His Secret

Jane’s letter hit me like a ton of bricks. I knew I was not supposed to have opened it; the letter was for Henry. Henry was my husband until I heard from my best friend, Jane, that he had been unfaithful to me. Why was Jane writing to him then? I had to know.

Using my old steamer, I opened the envelope, being careful not to let the top close again by itself by putting a paper weight on it. I took out the folded notebook sheet of paper and began reading.

“Dear Henry,

 I kept my promise to you, lying on your behalf, by telling Meagan that you had cheated on her, but I do not understand your reasoning. What purpose did it serve?

I see Meagan moping around day after day. She is depressed, not sleeping at night. She does not eat well. She lost her job at the art museum. She does not shower. She is a hot mess.

When are you going to tell her the truth, or should I?

Sincerely your unwilling accomplice,

Jane”

Well, the letter certainly explained why Jane had stopped talking to me. She felt guilty and avoided speaking to me.

Henry on the other hand, had no excuse for his behavior, at least none that I could see. He spent his time alone in that studio of his. Day after day, painting on canvases, his landlord told me. They were piling up. Not selling, I take it? The landlord said to me, “You call that art! In my day, there were beautiful seascapes and mountain vistas to behold in artwork. When did they start calling random abstract lines art? A toddler could draw that.” She was old and out of touch with how mainstream the art world had gone. Art imitates different perspectives in life. Anything can be art in the world these days. Henry knew that, but at times, I had no clue of what he was saying with his artwork either.

I carefully sealed Jane’s letter to Henry back up. I walked over to his mailbox and stuck it in. I knew he had gone out of his studio that afternoon, because I had looked out my window as his car drove away. It wasn’t my fault that the mail carrier had left Henry’s letter in my mailbox. I know I should have felt guilty for looking at it, but I knew them both well. I wanted to know what they could be hiding from me. - Yes, I know that is no excuse for invading someone’s privacy.

I went back into my neighboring studio and sat in my recliner. It began to rain. I was still in my sweats and baggy t-shirt; I went about eating my pouch chips. Switching from channel to channel on the television, I settled on a boring documentary about: artwork from the experts hidden in the museums around the world, no longer on display. Of course, I thought, “why even write a show on the artwork, if no one is willing to share it now?” The end of the show answered my question: because fifty-three pieces of artwork had gone missing. “If you know of its whereabouts call this number,” the host said. I flipped the television off.

The phone rang. I nearly jumped out of my seat. “Am I speaking to a Mrs. Henry Houston?” a stranger’s voice said on the other end of the line. “You are talking to his ex,” I said. “Our divorce was finalized last week in court.” 

“Oh,” said the man, “Your ex did not say he was no longer married to you. He told me to contact you in case of his demise.”

“Okay, well then let’s have it,” I said without thinking. “What has he been up to?”

“Excuse me Ms., did you hear what I just said,” he spoke slowly. “Your ex-husband is dead.”

Then it hit me, the old man was really gone. I fell back into my chair. Secrets and all.

“Dead, you say. This really is a dreadful day.” I did not care to explain my answer.

The mysterious caller said, “Yes, it is a dreadful day. I have a letter for you. I will leave it in your mailbox outside your home.”

“Hey! How do you know where I live- “I exclaimed, but then the phone line went dead.

I heard the mailbox lid open and close, but when I looked out my window no one was there.

I lifted the letter out of my mailbox almost afraid to touch it. What news would it tell me? Did I want to know? My life seemed to have gotten progressively worse since Henry’s departure of character from the man I had known when I first dated him, married him deeply in love, to the stranger I no longer knew, which included the present moment.

I opened the second mysterious letter.

“Dear Megan,

 I watched you night after night sleep walking. You would go down the stairs and take out someone else’s artwork from the living room closet. Your painting was beautiful, but how could you destroy the works of so many of those renowned artists before you? I know you do not know what you are doing. I know you are not faking sleep walking. This is breaking my heart. I cannot idly stand by and watch.

I will scribble out all that you have done. I will protect you. I love you. I will divorce you and have Jane lie to you, but not tell her about your part in this scheme of mine. This is killing me, but I cannot let you go to jail, because you are unaware of your actions.

This letter will only come to you if something happens to me. I have hired a trusted friend to give it to you in case of my demise.

Love Always,

Henry.”

I then recalled the weird nightmares I had been having shortly before Henry divorced me. Bits and pieces of the truth came out: Rembrandt, Picasso, and other great experts, anger, my job loss due to not putting artwork in the correct areas of the museum, embarrassment, a boss yelling, and then brushstrokes. I thought I was just dreaming, but Henry knew better.

The love for my dead husband returned, but a sickening feeling hit my stomach. I suddenly had an urge to throw up and ran to the bathroom just in time. Pouring out the contents of my whole being into the toilet in front of me. How was I going to explain this all to Jane? It was time to talk to her.

I wiped off my mouth. I brushed my teeth. I showered and dressed and steadied myself to drive my car into town and tell Jane the truth, the one I had just learned.

As I opened the door to my studio, my best friend stood in front of me. Tears in her eyes, she said, “It is okay. The fiasco is over. We have recovered the artwork. The museum has dropped the charges they had been thinking about filing against you. You did not know what you were doing.” Jane’s police uniform stood glistening in the sunlight. I fell against her shoulder and cried for the first time in months.