The Miracle Letters of T. Rimberg (7 page)

Day Five:
Transcript 2

As soon as the decision was made. I made the decision to go find Dad in Belgium and it was like opening the front door to a blizzard. These dreams. There was Chelsea with her black hair all night long in that apartment . . . It all came blowing in. Not Chelsea's hair . . . Julia, too. Julia Hilfgott and Chelsea and rolling tanks, panzers I guess, and marching soldiers and all this furniture all over, which the little dream girl would smash . . . and the girl would chase me, crying out . . . and crying children outside and burning furnaces and smokestacks, and I was making love, or touching Chelsea . . . and my dad standing at the window . . .

Yes, I saw real objects. I saw real things in dreams. European furniture. Specific furniture. The little dream girl would sit in this chair in the corner eyeballing me . . . it was this chair made from a—a needlepoint. Like a medieval tapestry. Lady and the Unicorn . . .

You know it? How would you know that chair?

Oh, the tapestry. It's famous. Yes, that one.

The Unicorn symbolizes Christ's love? Are you kidding me?

The Lady is who?

These were Jews. You think they had some kind of Virgin Mary chair? That's a little parochial of you. I mean . . .? Jews for Jesus in Europe in 1942?

Wait . . . Wait . . . I think you're putting your own spin . . . Listen, Barry. Don't try to use me to prove a point. You can't make this point out of my story.

Fine.

The chair was real. I saw it later. In an Indian's house.

Indian from India, yes. In Antwerp.

We had to go to Europe.

I just did know. We had to go to Europe.

What am I doing here? I was half dead when we started talking, Barry, and now I'm afraid you're going to put me in some Jesus story. What am I doing here?

Why should I trust you?

Letter 18
September 14, 2004

Dear Cranberry,

I'm not going to call you Nick Kelly. You are a liar, but I will continue to hold up my end of the ruse. I will still call you Cranberry. But you should know: You've completely broken my trust.

Don't lie anymore, or I will throw you in the ocean. When my father left, I felt lost and hopeless, too, but I did not turn into a big fat whining liar.

I will throw you in the ocean, Cranberry. Do you understand me?

T.

Day Five:
Transcript 3

Preparations for Europe were made difficult because of Cranberry.

Of course I forgave him.

I trust Cranberry now. Of course.

I had no choice but to put my faith in the little jackass. There was no one else, Barry.

He did come through for me. I got lucky.

Not only did he lie, he acted like a brat. Before we left he refused to do anything. He wouldn't run errands. He wouldn't make phone calls. We had a contract. But he didn't want to go to Europe, didn't want to support me in my . . . situation, which was in breach of our contract. So finally I told him he could leave. But he didn't want to leave.

Poor kid. He had a lot of . . .

Nobody likes to get caught lying. He was afraid.

What lies? “My mom is a crack addict! Crack whore!” He said stuff like that all the time, which was partly why I felt the need to protect him. “Poor vulnerable kid. So smart for having grown up in such dire straits.”

It didn't make sense that his crack whore mother kicked him out and kept his CDs. Why would she care if he was looking after a . . . another drug addict? I didn't have the best handle on what was happening. He lied and I believed him.

He claimed to have a passport, but would never get it, and the date of our departure was creeping up. It came down to this: I had to get his passport number to complete the purchase of the tickets. I'd already ordered them on the Internet, and I needed to plug his number into the computer.

Right. Why would the poor kid of a crack whore have a passport? Liar.

One afternoon I just lost my mind and screamed at him, and he cried and looked like he wanted to hit me, all red in the face with the new purple hair, and he dove into the couch and kicked the floor. A temper tantrum, like a whiny little . . . teenage cartoon character. So I told him I was going to take a drive in the car and he'd better get in with me, get in the car and direct me to his house or wherever he had his passport, or he'd better have cleared out of my place by the time I got back. He got in the car, sobbed the whole way, glared at me, but took me to his house in St. Paul.

A huge house. Summit Avenue.

I would love to know what percentage of the punk kids you see out on the street are actually wealthy. “I can go be as weird as I want to be because my mom won't let me starve if it really comes down to it.”

