Letters from Liza (Or A Stranger's Best Smile)

Content Warning: Strong language

In the white flurry of furious winter cold my boot met a singular patch of non-ice laden ground as if a steamed soul, now departed, cleared away a small island respite. The scrape of solid concrete at my toes gave me relief between the sore spot now formed in my mid ribs where my balance lay trying not to slip. For the first time in my trek I was able to glance anywhere but my feet and realized I had already arrived at the house.

If the mounds of drift weren’t heaping over them I’d recognize the dirty brick red of the shingles. The chalky scrapes along the eggshell siding marked our old skateboard practices. Mom would be pissed. Her flowers in the baby blue window frames hadn’t bloomed for years. The chill appropriately saw fit to bury them. Bury the whole place.

Departing from my island haven I carefully tiptoed up the drive and to the left to the stoop. The keys had jingled in my pocket the whole walk, letting me know they didn’t find their way out. A lot of things tended to do that to me. The metal pin of the lock clicked and I shoved the door open.

I allowed a few cold gusts in as I regained my composure, they carried some flakes in with them who’s structures immediately melted on the cherry wood floor. Inside I found myself greeted by the same two inhabitants of the abode: completed and uncompleted boxes. The sickly grey light outside beamed through the blinds and tried to light the space. Winter had a way of doing that; making things seem sucked of color. Probably wasn’t it’s fault anyway. At least this time.

As I stepped further in to put away my things and get to work, I was alarmed by the dry crunch produced under my left foot. . To my surprise when I looked down I saw nothing but the corner of a paper square peeking out from my boot. Lifting my leg I saw the object now as a cream envelope. In the heart of my boot-print, wide black pen strokes in the center spelt out a name. “Wallace”. 

It may as well have been a snake. That might have been better. I could hear its venomous hiss as I lowered to grab it. If only I had brought a flute. Alas, despite my brain, in my hands was only a letter. I decapitated the beast and began to explore the insides to find a single piece of thick stationary. The same scrawling tattooed on its skin as its guts.

Wallace, I am back in town. I have been for a few months but couldn’t help to send this until now. I understand if you can’t meet up. But please do.

-Liza

Below her name was a phone number. Liza. Sweet dew of green forests, eclipses on the horizons of towers, emberous linen sheets, a stranger’s best smile. 

Fuck her.

Despite my rage I found myself unable to crumple the paper, to toss it to the dunes outside, or even shred it to confetti. Instead I stomped to the living room, tossed the waste of a tree to the coffee table, and immediately to the kitchen where a bottle of wine awaited. I opened and poured with such fury I’m sure it’s brother beside him sweat knowing he was very soon next. 

The rest of the day seemed to have a fog roll over it until it found me sitting in the living room, the second bottle almost fully desecrated, and decided to part its clouds from my mind. Finishing a heavy gulp I eyed at the letter. It eyed back. The box next to the table caught my eyes next. Among the other garage sale material stuffed within was four empty picture frames I had procured from the master bedroom. Fully displayed in their current state on the sill. Maybe it was an artful commentary. He liked that shit. 

But once again the letter beckoned me. Her number within. If I could text or call her I could give her a-.

No.

Better yet, I could meet up with her tomorrow.

After the deed was done of an invite text to a local café, I put the phone and letter back down and decided it was time to let the booze blanket wash over me. Who knows if I would go. A drunken jest of ire. A ploy to waste her time. I meant it. But I probably didn’t.

* * * 

My knuckles rapped on the table. The leg shakes were either from the anxiety or the third cappuccino. Both. She was ten minutes late. A dull plink from the doorbell made me snap forward.

Her blonde hair was showing those gray ribbons. A reminder of your place in the race. I had found myself sprouting some a few years ago. Her pale skin was still supple and smooth except a wrinkle line around her neck. I’m sure it was moisturized daily. Not a single blight could be accepted in her life’s record; not Liza. Those deep green eyes of hers darted to and fro. Her upturned nose scrunched with the rest of her face into a nervous submission at my sight. She approached.

“Hey, Lucas? I didn’t expect to see you here too,” she croaked out. “Sorry for the lateness; my kid was having a fit,”.

I silently directed her to sit. My face was a bit too scowled as when I motioned she creeped to the chair like a threatened animal.

“Did Wallace ask you to come with?” she asked hesitantly.

“He didn’t ask me anything. He’s not here,” I responded curtly.

“I thought he was still in town,”.

“He was. He moved into the family home after Mom died,”.

“So why are you here and he isn’t?”.

“He’s dead, Liza,”.

