I emerged from the barbershop in a daze. Catching my reflection in a storefront along the main drag, I saw a middle-aged man with a new haircut and a shiny face, but I had to stop to make sure it was really me. In my post-dream haze, I half expected to see a younger version of myself, the young man who had escaped an abusive childhood to luck into the good life with Kathleen Eberle.
I popped into a convenience store and emerged a few minutes later with a two-pack of pens and a pad of writing paper, the words already forming in my mind. When I rounded the corner, Olivia and Sam were still sitting at the folding tables, the display of snow globes arranged before them. Olivia had her hoodie up, and Sam had his arm on her back. I restrained myself from crossing the street and instead entered the diner with its blazing red sign. She’s being a teenager, I reminded myself. I’d spent most of my life around teenagers, but couldn’t pretend to fully understand them—because even though I’d lived through those years, I hadn’t been one myself. She’s having a little flirtation, and good for her. Why should she be miserable? Why should she carry the weight of the past, when I could do it for her?
It was just after eleven, and only a few tables in the diner were occupied. I was seated in the back, although if I strained I could make out Olivia and Sam, who seemed to be having an intense conversation.
A waitress approached, handing me a laminated menu. “You’re a little late for breakfast, but if you want, we could probably rustle something up.”
“Oh, no—just some coffee, black.”
“You got it,” she said, and I set the pad of paper and a pen on the table in front of me. My palms were sweaty; holding the pen, my hand shook. The first words came out more like a child’s scrawl, I was fairly rusty at this, one of the most basic forms of communication. When had I written anything besides a grocery list, a lesson plan? Every few weeks I’d bundled up mail that came to Kathleen and forwarded it on to her in a padded envelope, writing nothing more than her name and Omaha address across the front.
It took several tries to get it right. First I wrote, “The Last Will and Testament of Curtis Kaufman.” Too formal—like a character on an old episode of Murder, She Wrote, with a room full of weeping relatives who had gathered to hear how my wealth was going to be distributed. There wouldn’t be much wealth at all, when it came down to it. The house in Sacramento was paid off, and that could be sold—but the housing market was in a slump. I’d managed to stay debt-free by driving an old car, by planning our purchases in advance—but Visa would be paying for a rebuilt transmission, and after the hotels and gas and food for this trip, there wouldn’t be much left in savings.
Besides, it wasn’t absolutely certain what would happen to me. That was the great unknown, the variable I wouldn’t be able to control. Robert Saenz could easily fight back, wrestle the gun from me, return fire for fire. If everything went according to my plan—but why would it?—I’d be arrested by the Oberlin police, booked and put on trial. I would request only a public defender—no heroics. I wasn’t planning to deny anything. I imagined A.D.A. Derick Jones handling my case for the prosecution, laying bare the facts: a man who hadn’t come to terms with his son’s death, a man who was so consumed by his desire for revenge that he allowed his family to fall apart, a man who had executed his crime with malice aforethought—traveling thousands of miles and purchasing a handgun illegally along the way, all to hunt down his son’s killer. I would plead guilty, not denying anything. Best case scenario, I’d only be locked away for half of my remaining years.
The coffee came, and I angled myself in the booth so that my writing wouldn’t be visible to anyone walking by. I tried again: “To Whom it May Concern”—but that was ridiculous. There were only two people on earth who this would concern, and they deserved to be named.
I began on a third page, “Dear Kathleen and Olivia.” For a long time, letting the coffee grow cold, I stared at the paper. A few people trickled in and out of the diner; a man at the counter spoke loudly about the construction on Highway 189, leading north. I imagined Kathleen finding the letter, long afterward, opening the sealed envelope with trembling hands. I pictured Olivia reading it, encountering for her what must have been the sum of all her fears. Even after the fact, I didn’t want them to feel responsible, to carry secret knowledge, to be hounded by a relentless D.A. in search of the truth. I needed to be vague, to speak in generalities. I wouldn’t allow myself to hope that Kathleen or Olivia would visit me in prison, that they would send letters, that they would be waiting for me on the other side.
And so I wrote:
Dear Kathleen and Olivia,
You will want an explanation, and you deserve that, and so much more.
I could say that I did it because I was hopeless and desperate, but that wouldn’t be true. With both of you, how could I have been?
It may be said that I was full of rage, but that isn’t true, either. At least, I am equally full of love for both of you, for Daniel, for the life we had, all four of us together. All my rage was focused in one direction, but I wouldn’t say I was blinded by it.
Years ago, I made two promises. One was to myself, that I would rise above my circumstances and be a better person. Another was to you, Kathleen, and I kept that promise as best I could. I’m still remembering it now, even as I write this, even when I find it’s too late to convince myself of any other alternative but what I’m about to do.
If you had known what I was planning, you would have talked me out of it—and that’s exactly why I couldn’t tell you. I knew I couldn’t be stopped, and I didn’t want either of you to get hurt in the process.
This letter is a goodbye, because I don’t know when or if I will see either of you again. It would be bliss for me to believe that you have moved on. I can only be sorry, Kathleen, now and always. Remember your drive, Olivia? The way the sun glittered off the salt, and the world was peaceful and quiet and endlessly good? That’s what I’ll remember, too.
I thought for a long time, and signed the letter simply,
Curtis (Dad)
I bunched the other pages with my sloppy beginnings into little balls, and tossed them into the trash basket next to the counter. Somehow, without my notice, most of the booths were full. The diner smelled pleasantly of grease.
“I should hardly charge you for that,” the waitress commented, ringing me up for a $1.19. “You barely drank a sip.” Her tone was faintly accusatory, fishing for an explanation.
“Thank you,” I said simply, handing over two dollars.
Outside, the day had gone cloudy, and Lyman looked faintly gray, as if it were buried beneath a layer of dead skin cells waiting to be sloughed off. I was suddenly hungry, the overload of carbohydrates at breakfast long forgotten. Maybe Olivia was ready for some lunch, too. I’d get her and Sam, too, and come right back to the diner.
When I looked across the street, the tables were still there, light glinting faintly off the snow globes—but Olivia and Sam were gone.