond must be proud.

My little Viking warrior! Let the monsters all tremble! Let tomorrow’s Mead Halls rejoice. Their Viking soon will come. Micel b1J se Meotudes egsa, for on hi sëo molde oncyrre.

(It will take more than your dictionary to unlock that one. You’ll have to revisit here once you’ve got some Old English under your belt. I think I got
it
right.)

Well if you must strike then I certainly won’t stand in your way. Just remember words can exceed the might of all blows. In some cases they can be fatal. For the rare few, even immortal. Try them out now and then on your foes.

I will always love and adore you,

Merry Christmas,

Mommy

March
15, 1984

My dear cherished Johnny,

Forgive your mother. News of your

hospitalization sent me into the kind of self-indulgent behavior that serves no one least of all you. I am so sorry.

For a day your mother was even free. So overwrought by her son’s misfortune, she escaped this Old English Manor in search of his tormentor. As
it
was raining and thundering, the Director claims I outdid Lear. Not even lightning could out light my rage.

In fact, my rage was so great the attendants here had to fit me with a canvas suit lest I hurt them or further damage myself. The Director finally modified and even increased my medications. Eventually these measures took effect and my hate diminished (though never the pain). Unfortunately so did my ability to function coherently, hence my silence during your time of trouble.

When you needed me most, I failed. I’m as sorry as I am ashamed. I shall never behave that way again. I promise.

Time does heal—they say. Still were I free now I would head straight for Marine Man Raymond and end him. I don’t doubt even your pacific father would have resorted to violence.

I do long to hear the details from your tender lips. Please write me as soon as possible and recount everything. The telling will help, I assure you. Did he really break your nose? Snap your teeth? Are there still contusions on your face?

I confess even having to write these questions stirs a frenzy in the chambers of my soul. I would like nothing more than to tear out the liver of your purported protector and feed
it
to him with a hiss. He could semper fi that meal all the way to Hades. But since he is shielded from my wrath by my own confusions—damn it!—I shall invoke Hecate in her Acheron depths, and by scale of dragon, eye of newt, boiled in the blood of murdering ministers and Clytemnestra’s gall, cast a great curse which shall fly directly on a dark wind and take up immediate residence in his body, daily chewing on his flesh, nightly gnawing on his bones, until many months from now, moments before the final spark of self-awareness expires, he will have witnessed the total

dismemberment and consumption of every limb and organ. So written, so done. This curse is cast. Fuit Ilium.

And now, without a doubt, you see your mother is mad.

Ira furor brevis est.

(Though in her case, not so brief.)

At least you shall have a new family. Hopefully this one will be gracious and sympathetic.

Your mother mends you

with kisses and gentle strokes,

Mommy

April
22, 1984

My dear, delightful Johnny,

I’m infinitely pleased by news of your continued recovery but thoroughly confused by the latter content of your letter. What do you mean you are still with the same family? How is
it
no one believes you? Aren’t broken teeth enough?

An evil wind rattles your
mother’s caged
heart.

I am also troubled by your reluctance to tell me more about the incident. Words will heal your heart. If you ever come to disregard everything I’ve told you, believe at least this much: your words and only your words will heal your heart.

I so love you, you divine and precious creature. Please write me quickly and open your soul to your mother. Share all your secrets and most of all divulge how the man who nearly took your life still retains the role of father. Does he not know the fate of Claudius or Ugolino?

With interminable love and devotions,

Mommy

June 3, 1984

My cherished Johnny,

I have decided not to question your silence. You are fast becoming a man and I am not blind to the fact that my encouragements, love and faith (not to mention my silly curses) matter little when matched against the iniquities of the world you daily face.

If I offended you with my last letter, find it in your heart to forgive me. Love alone prompted me to demand a complete disclosure of your experiences.

You, however, know best what’s right for you, and I would rather die than harm in any way the faith you keep in yourself.

Love’s every word,

Mommy

June 26, 1984

My dear Johnny,

Your sentences cast spells. Once again you’ve turned your mother into a silly school girl. Like Hawthorne’s Faith, I put pink ribbons in my hair and subject everyone here, including of course the good Director, to a complete account of your prodigious accomplishments.

