Dear Little Jo,
Khang just told us she’s through with offering suggested themes to use in our letters. Not that you and I have been using them lately anyway. Khang said that as we must know by now, all writing shares something of yourself. So share away, she said.
Memories though. A memory can’t be shared even when you write about it. Words won’t transfer a memory anywhere or help you reabsorb it. It just sits there, the memory. Pooled up under your skin like a bruise.
For example, I remember there was this bird down by the tracks that hated Mark and me. All black except for a flash of red on each wing. It would come diving out of the trees and flap right into our faces. It left a scratch once under the hair on Mark’s forehead. Its chirp sounded like stones smacking together.
You’re right that you and I didn’t say anything last night over pizza. Once or twice we looked at each other. I thought maybe you were a bit uncomfortable with us there, but maybe that was just in my head. I guess if you don’t talk you can’t really tell.
Give the people what they want, Uncle Viktor says. If they want the cheap shingles, give them the cheap shingles. Cheap shingles is how he underbids AA Roofing, who stole a lot of Kurlansky customers after my father passed. Don’t worry, Jo. We used good quality materials on your roof. The thing about Uncle Viktor is that it’s better just to keep your head down and do what he says and let him think what he thinks. Most of the time I remember and catch myself in time. Like with the pizza at your house. It might seem like a dumb thing. Why can’t I have a slice of pizza? It might be a dumb or embarrassing thing but it’s a little thing. Definitely not worth turning into a big thing.
Mark thought it was hilarious the way this bird kept attacking him but to be honest it creeped me out, how interested it seemed in hurting us. It reminds me of how in ancient wars they would smear crows with tallow, light them on fire, and free them to fly over the enemy walls. You could burn down a whole fort with these firebirds. A whole town.
I found a bird guide in the library and looked up this murderous bird’s name. Surprise surprise: Red-winged Blackbird.
I spent a lot of time at your house yesterday trying not to stare at everything. I’ve never been inside a house like yours before. There is no decoration anywhere that I could see. No drapes, just bare windows. No pictures on the walls or things sitting around on shelves. None of those extra pillows to decorate the sofa. The kitchen has no cabinets, just open shelves with dishes stacked and some mismatched sections of drawers with a plywood countertop.
The thing about your house is there’s nothing just for looking at. It’s all for using. There’s that massive stereo with all those separate parts: turntable and receiver and CD player and huge speakers. Even a cassette deck. There are all those stacked wooden crates full of records and books and cassettes. And I mean there must be at least ten different musical instruments in your living room. Some I didn’t even recognize, like that long wavy one with the little hearts carved into it and that rectangular one with the big silver circle under the strings.
On our way out the door Sylvan asked Lyle about this clocklike object made of brass and wood on the wall. A barometer, Lyle said. My son dragged it home from somewhere. He’s a fan of the obscure and the obsolete, aren’t you, Jojo?
There were two words on the face of your barometer: regen and mooi. When I got home I looked them up. They’re Dutch words that mean rain and fair. Apparently what a barometer does is measure changes in air pressure and tell you whether it’ll rain soon. Useful as well as beautiful, see?
I’ll see you tonight, Jo. Thank you for specifically inviting me.
Sincerely,
AK