Flash A - "Letters"

The tea is too sweet, but I drink it anyway. I’m not about to offend my host. Well, the husband of my host. Denise Cook, the person I actually came to visit, the person I’ve been collaborating with online for the best part of a year, isn’t home. 

It’s just Philip, and the baby he brings down from the nursery after we hear the crying over the monitor. “A certain someone says she’s had enough sleepy time,” Philip declares, carrying the baby into the living room. 

I’m embarrassed. All that work, all that back and forth with Denise – we’d shared so much! Online, with emails and chat. I thought I knew her so well – I certainly knew plenty about the problems she had with Philp – but how much did any of that matter, if I didn’t know about the baby?

I was so intent on meeting my writing mentor, my literary hero (and I thought, a good friend) for real for the first time, I didn’t notice the giveaway evidence in the living room until Philip had gone upstairs. An empty baby bottle by the couch, the bulging, pink bag under the coffee table that I realized probably contained diapers and wipes. And then there’s the large, plastic foam letters that seem to litter the room. I see them on the table, on the couch, underneath the mantel – speaking of which, when I look over at Denise’s glittering award , I see that there are the same foam letters on each side. 

What kind of statement is that? 

As Philip sits down with the baby perched on his knee, I look at those letters.  

Funny, to think of them in the same house as books by the winner of last year’s Stanhope Prize for Literature. What does it feel like, for Denise to have to go over the ABCs with her daughter? Is she hopeful, excited, bored to tears?

That’s how it is when you have a baby. But why had she never mentioned it? 

I look over at the baby now. From the brown pigtails sprouting from the top of her head, it’s obvious that she’s a girl. But I’m ashamed that I don’t know her name. I show up on Denise’s doorstep like this, claiming to be this great friend of hers, but it turns out I know nothing about her real life. Our whole friendship was a fraud. 

“All right?” Philip asks. He gives me a look that I can’t interpret. Eager? Arrogant? Before he turns his attention back to the baby. 

“Fine,” I say. “I can’t stay long, as it happens.” I wave my phone, as if I’ve just received an urgent message. “Really, I was just in the neighborhood and thought I’d try my luck. But if she’s not in…” I trail off. 

I’m trying to make my excuses, but is Philip even listening? He jiggles the baby on his knee, sticks his tongue out and earns a giggle in response. 

His voice is light and gentle. “That’s right, Dee, you like silly faces, don’t you. My happy girl, you love Daddy, my sweet baby girl.” And then he looks straight at me and says, his tone cool. “You really should finish your tea. I went to a lot of trouble.”

There’s something in his expression that I don’t like, but truthfully, how could he ever have made a good first impression with me? After everything Denise said? 

He has no love for what we do, he has no respect for writing. All he feels, when I’m at the keyboard, is my absence. He’s jealous of the words I spend so much time crafting. 

I just smile. “It’s delicious,” I lie. I finish the drink in two swift gulps – it really is much too sweet. But I’m not here to make trouble. Denise has made her choices – to have a baby with this man, and to keep the news out of the media, and to keep it away from me as well. 

There are two sides to every relationship. 

I wonder, if he could do it, whether he’d destroy the very idea of written language, so I would spend all my time with him instead.

Denise is no victim. She made her choices! Just like she chose to not tell me about the baby. Philip turns her around on his knee and she stares at me. What do babies think about? Not much. 

Then I smile. The baby’s pajamas are covered in colorful letters.  

“Feeling better?” asks Philip. 

A strange question. I just point at the baby. “I bet Denise picked out that outfit. It’s perfect.” 

Philip blinks, and then he shrugs. “Actually, they were my idea. But yes, I think she likes them.” He reaches over and grabs a green letter ‘C’ from the foam collection beside him. “You love your letters, don’t you, Dee.” 

The baby responds by sticking one end of the C into her mouth. 

Philip smiles. “Dat taste nummy?” 

I cringe inwardly at the baby-talk. But the baby seems delighted. 

“Muhhhh-muh-muh!” she babbles, and she takes the green letter from her mouth and thrusts it in my direction. 

No thanks, I think. I don’t want your drool-covered gifts. 

“You’re so smart,” Philip says to the baby, bouncing her up and down. “You’re such a smart girl. You know all your letters, don’t you.”

It’s time to go. Philip will no doubt think me strange, to leave so soon after making such a fuss about our relationship when I arrived. 

We’ve been in touch by chat almost every day for a year! We’ve shared so much – your wife, she’s like a sister to me!

It’s then that I feel abruptly, utterly exhausted. I stifle a yawn. 

“Say, do you like that tea? Some people find it a little sweet. I remember Denise saying that. She doesn’t drink it anymore of course.” He laughs. “Just warm milk, before she goes to sleep.” He nods. “We’ve got quite the routine these days.”

I look down at my cup. Empty. Whatever I drank is coursing through my body. My hands feel weighed down; my feet are stuck to the ground. I rub my eyes with clumsy, heavy fists. 

“I’ll read to you too,” says Philip. 

This isn’t good, and yet I don’t feel a sense of panic. I pat my face with those heavy hands, trying to wake myself up. “I won’t…”

Philip looks at me with a relaxed expression. “Won’t what?”

I produce a tremendous yawn. “Won’t tell anyone.” I look at the baby, and she giggles, fingers creeping into her mouth. She smiles, as if she thinks I’m getting what I deserve. But I know she’s not thinking that. She’s barely thinking anything. She’s just a silly baby. 

“It’s okay,” Philip says. 

Run. Hide. Scream. 

I get to my feet, but it lasts only a second and then I fall to the carpet. 

Philip gets up, a flicker of concern on his face, still holding Denise. 

I’m on my knees. I look up at him, pleading, yawning. “I won’t tell anyone. I won’t tell a soul.”

Philip reaches down with one hand, strokes my hair. “It’s okay, honey,” he says. “I know you won’t.”

The End