It had looked like the weight of Atlas fell on her. One of those moments where words should demote to stutters and grunts but instead go one step further into whispered puffs of nothing. She wrung her hands with whatever sentiments twisted within her. She looked into my eyes again hoping to find it all a cruel joke. I couldn’t give it to her.

“W-when?” she asked, a tear fighting for existence at the edge of her eye.

“Three weeks ago. I read your letter and figured I should let you know you just missed him,”.

The javelin my words threw hit its heart shaped mark with precision.

“Really, Luke?” she spat out at me. That tear had pushed its way through along with a few others.

“I’m sorry, I thought you wouldn’t care. You didn’t before,”.

With that Liza rocketed to her feet and with shaky hands began collecting her purse. I stood up too.

“Fuck. I’m sorry…” I said, and she was kind enough to heed. “I’m sorry. Sit down. Please. I have something to give you anyway,”.

We both lowered back down slowly; that spot in my ribs panged again with pain. Guilt. She wiped the tears and hair away from her eyes.

“W-what happened?” Liza almost begged.

“Cancer. Didn’t last more than four months after his diagnosis,” I grumbled.

“It was that bad? He didn’t get treatment?”.

I felt the same stinging in my throat that welled up any time someone wanted to talk about Wallace the past months.

I shook my head. All I could manage.

We sat in silence for a moment, the lack of words or argument filled with the hiss of foaming milk.

“He and I kept up from time to time. Not much. It’s been years since…” she trailed off. “I wasn’t aware you two were back on speaking terms again,”.

“Yeah. We started again a few months before he got sick,”.

“I’m so sorry, Luke,” she said, her voice alarming both of us that the tears might make a reappearance.

“Why’d you leave?” I asked abruptly.

“What?”.

“Why’d you leave, Liza? You were both in love,” I pointed to her left hand, a silver band around that oh so coveted finger. “I see you got a replacement by the way. I mean do you know that till’ the day he died he never got over it?”.

“That’s not true,” she trembled out.

“What?” I retorted.

She raised her face, which for the moment before was facing her feet, and glared at me in defiance.

“That’s not true, Lucas. He and I talked. Talked about things you don’t know about”.

“He never remarried. Hell he barely dated at all after you poisoned him. You just up and left. No note, no goodbye. I mean he even touted your stories while he was in hospice for Chri-,”.

“I was nineteen. I was scared. I wanted something else,”.

“Well you got your new life and your pen pal and your goodbye note and I got a dead fucking brother!”.

I hadn’t even noticed I slammed my fist down onto the table until eyes all around me peered in worry at us; the wood top rattled my coffee mug. Relaxing fist back to hand our audience shuttered their gaze away from us. Liza gave me my moment, which by all accounts she didn’t owe me.

“Luke. I don’t owe you an explanation. I’m sorry you’re grieving, but I don’t. The way I left? Not my proudest moment. But it doesn’t change the fact that I did or that I wouldn’t have been happy if I didn’t,”.

“You could have made him happy. A short life deserves some of that,” my voice came off quaky, those tears were starting to form for me now.

“I don’t know what you guys talked about before he passed and I can’t change your mind but from what I know: he was,” her complexion then turned to one of curiosity. “What did you mean by ‘I got a goodbye note’?”.

Digging into my pocket I pulled out a thick envelope and slid it to her. The top of it looked mangled open by a predator.

“He wrote them when he was in hospice,”.

“It’s opened,” she questioned as she picked it up from the table.

I gave her a knowing look, she gave a disappointed one in trade.

“Don’t feel too bad about it. You got two notes in there for his trouble and a nice poem,” I soured.

“You didn’t get one?”.

I shook my head.

“Sweet dew of green forests, eclipses on the horizons of towers, emberous linen sheets, a stranger’s best smile,” she read the only line from the top page of the second note.

“Figured you’d know what it meant,” I responded as she flicked through the bundling of pages.

“Did you read all of these, Lucas?”.

“No. Just the poem. After that I... left it alone,”.

“There’s only one in here for you,”.

“Huh?”

She took out the two bundles and unfolded them on the table. The one with the poem and one with the top sheet displaying her name.

“Look,” she implored.

Hers she flipped over to reveal a blank sheet. And another. And another. All completely devoid of words. Then she moved onto the one with the poem. And at the top of the second paper, in Wallace’s handwriting, was my name; a scrawling novella of words underneath it.

“That doesn’t make sense, why would he give you nothing?” I asked bewildered.

Liza realized almost immediately and began crying, which morphed into laughing. I looked at her as if she was a crazed lunatic and yet the sobful guffaws still choked from her. When she had calmed down she folded up her ‘note’ and put it in her purse.