No. His name is not Cranberry. His name is Nick Kelly.

He came back to the car, still crying, passport in his hand. I asked to look at it, saw his head in the picture, pre-mohawk, pre-punk, a preppie-looking Cranberry. He tried to tell me that the picture wasn't him and it wasn't his passport, that this passport belonged to the brother of a girl he once “did it” with. God. I'd already purchased a ticket for somebody named Cranberry, who is obviously fictional, and it's a nontransferable ticket, so I have to pay for a new one for Nick Kelly, and . . . I wasn't nice. I called Cranberry names. And I regret that . . . Cranberry is a good kid. His parents divorced when he was little and . . . This trip was, you know, amazing . . . I mean . . . Cranberry just needed to be fearless.

He wasn't fearless, but he faced his fear. He went.

I have a great deal of faith in him now. Yes.

Section ll

Western Europe

Journal Entry,
September 15, 2004

You convinced yourself that love is gigantic, that love is everything, is to be pursued without regard for family or responsibility or anything, because it's so huge, so critical for humankind. Because, without it we are mere donkeys humping donkeys to produce another generation of jackasses. Love is huge, you decided. And it cannot be denied. Love is God. That's what you thought.

God loves David more and David loves no one.

And Chelsea. Shit. Love?

What were you thinking?

Day Six:
Transcript 1

People are
camping
at the crash site? That's very odd.

What do you think they'll see there?

Lights. You mean, what, streetlights?

They're pilgrims? Like buckle-hat Pilgrims? Are there Indians, too? Thankful feasts of turkey and squash?

I'm kidding. I am . . .

I am not laughing at them, Barry. No. Listen, I—I'm really not laughing. I have no grounds to . . . I just wonder if these people . . . if they were sitting here talking to me . . . would they think
me
capable of . . . I mean, I'm lucky in that I don't die very easily. But that's the only remarkable . . .

They're there for God, not for me. That's why you're here, too. For God.

Thanks. That's nice of you to say. I woke up worried you don't like me.

Because I told you I don't trust you.

How about let's get going? That would make me happy. Let's talk Europe.

Yes. I had the dreams every night at that point. Always. Unrelenting war.

During the days? I thought . . . well, I thought a lot about Dad . . . stuff we did when I was a kid. I also thought about the first time I went to Europe. Nineteen ninety. I was twenty-one.

I wasn't there for very long. Ten days only. Ten days completely upset my sense of self. Molly was the closest thing I had to home, sort of . . . most stable thing when I was a teenager.

I wrote her on the plane, yes.

Letter 19
September 16–17, 2004
Molly (née Fitzpatrick)
Presumably on Some Street
Likely in Chicago, Illinois

Dear Molly Fitzpatrick,

Where did you go? Why? Did you leave because you wanted something different than me in a larger sense, e.g., some young Irish guy, or did my actions that day prompt you to go? Good questions, don't you think? Perhaps I should have asked them fourteen years ago.

Well, I wouldn't be writing you, Molly Fitzpatrick (or whatever your married name is if you're married), except there were some signs I couldn't ignore—must've been the god of numbers (picture Charlton Heston) at work. The plane I just took from Minneapolis to Detroit was Northwest flight 616. Now I'm flying from Detroit to Amsterdam via KLM flight 1904 (yes, I'm in flight right now). If you put the flight numbers together—6161904—you get an important date: June 16, 1904. That's the day on which James Joyce's masterpiece
Ulysses
took place! I mean, remarkable, don't you think? How bizarre! And that date reminded me of you. I just had to write.

Oh, you probably don't get it. You're probably thinking: “Why does that date have any significance? What does James Joyce have to do with me?” Maybe you find this a little spooky—getting a letter from a boyfriend with whom you broke up (broke up—hmm . . . nothing official, was there? how about “from whom you disappeared?”) fourteen years ago . . . am I right? Spooked?

