stopper, creating a sharp, jagged edge, but I couldn’t throw it away. Damn Bill. Even when he’s not around, he’s hurting me.
I gingerly lift out the bottle and rummage more carefully through the trunk. And bingo. There, toward the bottom, is a small stack of thin blue paper, held together by a crumbling, stretched-out elastic band. Just seeing the long-forgotten aerograms that we once used for transAtlantic letters causes a nostalgic pang. I carefully unfold one. The paper is all but translucent and Barry’s writing is teeny-tiny, so he can fit all the stories he wants to tell me onto one prepaid self-folding sheet. I run back down the stairs to the first floor to get my reading glasses and rush back up. In the dim light, I sit cross-legged on the splintery attic floor, though why I didn’t bring the letters downstairs to a comfortable chair beats me. Nothing seems to be able to leave this attic.
In the first missive, Barry is at Heathrow Airport, waiting for his flight to India. He misses me passionately and I will always be his Venus. Next letter, he’s been in Agra for almost a week and describes the Taj Mahal:
“. . . the perfect symmetry, the ethereal luminescence, the sheer scale.
It was built as a monument to love, and I’d build no less for you.”
Wow, that’s nice. I could be the eighth Wonder of the World.
But by letters three and four, my pull isn’t quite so monumental. Now Barry’s aerograms are filled with stories about prayer processions, rock-cut shrines, and a temple whittled out of the side of a mountain. He’s made a pilgrimage to the Ganges to cleanse his soul in the holy waters, and he was just a little disappointed because some of the other pilgrims, joining him knee-deep in the river, were there to do their laundry. Barry also tells me about some great guru he’s thinking of finding. He doesn’t mention if he’s the one who inspired the Beatles or some lesser-known guy who takes on acolytes who haven’t gone platinum.
In the fifth letter, Barry has his journey planned. He’ll go by rickshaw to the edge of town and then take a goat-drawn cart as far as possible into the hills. After that, he’s planning on hiking for however long it takes to the guru’s mountain shrine.
And that’s where the letter trail ends.
I take off my glasses, misty-eyed at thinking of Barry, barely a year or two older than my Adam is now, so hopeful, so idealistic. Back then, Barry and I both thought we were wise and grown-up, incredibly knowledgeable about life. Little did we know how much we still had to learn.
Back all those years ago, I was heartbroken when Barry stopped writing. At first, all I could think about was how hurt I felt, but then I started to worry about him. Did something dreadful occur in the mysterious hills of India? Did Barry run out of water on his hike? Was he abducted by marauding tribesmen? Could he have fallen off the goat cart? I thought about it often, but I never knew.
Ten days later, Joe Diddly has the answer.
Chapter SIX
NOBODY HAS ANSWERED the phone at this place in the three weeks I’ve been calling, but Joe Diddly swore this was Barry Stern’s current address. As long as Arthur needed me in San Francisco to take a deposition, I figured I might as well drive the extra seventy miles to the old Carmelite monastery. After my scenic trip through the hills, I pull up and see a sign for “Heavenly Spirit Retreat Center.” I must be here. Either that, or I’ve died and Saint Peter’s given the nod and passed me on through.
As I step out of the car into the bright sunshine, I smooth the skirt of the navy blue suit I’m still wearing from my morning in court. Now I wish I’d changed in the bathroom of the 7-Eleven where I stopped to pick up lunch—a box of Pringles, a bag of Doritos, and a greasy hot dog with everything on it. I’m sorry about those onions now, too.
I’ve already called Arthur to say that the deposition I took in the Tyler case wasn’t
I gingerly lift out the bottle and rummage more carefully through the trunk. And bingo. There, toward the bottom, is a small stack of thin blue paper, held together by a crumbling, stretched-out elastic band. Just seeing the long-forgotten aerograms that we once used for transAtlantic letters causes a nostalgic pang. I carefully unfold one. The paper is all but translucent and Barry’s writing is teeny-tiny, so he can fit all the stories he wants to tell me onto one prepaid self-folding sheet. I run back down the stairs to the first floor to get my reading glasses and rush back up. In the dim light, I sit cross-legged on the splintery attic floor, though why I didn’t bring the letters downstairs to a comfortable chair beats me. Nothing seems to be able to leave this attic.
In the first missive, Barry is at Heathrow Airport, waiting for his flight to India. He misses me passionately and I will always be his Venus. Next letter, he’s been in Agra for almost a week and describes the Taj Mahal:
“. . . the perfect symmetry, the ethereal luminescence, the sheer scale.
It was built as a monument to love, and I’d build no less for you.”
Wow, that’s nice. I could be the eighth Wonder of the World.
But by letters three and four, my pull isn’t quite so monumental. Now Barry’s aerograms are filled with stories about prayer processions, rock-cut shrines, and a temple whittled out of the side of a mountain. He’s made a pilgrimage to the Ganges to cleanse his soul in the holy waters, and he was just a little disappointed because some of the other pilgrims, joining him knee-deep in the river, were there to do their laundry. Barry also tells me about some great guru he’s thinking of finding. He doesn’t mention if he’s the one who inspired the Beatles or some lesser-known guy who takes on acolytes who haven’t gone platinum.
In the fifth letter, Barry has his journey planned. He’ll go by rickshaw to the edge of town and then take a goat-drawn cart as far as possible into the hills. After that, he’s planning on hiking for however long it takes to the guru’s mountain shrine.
And that’s where the letter trail ends.
I take off my glasses, misty-eyed at thinking of Barry, barely a year or two older than my Adam is now, so hopeful, so idealistic. Back then, Barry and I both thought we were wise and grown-up, incredibly knowledgeable about life. Little did we know how much we still had to learn.
Back all those years ago, I was heartbroken when Barry stopped writing. At first, all I could think about was how hurt I felt, but then I started to worry about him. Did something dreadful occur in the mysterious hills of India? Did Barry run out of water on his hike? Was he abducted by marauding tribesmen? Could he have fallen off the goat cart? I thought about it often, but I never knew.
Ten days later, Joe Diddly has the answer.
Chapter SIX
NOBODY HAS ANSWERED the phone at this place in the three weeks I’ve been calling, but Joe Diddly swore this was Barry Stern’s current address. As long as Arthur needed me in San Francisco to take a deposition, I figured I might as well drive the extra seventy miles to the old Carmelite monastery. After my scenic trip through the hills, I pull up and see a sign for “Heavenly Spirit Retreat Center.” I must be here. Either that, or I’ve died and Saint Peter’s given the nod and passed me on through.
As I step out of the car into the bright sunshine, I smooth the skirt of the navy blue suit I’m still wearing from my morning in court. Now I wish I’d changed in the bathroom of the 7-Eleven where I stopped to pick up lunch—a box of Pringles, a bag of Doritos, and a greasy hot dog with everything on it. I’m sorry about those onions now, too.
I’ve already called Arthur to say that the deposition I took in the Tyler case wasn’t
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