Free Letter to My Daughter by George Bishop

corridor, I ran into my roommate, Melissa, standing at the hallway telephone. She was holding the receiver, looking annoyed.
    “Okay, never mind, here she is,” she said into the phone. She thrust it at me. “Finally. He’s been calling every half hour.”
    I took the phone. “Tim?”
    “Laura? Where you been? Honey. I been trying to call you all night. I got … Where you been?” He sounded upset, or drunk, or both.
    “Nowhere,” I said. “I mean, a conference. A newspaper conference. With some people. What’s wrong? Are you okay?”
    “I’m leaving. Shipping out.”
    “You’re leaving? To where?”
    “Where do you think? Vietnam.”
    Vietnam? It seemed too soon. Hadn’t he just started training? What about the intelligence school and all that? The radio classes?
    But no, he was right on schedule. He’d been at basic training nine weeks, seventeen weeks at advanced. Only thing was, he told me, they weren’t giving him any leave time. His unit had special orders to ship out ASAP, direct from the base.
    “I don’t want to go. I miss you so much. Honey, honey. Where you been?”
    “Oh—I miss you, too. When do you have to go?”
    “Tomorrow. I went out and got something for you. I did it for you.”
    “What’d you do?”
    “It’s right … Ouch.” There was a clunk, like he’d dropped the phone. “Got it right here,” he resumed. “‘Laura.’ It’s all bloody and shit now. Not supposed to look at it.”
    “What?”
    “Tattoo.”
    “Oh, no. Oh, Tim. No.”
    “Yep. Got it right here. Inside my rifle arm. Every time I turn it up to shoot, I can see your name.”
    “What’d you go and do something like that for?”
    “For you! I did it for you. You don’t like it?”
    “You didn’t have to do that.”
    “But I love you. I love you, Laura. Do you love me?”
    “Oh, honey. Of course I do. You know I do.”
    “It’s permanent. Won’t ever come off. Won’t ever have to.”
    “Oh, Tim.”
    “I won’t ever forget you.”
    “I won’t ever forget you, either.”
    “Laura, Laura. You’re gonna wait for me come home?”
    “Of course I will.”
    “Say you’ll wait for me.”
    “I’ll wait for you.”
    A beeping noise sounded through the line. “Shit. I don’t have no more change. Laura!”
    “I’ll write you.”
    “Promise?”
    “I promise. Tim—!”
    And then there was silence: black silence, that in the moments as I gripped the phone seemed to grow deeper and deeper until it was black as the dark spaces between stars.

The carrot cake is done and sitting in the center of the table, waiting for you.
    I finally spoke to Missy DeSalle about an hour ago. It turns out she and her friends haven’t left for Florida yet; they’re going tomorrow morning. And yes, she says, you talked about joining them, but she hasn’t heard from you since yesterday. “Don’t worry, Laura, I’m sure Liz’ll be just fine,” Missy said before we hung up. “She probably just wants some time to herself. Be patient.”
    “When I want your advice, I’ll ask for it, you dumb little tramp,” I wanted to say, but held my tongue. I don’t trust that girl. I bet she knows more than she’s letting on. She sounds like an expert in making up stories for parents, thoughtlessly babbling lies as she fluffs her hair before going out for the night in that extravagant little Mercedes of hers. No wonder she’s so popular.
    I couldn’t sit still anymore, so I took a break from writing and went for a walk around the neighborhood. The local kids, delirious with the start of a whole week of spring vacation, were out playing tag in the street before dinnertime, running across yards and sidewalks, shouting and laughing, heedless of everything. I resented their joy. It seemed like an affront to all my worry. How could they run and shout like that when you’re missing? I bit my lip and walked on, shutting out the thought of an end too painful to allow.
    I turned my attention down to the ground. I began