Well, Molly, I think you should think twice before crumpling up this letter and tossing it aside as detritus from your past or the product of an unkempt mind (though perhaps it is—to be completely honest with you, I've killed myself since writing it). For the two of us, there's great significance to the date June 16, 1904. If there had never been a
Ulysses,
we might be together now, in the perfect marriage, perhaps. You know I always liked you. Don't you ever wonder, “What if?”

I'm sorry. I'm going to put words in your mouth.

“What if I didn't disappear?” says Molly Fitzpatrick.

It was June 15, 1990. We were between our sophomore and junior years of college. Really it's amazing we were still dating. What couple starts seeing one another during their junior year of high school, heads off to separate colleges in different states upon graduation, and keeps on trucking, keeps on keepin' on, keeps on being a couple? Sure, we had superb “see-you-after-not-seeing-you-for-three-months” sex. I mean the sex was short in duration (sorry), but it was fantastically energetic, right? And we were still dating.

And I was so dedicated to you, Molly. I was a damn hind-wagging Irish setter (not that I'm Irish—that's your gig) following you around with sad eyes, sniffing after you. And you liked having me around, apparently, which was enough to make you everything to me, absolutely everything. You slept with me (“In the biblical sense!” cries Charlton Heston) but kept an emotional distance, and that combination, I think, caused me to ache knees, hips, and elbows for you. Sometimes you'd give me moments of yourself, and you would call me (or not) late at night, in my dorm room, me waiting for you to call because you never picked up when I called. Oh God! I ached for you, but of course I couldn't trust you. Why wouldn't you pick up when I called?

That's right, Molly baby. I couldn't trust you; I couldn't believe you attended Notre Dame University without falling in love with some young Kennedy or having nasty one-night sex with some young O'Neil. I couldn't believe you wouldn't leave me. (You did leave me.) But you said on the phone when you did call: “I won't cheat. Stop it, T. I won't leave you.” Still, my suspicious heart suspected you. And there we were in Dublin on June 15, 1990, sitting in a pub, on the goddamned Irish vacation we'd talked about since high school, drinking fat Guinness beers like we said we would, and you were morose, distant, sighing. Man!

“What's going on, Mol?” I asked.

“Nothing,” you said. “Just tired from the flight.”

“You don't seem happy,” I said. “Aren't you happy? We're finally here. You get to show me the whole Fitzpatrick gig.”

“I'm just tired, T.”

“I was on the same flight. I've had the same schedule. I slept less than you. You were distant before we left, too.”

“Jesus Christ,” you hissed, attracting the attention of the old Irish men hunched over the dark-wood bar. “Can you leave me alone for one second? Have you ever heard of jet lag?”

I lifted my Guinness and swallowed big, five times, emptying the contents of the pint. My eyes watered, my throat stung. I looked at you; your dark eyes, Molly, and I saw nothing, no indication of your inner state—no love, no betrayal either—just flat dark disc eyes. And I needed something, some indication. So I threw it out there: “You don't love me anymore, do you? You're seeing some goddamn rich Kennedy son-of-a-bitch—”

“You're going to ruin this trip, too,” you spat. “You are so ridiculously paranoid. You need professional help.”

What did you mean by “ruin this trip, too”? What other trip had I ruined, Molly? We never really went on trips before. This is of some importance. I'm trying to sort things out before I'm gone (too late).

And we were yelling drunk, screaming drunk, making a big scene by the end of the night. Bar man said, “Get out of here,” as we shouted at each other (“You are such a prick/bitch!” etc.). We kept screaming at each other in the street, people in the street screaming at us to be quiet. We hissed at each other going up the stairs in the bed and breakfast, other guests poking their heads from behind heavy wooden doors (“Shhh . . .”). We spat at each other in the bedroom (which we'd booked as T. and Molly Rimberg, to avoid any Catholic discomfort, to seem married, which broke my heart). And you passed out while I shouted at you and I barely slept, drunken sobbing the entire night. You slept fine, which still makes me angry.

Remembering that night, June 15, 1990, it seems impossible I liked you. There were good times, weren't there? Why was the fact you were Irish so important to me?

