Free The Letters by Luanne Rice, Joseph Monninger Page A

woman on a bicycle I had fallen for the instant I saw her. You were free again. You lived apart from me, and all the pain of Paul’s death, all the pain we had caused each other—suddenly it disappeared for a flicker and I saw you. Just you. And you turned a little, and your hair swung out, and your shoulder tucked in, and I knew that gesture, knew it so deep in my tissue that I could hardly breathe. It was not a married woman making that gesture, not a wife, giving herself to Daniel. It was you, the core of you, and I hated you for it, and I forgave you for it even as I despised what I saw.
    Then we had our big scene, didn’t we? The loud voices, the angry words. Another cliché. It is so clear now that Daniel was merely a symptom of the trouble between us, not a true threat, but my male ego had been punctured. It had. I saw, too, that for a moment at least, you wanted him. I’ve always loved your hunger, and to see it turned for an instant on another man nearly derailed me once and for all. So we fought. Made a scene. Then, of course, I had carte blanche to take any assignment I liked. I puffed up with righteous indignation, though I would have put it some other way to myself. Time apart. Breathing space. All those lousy terms we use to protect ourselves. Daniel was fuel. That’s all.
    If he’s back with his wife, hooray for him. Too bad for her. I am not going to promise I will ever put Daniel out of my thoughts. He will stay there, a little grit of sand. Sorry, but he will. But I can live with the discomfort as long as I know he is out of your life.
    I’ve gone on too long. Enough for now. I feel wrung out and tired as I have seldom been tired. Martha said we might run into a snowmobile crew or two somewhere in the next day, so if we do, I’ll ask them to carry this to the lodge and mail it. I am thinking of you right now, Hadley. The real you, the heart of you. Daniel never touched her, not my Hadley.
    Sam

         
    Hadley—
             
    Okay, to lighten up. A conversation you would enjoy, entirely off subject. Picture it late at night, dogs snoring, cold wind blowing, Martha flat on her back, me flat on my back, the hiss of the stove now and then. Cold in the tent, maybe 40, but warm in the sleeping bag. Kind of like a junior high sleep-out, only warped up by a factor of eighty. Martha’s voice is a little scratchy, like a kid talking through an oscillating fan.
     
Me: So were you ever married?
M: Once, but it didn’t take.
Me: How long?
M: Six months. He proposed to me at a Celtics game and they posted my response on the scoreboard. I thought it was incredibly romantic, but looking back it feels slightly insane. Why do Americans think public proposals are so charming?
Me: Did they put your picture on the scoreboard?
M: Yes. And the strange thing is, we got married because our pictures had been put up there. Doesn’t that beat all? We both knew we weren’t well matched, but we had done this incredibly public thing, broadcast to the entire Celtics audience around New England, and both our families saw it. He had called my mother and father and they had started up the whole phone chain. So when I said yes, and they flashed our picture on the video board, it was like we had signed a contract to marry or die.
Me: And you knew it wasn’t right?
M: We both knew it as we were doing it! (One of the few times I have heard Martha raise her voice. It made me laugh and the dogs raised their heads and looked around.) That’s what made it nutty. It was as if we had to walk to our execution while knowing we could stop it at any time if we simply dug our heels in. But we had been recorded at the Celtics game!
Me: You still a Celtics fan?
M: Hate them. (getting sleepy)
Me: That’s too bad.
M: What they should do, they should make couples who divorce after these big public proposals—they should have to come back to the Celtics game and admit they got divorced. You know, hold up the divorce decree so