The Letter - Chapter 34

I smiled as I read the response to my Facebook message from Ellie Kosko Barnhart.

I saw you on the eleven o’clock news.  I never realized back in high school that you were such a rough character. Sorry to hear about your arrest, but I trust you got out early for good behavior.

I messaged her back.  Yeah, I beat the rap.  Was only in the slammer for about an hour.  I wish I had known you were in town.

Ellie responded.  Didn’t you receive my letter?  I explained the mystery of the first one – purely unintentional and I invited you to meet me at the TJ game last Friday.

I responded.  I never received it.  Must have gotten lost in the mail.  Any plans to come out this way again?

Her response.  When I was in Cleveland I found out my son and his wife are expecting later this year.  DON’T TELL ANYONE! They swore me to secrecy until they feel Katie is past the danger period.  It will be my first grandchild.  Cleveland is not too far from Pittsburgh.  Any plans to come out to see beautiful Seattle?  

My response.  The Pacific Northwest is on my bucket list, but I haven’t made plans yet.

Ellie wrote back.  Well when you do make plans, know that there is someone out here willing and able to show you the sights.  By the way, I love your blog.  My friend showed me where to find it.  Have only read a few of your posts, but I plan to read more.  You are a good writer.

I wrote.  Thank you.  I always announce new posts on my Facebook page.  Happy to have a new reader.

She wrote.  It’s been fun chatting.  Stay in touch.

I finished.  Will do.

Well, what do you know?  I smiled to myself. We finally connected.  She seems very nice and still looks damned good.  I looked at her profile picture and some of the other pictures she posted on her Facebook page.  ‘Widowed’, it says.  Oh well.  Don’t kid yourself George.  Any future here is pretty unlikely.  Pittsburgh and Seattle are thousands of miles apart.  Still . . ..  Oh hell.  Get back to work George!

I had been working on an article on gun control when I heard saw the Facebook friend request come up.  It had been a welcome interruption.  I was struggling with the article.  I cast about for an idea – some hook to anchor my arguments.  Finally, I had the germ of an idea and started typing.  I was close to finished when I heard Jennifer come in the front door.

“Jennifer, is that you?”

“Yeah, it’s me,” she deadpanned.  I heard her start up the stairs to her bedroom.  She had been unusually distant since the previous evening.  She told me her mother had picked her up from school and whisked her off to the Zingerman mansion in Sewickley Heights.  She told me it was fairytale gorgeous, but she didn’t seem very enthused about her visit.  She was quiet throughout dinner and told me she wasn’t feeling well enough to share a bowl of popcorn while watching our favorite television show.  Now, she came in and went directly upstairs, not stopping for a hug like she had just about every day for as long as I could remember.  I chalked it up to the turmoil she must be experiencing due to the custody fight.

I went to the bottom of the staircase and called up toward her room.  “Hey, Jen.  Could you come here for a minute?”

She walked slowly down the stairs.  I considered giving her a hug, but she didn’t seem to be in the mood.  Maybe I was a little sensitive to the whole notion of physical contact with her based on my discussion the previous day with my lawyer.

“Hey, I could use your editing skills.  I wrote a gun control article.  I’m not sure whether I’m going to submit it to the Post-Gazette or post it to my blog.  Maybe I’ll do both, but I wanted to get your opinion first.”

She sat down in my desk chair and started reading.  I stood behind her and unknowingly rested my hand on her shoulder.  I felt her stiffen and immediately put my hand in my pocket and took a step back.

“Well, what do you think, Jen?”

“Dad, I don’t know.  I mean, you know I love almost everything you write.  But this is bad.”

“Really?  What don’t you like about it?”

“Well, take this paragraph as an example.  She started reading it out loud. "We’ve all heard the stories about Social Security going broke.  How long are some of these geezers planning to hang around on the federal dole?  We could start by gunning down all those that have reached 100.  They’re mostly senile anyhow and won’t even realize they’ve been targeted.  Then we can work backwards progressively through the nineties and, if necessary, into the eighties and seventies until the Social Security funding problem is solved."  Jennifer turned around to look at me.  “Shooting old people?  I think you’re somehow trying to be funny, but it sounds mean-spirited.” 

“It’s satirical, Jen.  The piece was inspired by Jonathan Swift’s A Modest Proposal.  Have you ever read that?”

“Yes, we studied it last year in English class.  And a lot of people were outraged at his suggestion of eating poor people’s children.  That’s the problem with biting satire.  A lot of people just don’t get it.  Those that do probably are already on your side.  I’ve read a lot of your writing, Dad.  It’s funny, but it’s gentle humor.  You’re more Mark Twain than Jonathan Swift.”

“I’ll take that as high praise, dear daughter.  Back to the drawing board then.  I’ll file this one in the file labeled ‘articles that should never see the light of day.’  Anyway, thank you for your advice, Jen.”  She stood up and I attempted a hug, but felt her recoil.  “I should start dinner.”