When You Went Silent

My Dearest Grace,

It's been so long I can barely remember your face. Isn't that pathetic? This old man's mind can't even remember how the window to his heart looked when it left. Thank God I still have the pictures of you.

I miss you dear, you have no idea how much. Your memory sticks with me like tits on a bull or flies on shit or whatever you prefer. You see? I can't even control my crudeness without you. Can't do much of anything, come to think of it.

Remember when we met? The year doesn't matter, but the music does. I could never understand these people who know what happened in a certain year. The music is how I remember things. Benny Goodman. That's who I remember most when I think of our first dates. It might not even be right, but in my mind it is. Maybe we listened to Sinatra. I guess it don't matter none.

Well, you were just about the prettiest darn thing I ever did see. You had a red ribbon in that dark hair of yours. The dance hall lights just shone and shone like starlight off your glasses. You hated them, I know. But I thought they were beautiful. It was like the brightness of your eyes was shooting out of the pieces of glass at the end of your nose. If you tilted your head a certain way, I could see the light fixtures above the dance hall.

And your hair, oh Lord, long dark brown. You were perfect, and even as you slouched, ringing your hands in front of you, I knew that I was going to spend the rest of my life with you. Well, the rest of your life, I guess.

I don't want to talk about how I tripped and fell right down at your feet. But I will tell you that I saw right up that blue dress of yours, and there's a reason I chose to stay safely on the ground. I don't think I ever told you that. You surely would get a kick out of it.

It's amazing that I had the nerve to even go over to you at that dance in Detroit. I was never one with the ladies. All I knew was that I had to talk to you. So we talked all that night, neither of us really noticing the problems that the other had. You surely thought that your condition was practically stamped on your forehead. And I truly did believe that my limp was preventing me from life. And that all the people who I met immediately assumed something. That I was weak, mostly. Ah, well, the point is we were the only ones who obsessed over that shit- I'm sorry, Gracie, those "problems."

I never noticed that night, really. Well one thing stood out. "Do you want any punch?" I asked.

"I want your blood, I mean - Yes, that would be nice." Your eyes were suddenly huge as a cornered rabbit's, and I saw tears welling up through your thick glasses.

"Ok, I won't spit in it, I promise," I said.

I ignored the weird thing you had just said, but I don't know why. Maybe it was because I finally opened that door to the true Grace, and I didn't want you to retreat to the slumping, shy person again. Or maybe it was because you looked so scared. You were so terrified that I was going to respond poorly. So I ignored it, and when I limped back with the punch, you were better.

"Purple whore. Purple whore." How could I forget that? It was after you called my mother a purple whore at Thanksgiving that you finally told me about the "problem" you had. I have to tell you Gracie, I'm laughing so hard I'm crying right now. My condescending, pretentious mother, barraging you with personal and intruding questions. It wasn't until she asked you if you really could wear a white wedding dress when the time came, that "Purple whore, purple whore" spewed out of your lovely lips. She bought that dress at Derman's downtown, ironed it and ironed it and tried it on every other day. She loved it, probably more than me, but certainly not more than her Caddy, in a similar shade of purple puke. Anyway, I could tell you were distressed at the non-stop questions, but your brow was unfurrowed and your color came back when you called my mother a purple whore.

The room became silent. The peas Bill had been stuffing into his mouth fell to the tablecloth. With a smile, I stood up, grabbed your hand and we ran to my car. That was probably the best night of my life. I rented that seedy motel room, and we talked for two hours. You told me everything. Your quiet voice was barely audible over the people banging in the next room, but you told me. And I remember every word.

"I have a problem. If I try to hold down my need to twitch and speak, it just comes out worse. The feelings well up in me and I have to release them, just like other people but mine come out absurd. Like that night at the dance, you were so sweet and so cute, I kept thinking how I just wanted to eat you up. Like I could just, you know, inhale you. I fell in love with you that fast. No one was ever that nice to me. Anyway, I knew I was going to have a scene, so I tried to hold it down, and I ended up telling you I wanted your blood. I guess it could have been worse. But your mom, Roger, I'm so sorry."

"It's ok. She is a purple whore," and with that, we started laughing again.

We laughed until we couldn't breathe, and the horny people next door told us to shut up, and we did. I looked into your eyes and I saw love. I saw love itself. I don't know how to describe it, but that's what I saw. Wordlessly, I took off your glasses. You gently stroked my face. We kissed and kissed. Our tongues touching, our mouths sucking. Hands leaving, and wandering, unbuttoning, squeezing, making us naked as fast as we could be. My hand wandered in between your legs, and the look on your face was enough to keep it there. Yours ended up on the bulge between my own legs, and just like on that dance floor in Detroit, it was difficult to hide. Soon, I was in you. Our eyes never left each other's as we made love. And we did, many times that night. I woke you up three times, and you woke me up once as well, wanting more. Wanting each other's blood and skin and warmth once more.

We were so young back then, but we had carried crosses all our lives. It wasn't until we found each other that we could put them down. I didn't care if you called the Queen of England a red-coated whore, and you didn't care that I was a little gimpy. Some people, they fall in and out of love. Not us, right, honey? That was 50 years ago. You died on a Sunday, five years ago today. I kind of wish we had some kids, now that I'm alone. But when you were here, all we needed was each other. I'm 68 years old now. Don't do much of anything. I limp to the grocery store about every day, I guess. The people that work there roll their eyes. They don't think I see it, but I do. They mouth to each other "Oh, God," and then shout "Hi! How are you today!?" as if I couldn't hear their bullshit greeting even if I tried. Live on welfare, mostly. I have a little apartment in the Juckson neighborhood. Not great, but it's ok. I keep it clean. But I sure do miss you Grace. Don't know how I'm gonna make it too much longer without you. I'll leave this letter in the box of your things, I guess. I hope I see you soon.

Love always,
Roger