Chapter 5: Gerald's Letter
Dorothy didn't open the envelope until we were home.
Daniel had gone back to his apartment — a small place across town that Dorothy had only visited twice.
He'd offered to leave us alone with it, and I'd seen the relief on his face when she said yes, she'd call him tomorrow.
Nancy was already asleep by the time we got back.
I checked on her and stood in the doorway for a moment, watching her breathe, before going back downstairs.
Dorothy was at the kitchen table.
The envelope was in front of her, still sealed.
I sat down across from her.
"You don't have to read it tonight," I said.
"I know." She didn't move.
"I keep thinking about what she said.
That he addressed it to me specifically.
I was a child when he died.
I was eleven years old.
What could he possibly have wanted to say to me?"
"There's only one way to find out."
She picked it up.
Slid her finger under the flap.
The letter was two pages, handwritten in a careful, slightly formal script.
She read it silently first.
I watched her face.
Halfway down the first page, she stopped.
Pressed her lips together.
Kept reading.
When she finished, she set it flat on the table and pushed it toward me.
"Read it," she said.
I read it.
Gerald had written it plainly, without self-pity and without asking for forgiveness.
He said he had made a choice that hurt two women and two children, and that no explanation would make that choice right.
He said Rose had been a good mother and that Daniel was a good boy and that the failure was entirely his own.
Then, halfway down the second page, the letter changed direction.
*I am writing to you, Dorothy, and not to your mother, because your mother has already decided what she will do with this information.
She is a proud woman and I have hurt her pride beyond repair.
But you are young enough that the truth might still mean something to you rather than only feeling like a wound.*
*Daniel is your half-uncle.
He is family.
Whatever your mother tells you about him, whatever she asks you to forget, I am asking you — from whatever authority a man like me still has — not to let him disappear.*
*He will need someone eventually.
We all do.*
I set the letter down.
Dorothy was looking at the window, not at me.
"He knew," she said.
"He knew my mother would bury it.
So he tried to go around her.
Through me." She shook her head slowly.
"I was eleven.
Vera sat on this for twenty-six years."
"She said she thought your mother was right at the time."
"I know what she said."
A long silence.
"Are you angry at her?" I asked.
"Vera."
"I don't know yet." Dorothy pulled the letter back and folded it carefully.
"I'm angry at my mother.
I know that much.
She knew about Daniel.
She had Gerald's letter.
She had Vera's number.
And she chose to let him be alone his entire life because it was more comfortable for her."
She stood up and went to the counter.
Filled a glass of water.
Stood there with her back to me.
"He reached out eight months ago," she said.
"I've spent eight months managing this alone because I didn't know how to tell you.
And now I'm sitting here thinking about all the time we've already lost." She turned around.
"He has three months, Mark.
Maybe less.
And my mother is lying in a hospital bed and can't even answer for any of it."
I didn't say anything.
There was nothing useful to say.
"I want to bring him to Sunday dinner," Dorothy said.
"I want Nancy to know him properly.
I want whatever time is left to actually mean something."
"Then we'll do that."
"My mother's sister will find out.
Aunt Ruth.
She'll have opinions."
"Let her."
Dorothy looked at me for a moment.
"You're not angry," she said.
"About any of this.
About the lying, the hiding — you're not angry."
"I was," I said.
"For about forty minutes on Saturday night.
And then I watched you introduce your dying brother to our daughter and I couldn't hold onto it."
She set the glass down.
Came back to the table.
Sat down close enough that our shoulders touched.
"I should have told you the day I got his letter," she said.
"Yes."
"I was scared you'd think the worst."
"I know." I picked up her hand.
"Tell me things like this.
Whatever it is.
Tell me."
She nodded.
Didn't speak.
Outside, the street was quiet.
The kitchen clock marked the seconds.
Then her phone lit up on the table between us.
A text from a number I didn't recognize.
Dorothy read it and went completely still.
I leaned over and read it with her.
*Dorothy.
This is Ruth.
I know about Daniel.
Your mother told me everything before her stroke.
May you like
We need to talk before you do something you can't undo.
Call me tonight.*