Your letter is not paper and pencil. It is glass, a perfectly ground glass in which I can endlessly gaze on my fine young boy, unleashing arrows like some Apollo, scrambling across cliffs like the agile and ever wily Odysseus, not surprisingly besting his peers in mad dashes by the shores of that turquoise lake you described—Hermes once again pattering on terra! And to top it all off, a kite of your own construction still drifting among the temples of Olympus.

Like Donme, you too were born with the wind under your wings.

I’ve carefully hung your blue ribbons on my bureau where I can see them every morning and every evening. Every afternoon too.

Heart blistering with love,

Mommy

P.S. When you return from camp you will find your birthday present.

September 7, 1984

Dear, dearest Johnny,

To endure over two months without a word arid then with the first words learn such terrible news tore me to pisces.

Could
I now, I would whisk you away to the damp burrows of the underworld and double-dunk you in the Styx
80
neither head nor heel—especially heel—could ever suffer again the ignoble insults of pain.

Bear in mind though that your mother is an infinitely more subtle reader than you care to give her credit for. ‘When the Director warns me of some battery perpetrated by you (?)/ inflicted on you (?) in the Junior High recess yard, and yet in your letter you mention no such antics, only allude to troubles with that hire of the damned who dares claim the title of patriarch, I know whose offending hand has harmed my only child.

For the life of me, I cannot understand your lasting silence on this matter, but must put my faith in your instincts. Nevertheless do not do me the discourtesy of underestimating my ability to interpret you, catch your signs, crack your codes. You are my flesh. You are my bones. I know you too well. I read you too perfectly. The reasons why you fled to the fields and lived for eight days—an anonym, a no one, a survivor—are no secret to me.

Clearly you have great skills to last the world in such zones of deprivation but realize something Johnny, your abilities can take you much farther than that. You only have to believe
it,
then you will find a better escape.

Do not rely on your fists (enough of brawling), shun the television, do not succumb to the facile and inadequate amazements of liquor and pills (if they haven’t already, those temptations will eventually seek you out) and finally do not entrust your future to the limits of your stride.

Rely instead on the abilities of your mind. Yours is especially powerful and will free you from virtually any hell. I promise.

Hige
sceal
ë
heardra, heorte je cënre, mOd sceal
je
mare,
}ë
ure mzgen ltla.

Now please do not misconstrue my advice as anything other than the deeply felt aspects of my affection.

All my love and attention,

Mommy

October
14, 1984

My dear Johnny,

‘What an exceptional idea. I knew you’d think of a way. Do not be precious either with your attempts. Apply to every boarding school available.

As for that nit-wit Raymond who insists on calling you “beast” let his blindness protect you. ‘What he does not expect, he cannot work to prevent.

You are the wonderful presence the years ahead will teach a world to cherish. Remember, if this gives you any comfort, which I hope
it
does, anyone who tries to box and bury your soul (for as leaves are to limbs, so are your words to your soul) so will he be cast in my ire and so will he perish. Only those who stand by you shall be warmly remembered and blessed.

Horn soit qui mal y pense.

My unbound love,

Mommy

March 7, 1985

Dear, sweet Johnny,

I am still alive. Unfortunately the dead of winter was not kind to your mother as she reverted to the state that brought her here in the first place, the very same state that your glimmering father wrestled with so nobly.

Everyone here, especially the honest Director, was kind and attentive but their efforts still could not break me from my wild and often, I’m afraid to admit, hallucinatory condition. Sad but true, sometimes your mother hears things.

Non sum quails eram.

At least thoughts of you brought me moments of peace. Just the mention of Johnny conjured up sweet memories of rain soaked meadows, mint sprigs in tea and sailboats slewing wakes of phosphorescence at midnight—an entire history of the stars briefly caught in the Sound.

My lovely son, please pardon your mother’s silence. Only yesterday did the Director show me your letters. I feel terrible that I let you down like this and yet at the same time feel proud that you continued to make such progress.

Right now I am too tired to write a longer letter but never you fear, you will hear from me soon enough.

I love you,

Mommy

April
13, 1985

My wondrous child,

You put your mind to
it
and voilà you succeeded. Now get away from that place as quickly as possible. You are free.

Proudly and lovingly yours,

Mommy

May
11,
1985