Holy shit, I'm uncomfortable on this airplane. Two Dutch guys are sitting in the seats next to me. They are so freaking tall, Molly, such Long Tall Dutchmen. In fact I'd say there are thirteen feet of Dutchman between me and the aisle. This complicates matters, matters being I have to take a whiz. What do you think? Is it wrong to pee into a cup on a plane next to two jolly giants? (They're laughing and laughing and laughing.)

According to the television screen hanging from the ceiling above me (which shows a map of our progress), we are about to leave North America behind. I can't see Minnesota on the map anymore (nor Wisconsin, where we grew up). The Midwest has disappeared! Good. Some home. No home to me. The great North Atlantic, colored royal blue in this televised facsimile, lies ahead. I'll let you know when I can see Ireland. Hey hey! The dinner cart is coming!

The smell of stale food is in the air. People are falling asleep. The movie
Die Another Day
plays on the screen in front of me, no map anymore. The Dutch guys are asleep. The son-of-a-bitch next to me has his feet draped across my lower legs. How can these Dutch stay sleeping through so many blinding movie explosions? I know how. The Dutch are comfortable on this plane taking them back to their families, comfortable on KLM, their airline, with their stewardesses, who are tall and beautiful and smile sweetly at the other Dutch people, and I suppose I will Die Another Day as will you, Molly, unless you're dead already. I don't know for certain you're alive. Here are the odds, though, if you're playing the odds . . . odds say I will die before you do.

I wish
Die Another Day
weren't on TV and I could keep track of our motion on the map. I really want to see Ireland on the horizon.

Okay! On June 16, 1990, you—I'll call you Mrs. Rimberg, because that's who you were supposed to be in that B&B (God, Molly Rimberg doesn't ring like Molly Fitzpatrick does it? Never mind. I'll call you Molly Fitzpatrick)—woke before I did. From the bed I watched you take off your pajamas. I watched you go to shower. I watched you come out of the bathroom, a light green towel wrapped around your head, and I was dying to make love to you (it wouldn't have taken long), but was so hurt, you know? Throughout our drunkenness and baroque emotion the night before, I'd done serious accounting and knew with utter certainty that when I'd accused you of sleeping with someone else (“You are fucking around on me!”) or falling in love with someone else (“You can't live without an Irish husband, can you?!”), you'd done nothing but call me names (“Get off it, you psycho freak!”) and yell and scream. You did not deny my accusations. So what was I to think? Ow . . . I'm hurting now just remembering!

You seemed disinclined to make love to me anyway, didn't want to like I did. (I would right now—I'm free to—my wife divorced me—too bad I'll be dead when you get this, huh?) But you weren't unpleasant, either, when you finally spoke.

I pretended sleep in that big feather bed as you motored around, water and shampoo smells trailing you, putting on makeup, drying your hair, filling the air with sweet berry lotion. Morning sun flooded the room, making the white curtains burst white. And finally, you leaned over me, already dressed, I'd watched you dress, all that sweetness seeping into my nose and eyes, and whispered in my ear, “T. I'm going down for breakfast. We're meeting Tim Boylen at ten. You should think about moving . . . I'm sorry about last night . . . I'm—”

“I'm not meeting fucking Tim Boylen!” I shouted, eyes no longer pretending sleep, eyes popping out of my skull, veins inflating in my forehead.

“Fine,” you glared. “Do whatever you want.” You grabbed your day bag and walked out of the room, slamming the wooden door as best you could. And you were gone.

I burst into tears before the door latched shut.

Tim Boylen . . . Molly . . . Oh . . .
I sobbed for ten minutes straight, tears rolling down my cheeks, soaking into the feather pillows and feather bed. (Makes me suspect the cleanliness of B&Bs—all those tears, all that moisture-receptive material—seems like a breeding ground for disease.) You knew Tim from Notre Dame, of course, a real black-blooded Irish boy, and holy shit was I shaken. I wrapped your light green towel around my head and breathed you.

