Art carried the envelope with him all morning. It went from the kitchen counter to his shirt pocket. From his shirt pocket to the table. From the table back to his shirt pocket. At one point, he put it inside the drawer beside the silverware. Ten minutes later, he opened the drawer and put it back in his pocket. Hank watched the entire process. Finally, Art looked down at him. “What?” Hank stared. “I know.”
The dog blinked. “You think I should open it.” Hank wagged his tail. Art sighed. “That's easy for you to say.” Hank put his head down. Art looked at the envelope. “You didn't know her.” He paused. “You didn't know what she was like when she had something important to say.” Hank lifted his head. “She'd wait.” Art smiled. “She'd wait until she knew I was listening.”
He looked at the envelope again. “Maybe that's what she's doing now.”
Across the street, the Bellamy sisters were conducting themselves with remarkable dignity. For approximately four minutes. Vivian sat on the porch reading a magazine upside down. Martie was watering flowers that had already been watered. Lou was sitting beside Percival. She had tied a new fishing pole to the gnome. It was actually a broom handle.
“What do you think he's doing?” Vivian asked. Martie didn't look up. “Who?” Vivian gave her a look. “You know who.”
“I don't know what Art is doing.”
“You do.”
“He's probably drinking coffee.” Vivian sighed. “Obviously.” Lou looked across the street. “He's holding the letter.”
Both women turned. “How do you know?” Martie asked. Lou pointed. “His hand keeps going to his shirt pocket.”
Vivian lowered her magazine. “She can see everything.” Martie frowned. "That woman could spot a squirrel changing its mind from half a mile away.” Lou smiled proudly. “It's a gift.”
Vivian stood. “I think we should check on him.”
“No.”
“Just casually.”
“No.”
“Maybe take him breakfast.”
“He has food.”
“A pie?”
“He has pie.”
“Cookies?”
“He has cookies.”
Vivian thought. “Flowers?”
Martie stared at her. “You're looking for an excuse.”
Vivian sat back down. “I am not.”
Lou raised her hand. “I have an excuse.”
“What?”
“I think Percival needs a new fishing pole.”
Martie pointed at the gnome. “He has one.”
Lou looked at the broom handle. “That's temporary.”
Vivian smiled. “That's a very good excuse.”
Martie shook her head. “I am surrounded by lunatics.”
At eleven thirty, Art finally opened the letter. He sat at the kitchen table. He placed it in front of him. His hands were steady now. Mostly. He carefully opened the envelope. Inside was one sheet of paper, folded twice. The handwriting was unmistakable. He unfolded it, and began to read.
My dearest Arthur,
If you're reading this, then I've been gone for a while.
Art stopped. He closed his eyes. He could hear Margaret's voice. Not clearly. Not like a ghost, but the memory of her voice. The way she'd said his name when she wanted him to pay attention. He continued.
I hope you didn't open this too soon.
Art laughed softly. “You knew me too well.” He wiped his eyes and kept reading.
There are things I've wanted to tell you for years, but I never found the right time. Maybe there isn't ever a right time for some things. Maybe you just have to trust that the person you love will understand when they're ready.
Art swallowed.
You are going to be angry with me about what I'm about to tell you.
He stopped. “What?” His heart began to pound. He read on.
But before you get angry, remember that I did it because I loved you.
Art stared at the page. Then continued.
Thirty years ago, when Emily was still very young, I began to worry about you.
Art frowned.
Not because you were a bad husband. You weren't. You were the best husband I could have asked for.
His eyes filled.
But you were becoming too much like your father.
Art leaned back. His father. A man who had believed needing anybody was weakness. A man who had worked until his hands cracked. A man who had never asked for help. A man who had died sitting in his chair with a newspaper in his lap, refusing to admit he wasn't feeling well. Art's jaw tightened. Margaret continued.
You were beginning to believe that being strong meant doing everything alone.
Art whispered, “I know.”
So I made a decision.
His hands trembled.
I asked Evelyn to promise me something.
Art looked toward the window. Evelyn.
I asked her that if anything ever happened to me, she would keep something safe for you.
Art's eyes moved quickly over the page.
Not money.
He laughed through his tears. “That sounds like you.”
Not jewelry. He smiled.
Not photographs. His smile disappeared.
Something much more important. Art sat very still.
He read the next line.
I asked her to keep your courage.
Art frowned. “What?” He read it again.
I knew you would lose it.
He stared at the page. Then read on.
Not all at once. A little at a time. Every time you told yourself you didn't need anybody. Every time you refused help. Every time you pushed Emily away because you thought you were protecting her. Every time you chose silence because it was easier than saying you were afraid.
Art's eyes filled.
I knew one day you would need someone to remind you that you were never meant to do this life alone.
He lowered the letter. His breathing was uneven. For thirty years he'd thought Margaret had simply loved him. He had never understood how completely she'd seen him. He picked up the page again.
