schooled Ellen in both steely resolve and a Zen-like not-clinging-to-expectations. In a way, she encouraged that “don’t tell Mom” three-against-one setup when Mike was living with them. She loved their growing closeness; she wanted Mike to have allies his own age. And she had enough trust in the surprising force of their own relationship—hers and Mike’s—that she could allow the division between them.
Also, the guilt. She and Mike had an unspoken agreement about their closeness. Neither of them alluded to so many conversations—those late-night talks while watching TV, the things they told each other driving around Madison—when the others were around. One morning at breakfast, Jane had gone from bleary to animated over her mug of tea, reading an article out loud, the idiotic story of a criminal who “butt-dialed” 911 while robbing a liquor store. Ellen watched in amazement—and quickly followed suit—as Mike listened carefully, even asking a few laughing questions, as if the whole thing were new to him. When in fact the night before she and he had caught a segment about it on the late-night news, which even included audio of the recorded call. But he pretended, and so she did.
Maybe Mike was embarrassed, later, about how much time they’d spent together. Or maybe he didn’t want Wes and Jane to feel weird about it, to get territorial. So why did Ellen go along? Why did she always feel she was keeping something from Wes and Jane? Part of it was not wanting the inevitable taint of sex to cloud the air. She knew how it looked—a lonely older woman, a young attentive man. As a longtime teacher, Ellen had had her fair share of classroom crushes. She wasn’t unfamiliar with the ego boost and inward thrill that an attractive, interested student could provide. But it wasn’t that. Or, it was more than that.
Over the weeks he’d been gone, her letters to Mike had taken on an importance that was hard to shake. Ellen worked on them constantly, essays she composed and revised over the course of a feverish three or four or five days. She discarded the hysterical style of that first letter, in which she’d foolishly tried to convince him to go AWOL. (Why had she thought that would work on him?) What she was going for now: a lifeline made of literature, a rescue built of the only power Ellen believed in. The study’s once-organized bookshelves became messy and caved in, so many volumes pulled out, scanned, discarded. How to find the right text for a boy (a man, a man, she knew she was meant to think of him that way) who’d barely squeaked through a mediocre high school? How to find the words (others’ and her own) that would keep him tied to humanity, to himself? That would save his soul—for her aim in these letters was nothing less.
* * *
One night when he was on leave from base, about a week before he was flown to Al Asad, Mike came to dinner. It was just the two of them; Ellen made meat loaf with extra ketchup and bacon slices on top. Maybe he was nervous and couldn’t wait, or maybe he wanted to get it over with, but before they’d even finished eating, Mike took out a folder he’d brought.
“You’re not going to like this,” he said. “But procrastinating will just make it worse, so…”
The same phrases she’d used to get him to tackle overdue homework assignments!
Mike said, “So this is, like, my will.”
Ellen wiped her hands on her rough linen napkin and took the sealed envelope. “I’ll keep it in the file cabinet in my study, with the other papers.” Their guardianship forms; her own will; all the kids’ medical and identification files.
“A few other papers: copy of the deed to my car. I sold it last week, but just in case the guy turns out to be a douche. This one’s my credit card info, my bank account numbers.”
She accepted the pieces of paper one at a time as he handed them to her. In the kitchen above their round wood table, an overhead lamp draped them
Also, the guilt. She and Mike had an unspoken agreement about their closeness. Neither of them alluded to so many conversations—those late-night talks while watching TV, the things they told each other driving around Madison—when the others were around. One morning at breakfast, Jane had gone from bleary to animated over her mug of tea, reading an article out loud, the idiotic story of a criminal who “butt-dialed” 911 while robbing a liquor store. Ellen watched in amazement—and quickly followed suit—as Mike listened carefully, even asking a few laughing questions, as if the whole thing were new to him. When in fact the night before she and he had caught a segment about it on the late-night news, which even included audio of the recorded call. But he pretended, and so she did.
Maybe Mike was embarrassed, later, about how much time they’d spent together. Or maybe he didn’t want Wes and Jane to feel weird about it, to get territorial. So why did Ellen go along? Why did she always feel she was keeping something from Wes and Jane? Part of it was not wanting the inevitable taint of sex to cloud the air. She knew how it looked—a lonely older woman, a young attentive man. As a longtime teacher, Ellen had had her fair share of classroom crushes. She wasn’t unfamiliar with the ego boost and inward thrill that an attractive, interested student could provide. But it wasn’t that. Or, it was more than that.
Over the weeks he’d been gone, her letters to Mike had taken on an importance that was hard to shake. Ellen worked on them constantly, essays she composed and revised over the course of a feverish three or four or five days. She discarded the hysterical style of that first letter, in which she’d foolishly tried to convince him to go AWOL. (Why had she thought that would work on him?) What she was going for now: a lifeline made of literature, a rescue built of the only power Ellen believed in. The study’s once-organized bookshelves became messy and caved in, so many volumes pulled out, scanned, discarded. How to find the right text for a boy (a man, a man, she knew she was meant to think of him that way) who’d barely squeaked through a mediocre high school? How to find the words (others’ and her own) that would keep him tied to humanity, to himself? That would save his soul—for her aim in these letters was nothing less.
* * *
One night when he was on leave from base, about a week before he was flown to Al Asad, Mike came to dinner. It was just the two of them; Ellen made meat loaf with extra ketchup and bacon slices on top. Maybe he was nervous and couldn’t wait, or maybe he wanted to get it over with, but before they’d even finished eating, Mike took out a folder he’d brought.
“You’re not going to like this,” he said. “But procrastinating will just make it worse, so…”
The same phrases she’d used to get him to tackle overdue homework assignments!
Mike said, “So this is, like, my will.”
Ellen wiped her hands on her rough linen napkin and took the sealed envelope. “I’ll keep it in the file cabinet in my study, with the other papers.” Their guardianship forms; her own will; all the kids’ medical and identification files.
“A few other papers: copy of the deed to my car. I sold it last week, but just in case the guy turns out to be a douche. This one’s my credit card info, my bank account numbers.”
She accepted the pieces of paper one at a time as he handed them to her. In the kitchen above their round wood table, an overhead lamp draped them
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