A Brother's Gift

The day I got the letter about Luke was supposed to be a day for chores. To me, that word still suggests getting up on the farm at first light to milk cows and pitch hay and plow a few furrows. My own chores were of a somewhat lighter variety—loading the dishwasher, emptying the toaster crumb tray, and possibly ironing that camp blouse that must be just about to come back into style. It was a Saturday in October and as close to flawless as a day in Boston can get. The sun was out and the air mild, and I had opened every window to let the breeze flow through my small apartment. My cat Woody was in the window that overlooks the street and would be out from underfoot as long as I remembered not to open the refrigerator. When I clean, I start by filling several grocery bags with the packaging and paper that accumulate during the week on any flat surface. I’d spring for a wastebasket, but I’m trying to recycle for the next generation. As I stuffed a pile of third-class mail into one of my paper bags, it occurred to me that today’s mail had probably been delivered. It was just over two months to Christmas, so I probably had a stack of holiday catalogs which could be added without delay to my trash. I got my mailbox key and defeated my deadbolt with a matchbook cover so I wouldn’t have to carry my door keys. Security is us. I was right about the mail. It was more catalogs and entreaties for donations, with a few brown envelopes trying to look official and marked Open Immediately. Most of my important mail, including checks from my clients, goes to the office I maintain for my work as a private investigator. The only communications in this batch that weren’t instant junk were my telephone bill and a cream-colored envelope addressed to Ellen C. Prentice. The cream envelope had come to the right address, but I was still surprised to see my birth-certificate name on a piece of home mail. My friends all call me Nell, and I even have it on my business cards. My bank would never question a check made out to me as Nell Prentice. I looked at the return address. Hines and Fayerweather, PC, with an address in Portland, Maine. Who might they be? I put the letter on top of the slippery catalogs and took everything back upstairs. Woody was waiting right inside the door—I nudged him aside with my foot so he couldn’t make a break for freedom. He trotted behind me and supervised as I put the mail on the table for a quick sort. I was going to need another paper bag for all this junk. The envelope from Hines and Fayerweather was my only correspondence that had not been pre-sorted. I touched the envelope, and decided to wait a while before opening it. This is an old habit of mine which I suppose derives from having an essentially pessimistic nature. I got ginger ale out of the refrigerator (Woody did a quick dance of supplication, but I ignored him) and went into my living room to read the local paper, mailed to me for free. An orange card fell out of the paper—an appeal for me to start paying for my free subscription. I picked up the card and added it to the junk pile. Once I was settled with my ginger ale and my cat, I skimmed the paper quickly and got to the Personals, which I love. The illustration changes from season to season, but I’ve noticed it’s always a heterosexual couple, both of the same race. The photo for this month had them walking in some fallen leaves. The ads were the usual assortment, some depressingly familiar because they had been in for months. Among the desired attributes were such skills as dining and dancing. I’m above average at the former. No one was seeking a private investigator who read Herodotus in her idle hours and viewed antiquing (a noun metamorphosed into a gerund) as a fate worse than that suffered by Polyphemus when Odysseus gouges out his eye with a heated stick. I read every ad, wondering what woman would be so lacking in self esteem that she would respond to a guy who insisted on No Kids. I took a second look at the Real Estate ads. Woody had gone to sleep, purring softly, and I thought if I didn’t get up I might join him in a nap. I lifted him off my lap and set him on the sofa, where he crossed one leg over the other and fell immediately back to sleep, quite indifferent to whatever was waiting for me in my letter.