Calgary Alberta
September 12, 1971
Dear Dennis,
Thank you for your last letter, which I got today. I’ve been lucky to have you as a pen pal. I don’t know even one other girl who has received letters from a real live American sailor. But. There’s a lot on my conscience. I’m embarrassed. Out of fairness to you, I need to come clean.
You know how I told you I found your name and FPO address on the bulletin board of a community hall while I was visiting my cousin in Long Beach, California? That’s true. However, it’s not true that camera-shyness stopped me from sending you my picture, as you have asked me to do. Here’s the real reason: In all my recent pictures I look about fourteen. That’s because I am fourteen, not twenty-one like I told you.
I don’t work as an assistant buyer in a bridal shop, with a supervisor named Miss Sacobucci. I don’t work anywhere. I’m a high school student just starting Grade 10, or as you like to call it in your country, the tenth grade. So it follows that I didn’t visit New York last spring with Miss Sacobucci. Everything I told you about my so-called visit to New York I got out of the Encyclopedia Britannica and my imagination. The farthest east I’ve ever been is Winnipeg, a cool Canadian city nowhere near New York. In fact, it’s north of North Dakota.
In Phys. Ed. last year I failed the gymnastics part of the course, because I am a klutz. I lost my balance while walking slowly across the balance beam and fell, breaking my ankle. In other words, I have never participated in competitive gymnastics, as I claimed in my third letter.
My back yard is not lush with alpine asters and trembling aspens. There is no back yard. My family lives in an inner-city apartment. And since I am speaking of family, this is a good time to tell you my two older brothers are not in the Canadian military or the Brazilian military or any other military. That is because they don’t exist. I am an only child.
I’m afraid there’s more. My name is not Philomena Alhambra. I once went to a movie theatre called the Alhambra. As for Philomena, it’s my favourite name. I think it has a romantic ring to it. My real name is Ariadne Jensen. Much more meat-and-potatoes-sounding, I know.
I could go on, but what’s the point? By now you can see that before today, I have never given you any true information. I’m sure you are wondering why all the lies. I’m not sure. And that, believe it or not, is the truth.
I’m sorry. I don’t expect you to write me any more.
Fair winds and following seas,
Ariadne