“What was that all about?” I inquired.

“I get it. I just… get it,” she said with a sad smirk.

“It still doesn’t make sense. Why would mine be in your envelope?”.

“Guess you’ll just have to read it Luke,”.

We became quiet again for a moment after I took my letter and pocketed it. She gave me a warm smile. Those ones you give people you may never see again. I found myself reciprocating.

“So, you got a kid huh?” I breathed out, giving her the first smile I’d had to give in months.

“Yeah. I do,” she breathed back with a smile herself.

* * *

The sun had gone down already when I found the courage, sitting in the empty dining room on the floor, to take my brother’s note out of my pocket. As I unfurled it I read the poem once more and then turned to the first page. Holding it up a swift flash dropped from between the short pages and landed in my lap. I looked down to find developed photos between my legs, three of them, however they all landed face down. I decided to take that as a sign from whatever psycho runs this place called the world and read the letter first.

Lucas

If you’re not reading this then you’re still a stubborn cunt. If you are reading this yet it’s because you’re angry little gremlin mind couldn’t stand taking a peek at Liza and I’s dirty laundry then you’re still a cunt but you’re getting better. But, and I hope mind you, if you’re reading this because you and/or Liza found my little trick then congrats: you’re still a cunt. But that’s because you’re the older brother and not anything to do with your disposition… much. 

I know you got angry the last time we saw each other before I died. You said to me ‘how could you still smile?’. Well brother you always did take the larger sum role of the frowner. I did with you for a bit too.

Anger. I know you’re angry right now when you probably didn’t get to be there for my passing. Angry I ‘lived alone, died alone’. You got angry at Dad when he left us. You got angry at the doctor’s when they couldn’t save Mom and I’m very sure it turned into hate when they couldn’t save me. And when Liza left and I found my peace in it all you got angry for me. And when that wasn’t enough you got angry at me. All your life, Luke; Angry.

That’s why I’ve left the pictures. I remember when you weren’t. I even remember when you forgot to be. Did you ever notice you did? I hope so.

You always thought I stayed alone because I was so damaged from Liza. And for a time there you were right. But as time went on I understood her and she me and I myself. I liked being with me. I found happiness in me. And people like you, despite your best efforts to have me not.

You’re getting this because you need it, Luke. Your fury won’t keep you. It won’t feed you or achieve your goals for you or make the world any less of what made you that way. And I think you make the world better.

I love you brother, and I know me dying is gonna fuck you up something good. Probably forever. But just remember that feeling so bad is the price you sometimes pay for caring. You have a lot of that in you. Love, I mean. Don’t forget that.

Find it again.

-Wallace

I quickly snatched up the photos from my lap before the streams of tears down my cheeks blotted and ruined them.

The first one was a picture of us as kids. Old film reel. It was a forest. No. A campsite. The old camera stock made the yellows of the sun bleed with greens and browns. A tent just beside a campfire. Wallace, a tyke at this point, sat on a log with that stupid grin that never went away. Me, not doing much better than tyke myself, had my arms wrapped around him. Mom, a blurry white streak in the photo was running to get into position before the camera snapped the shot. She didn’t make it. But I could still see her face. Her adoring grin. Her fading youth.

The second photo, better quality due to a time jump, was one just of me. I remembered this one. Wallace was behind the camera. I was a young man. He had come to visit me at college. We found our way onto the roof of some high parking complex at sunset. The sun’s golden rays slashed the tops of the buildings and projected onto me. Of all the parties or good professors I had, that night with him was the best college offered me.

The final one was from a modern phone. Crisp. Darker blacks. It was taken a week before he died in the hospital. He had asked a nurse to snap it. He laid in bed, those stiff sheets covering him like a burial shroud. He looked almost dead too. But the life in his eyes and his smile didn’t dim at all. I sat on a chair opposite him. Laid on his legs was a game of chess. I didn’t sprout a smile in this one, rather a devious chagrin. I remembered I had just visualized a three turn checkmate. He still won.

Three pictures. That’s all I got. That’s all the help I was gonna get from beyond the grave.

I cried the rest of that night. Those sore, chest jutting sobs type of crying. And most nights after for a good while. ‘Till this day I find myself crying sometimes about it. Crying, smiling, shaking, beaming, and yes sometimes when appropriate: steaming. I still haven’t filled that last empty frame from the boxes, but I don’t think I’m meant to.

And if I ever see Wallace again I hope to tell him I found it. Whatever it is that we human’s find in a stranger’s best smile.