SINCERELY, YOUR LOVING WIFE

By Ben Greenman / @2019

From forthcoming collection of stories, as yet untitled

It was not a red-letter day when she got and read the letter from Ledbetter. He had led her astray but then led her back. He kept her on track, or at least that’s what he said. He told her that in bed. He insisted. She made a fist just thinking about it. But maybe he was right about it. He said he had the gift of second sight and she could not doubt it. 

When the letter arrived she had returned from a drive. She spent a while eating. She was reading. The letter stopped her cold. She dropped her paperback, popped a pill out of a blister pack and downed it. A sound escaped her lips. She felt memories in her hips. She put the letter underneath her chair and said a prayer. She ran until her lungs burned to confirm that she was alive. 

She reviewed what she knew of this man, this writer. She tested herself. Her chest felt tighter.  

Ledbetter had not married her but he had asked her if they could operate in that mode. That was a kind of code. They had carried the idea in their hearts. They had sworn they’d never part. He owed her and she was his debtor. And still—and here she popped another pill—she had left. He was bereft. He had said so on the phone. He possessed a pleasant baritone.

She ate some more, felt hate in her core. She read the letter. It said that he’d been better. It said that he doubted he’d ever move on. It wondered about the assumptions she was under regarding people in her bed. His language was vague but she got the gist, made another fist. With her other hand she held her head.

The letter wasn’t right. She crumpled it up with all her might, her chest still tight. She tried her best to think of men other than Ledbetter. She thought of Sam from the fruit stand, of Hiram from the airlines, of her ninth grade teacher Mr. Meacham, of Lloyd Meacham his tall tan son, of Officer Kenneth Lombardi, who had impounded her car some years before. She thought of the Emperor Wu-ti, a historically significant horse-rustler who had brought Imperial China to the brink of destruction. She thought of Linc, of Stink-Brained Philip, of Gasoline Jerry, of Tony Romo, of Batman, of Perry Como. She thought of all the men she had met and all the men who had met her. But in the end, she knew she had to send a letter back to Ledbetter. She could not pretend otherwise. She closed and opened her eyes. She grabbed a pen and collected her strength again.