If he had been killed in a car accident, or stopped to pay for a fill-up at precisely the moment a hooded gunman had picked to rob the mini-mart and so been shot in the shoulder or taken hostage, or contracted a case of amnesia while on his way to World of Wheels, she’d have heard something by now. Someone would have spotted him somewhere, or seen his truck ditched by the side of a road, or discovered a peacock-blue cowboy shirt with gold stitching on the collar and cuffs and bloodstains on the sleeve stuffed in a trash can in an alley behind a barroom, wouldn’t they? There was only one logical explanation: Donny’s disappearance was not an accident. The reason no one could find him was because he didn’t want to be found.
Mary Dell knew he wasn’t coming back. Even so, when the letter arrived, it was hard to open the envelope, hard to read words written by a man whose handwriting she knew as well as her own but whose outlook on the world and response to it was so foreign and confusing that she wondered if she’d ever really known him at all.
Later she would succeed in being grateful for the knowledge that he was safe. She loved him enough for that. But when she opened and read the first lines of the letter he had written and dropped into a mailbox near Midland, Mary Dell was overcome by the thought that it would have been less painful to believe he had perished by accident or violence than to know he had left by choice.
. . . You are so strong, Mary Dell. That’s one of the things I’ve always admired about you. You’ll do a better job of raising Howard on your own than with me there, getting in the way. I know you might not believe that right now, but it’s true, and in time you’ll see I was right. I don’ t expect you to forgive me for going away or understand why I can’ t stay, but try to believe me when I tell you I can’ t. It’s not because there’s anything wrong with you, honey—there’s not a woman on the face of God’s green earth who can hold a candle to you—it must be something wrong with me, I guess. Maybe the Tudmores aren’t the only family with a Fatal Flaw.
I only took what money was in my wallet, and I left my credit card in the bottom of my sock drawer. You should have enough money in the bank for now. A man paid me $40 to help him stack a load of hay this week, so here’s $25 for you and Howard. I know it’s not much, but I’ll send more when I get myself settled somewhere.
Kiss Howard for me. I love you, Mary Dell. I’m sorry.
Donny
When she finished reading, Mary Dell laid her head on the table and sobbed herself dry. She loved him enough for that too.