So I asked Evelyn to wait.
Not until you were lonely.
Not until you were old.
Not until you missed me.
I asked her to wait until you finally let people in again.
Art dried the tears from his eyes. The room was silent, then he read the last part.
Arthur, if Evelyn has given you this letter, then I believe you've finally done it.
You've let somebody in.
Maybe more than somebody.
Art laughed softly. “The three of them.”
And if Emily is there, too, then you have everything I ever wanted for you.
His eyes closed. A tear rolled down his cheek.
Please don't spend the rest of your life thinking you lost me.
You didn't.
I am in every good thing you remember.
I am in every laugh that sounds like home.
I am in the people who sit at your table.
I am in the dog you swore you didn't want.
Art laughed through his tears. “Hank.” Art laughed harder. “That part's definitely true.” Then came the final paragraph.
And I am in you.
So don't be afraid to keep living.
Don't be afraid to love people.
Don't be afraid to laugh too loudly or stay up too late or eat too much pie.
And when you think of me, don't think about the day I left you.
Think about the day we met.
Think about the first time you kissed me.
Think about Emily as a little girl sitting between us on the porch.
Think about our kitchen at Christmas.
Think about the terrible blue wallpaper we both hated and somehow kept for twelve years.
Art laughed. He'd forgotten the wallpaper. Completely forgotten. And suddenly he could see it. He could see Margaret standing in front of it. He could see Emily running through the kitchen. He could hear Christmas music. He could smell cinnamon. He could hear Margaret laughing because he'd burned the rolls. Memories he'd thought were gone came rushing back. Not the painful ones or the ordinary ones. The beautiful ones, of the life they'd built, the life he;d been so afraid to remember that he'd nearly forgotten how to live. The final words were written smaller.
You were the love of my life, Arthur Caldwell.
Now go be the love of somebody else's life, too.
Be a father.
Be a friend.
Be the grumpy old man you were always destined to become.
But for heaven's sake, don't be lonely.
I never wanted that for you.
I love you.
Margaret
Art lowered the letter. He sat there for a long time. Then he laughed. Then he cried. Then he did something he hadn't done in years. He talked to her. “I wish you'd told me all this when you were here.” The house gave him no answer. But somehow, it didn't feel empty. Art looked toward the porch.
“No.” He smiled. “You waited until I could hear you.”
At three o'clock, Art crossed the street. The Bellamy sisters were sitting on the porch. All three looked up. Art walked toward them. He was holding the letter. Vivian stood. “Art?” He nodded. “I read it.” Martie put down her glass. Lou stood too. “Are you okay?” Art smiled. “Yeah.”
He held up the letter. “She knew.” Vivian's eyes filled. Art sat down. For a moment, he simply looked at them. Then he said, “She knew I'd need you.” None of them spoke. “She knew I'd try to push everybody away.”
Martie swallowed. “She knew you.”
Art nodded. “She knew me better than anybody.”
He looked at Lou. “She even mentioned the dog.”
Lou gasped. “She knew about Hank?”
“No.” Art smiled. “She knew I'd eventually get one.”
Lou nodded seriously. “She was very smart.”
Art laughed. Then he looked at all three women. “She told me not to be lonely.”
Vivian reached over and took his hand. “You won't be.” Martie put her hand over his. “No.” Lou put hers on top. “Never.”
Art looked at the three hands resting over his. Then he looked across the street at his house. He looked at his porch and the magnolia in the yard. He saw the birds going in and out of the birdhouse and Percival standing guard. Hank was sleeping soundly in the flower bed. And he realized something. Margaret hadn't left him instructions for how to move on. She had left him permission to move forward. There was a difference.
Art looked down at the letter. Then he smiled. "I think she knew I'd need permission.”
Vivian squeezed his hand. “Maybe.”
Art nodded. Then he looked at Lou. “You still talk to birds?” Lou smiled. “Yes.” “Good,” smiled Art. He looked at Martie. “You still making too much food?” “Yes.” “Good.” He looked at Vivian. “You still think you have it?” Vivian smiled. “Honey, I've still got it.” Art laughed. “Yes.” He shook his head. “You certainly do.” Vivian smiled.
Then Art stood. “Come on.”
Martie frowned. “Where?”
“I've got something to show you.”
The three sisters followed him across the street. Emily was waiting on the porch. She looked at her father. “You opened it.” Art nodded. She smiled. “What did it say?”
Art looked at his daughter. “Your mother wanted me to live.”
Emily's eyes filled. “She always did.”
Art opened his arms. Emily walked into them. He held her tightly. Then he whispered, "I think I'm finally listening.” Emily cried against his shoulder.
And behind them, Vivian quietly reached for Martie's hand. Martie took it. Lou slipped her arm through Vivian's. Nobody said anything.
Some letters take thirty years to arrive. Some arrive exactly when they're supposed to. And sometimes...the person who writes them knows you well enough to know you'll need every word.