It took some time (snotty and tear-soaked), but eventually I couldn't stomach the passive stance I'd taken. I had to move: the pain and suffering and heartsickness and puppy love and adult hopes and all that sex I feared I'd never have again, it all swirled, a cyclone, lifting me from my wet, white feather cocoon, popping me into the air, wing-ed and beautiful—I would meet Tim Boylen with you! “I can make this right!” I peeled off the towel and hurtled out of bed in my boxer shorts and ran out of the room and down the hall and down the stairs and into the dining room, four tables of laughing tourists suddenly silent as a nearly naked T. flew into their midst.

You weren't there.

I begged the patrons' pardon, then ran to find the proprietor, and she told me you'd left without eating breakfast, but had left a note for me, presumably letting me know where you wanted to meet. She asked me to return to my room before reading the note. “You're . . .not quite dressed, are you?” she said, sweat beading on her brow.

“No. Sorry.” I smiled, and I did smile sincerely. I felt great relief. Of course you wouldn't leave me behind without a plan to get me to you.

I walked back to the room, smiling warmly at the horrified guests plastered against the walls as I passed them. “It's okay,” I told them. “She left me a note.” Only a Japanese gentleman in a straw hat and woolen blazer smiled back at me, seemed to nod his agreement to what I said.

But he was wrong to agree, totally wrong, Molly, for here's what you wrote. Something like this:

I think it would be best if we spent the day apart. You really need to calm down. You're making me miserable and I'm afraid you'll embarrass me in front of Tim Boylen. His father owns a newspaper, T. I could get an internship from him next summer. Having you around right now is too risky. I really don't have a thing for Tim Boylen, so don't think this is about me spending time with him alone; it isn't. I really do love you, T. Let's meet back here for drinks tonight and start our vacation over. Okay? I've dreamed for two years of being here with you. Let's get it right.—Love, M.

What did you mean you didn't really have a thing for Tim Boylen? What were the implications there? Oh, I read between the lines, Molly. Did you sort of have a thing for him? Were there others you did, in fact, have a thing for? I sopped the feather bed with tears again for a while, then decided I would pursue my own bliss, my own destiny, perhaps my own Boylen-esque lover, and I jumped up, threw on my hippest, grungy, lowdown clothes (which you hated), and bolted from the room, my face still red from weeping.

And here's where the date comes into play, Molly: The Japanese man in the hat and worn woolen blazer was waiting for me in the hall.

“Stephen Dedalus, I presume,” he said.

“What?” I asked.

You know what? These Dutch stewardesses don't like me. They keep looking down their noses at me, smiling but not really. God they're beautiful. They're willow trees: tall, strong-trunked, arching arms set gentle against the artificial airplane breeze. No one could ever mistake me for Dutch. They are monumental. What a super-looking crew (a crew, much like the Rockettes, I could never join).

There! The blondest stewardess! She distinctly looked down her nose at me as she passed the row! God, it's not hard to see why Calvinists did so well in Holland. These would-be bombshells are the physical embodiment of the Calvinist reformation: certain of their salvation, suspicious of others, and utterly prim. How did these people create Amsterdam with all the sex and drugs? I think I'm going to smoke hash when I get there, Molly. No sex, though. I want to be true to my wife, though she divorced me, and true to my girlfriend, though she left me.

According to the TV screens, now back to mapping our progress, we're popping the cork on the upside-down bottle Greenland. And I can see it . . . Ireland on the horizon.

June 16, 1904, was, in fact, James Joyce's last day in Dublin in real life. He, a young twenty-something, left for the Continent after that. Never lived in Dublin again. But he dwelled on it— not in a sentimental way.
Ulysses
is fiction but with a lot of fact in it. There's an older Jewish gentleman, Leopold Bloom (Jewish, sort of like me, right? I'm a semi-Semite), and he has a cheating wife, whom he loves entirely, Molly Bloom (Molly!), and then there's Stephen Dedalus (representative of Joyce himself), a young artsy-fart, dirty, unhappy, brilliant, hurtling without solution to the dissolution of his own parochial Irishness (as we hurtled to the end of Ireland as we knew it). Symbolically Dedalus and Bloom become one, or sort of, and, remember what the Japanese gentleman called me? Stephen Dedalus! Of course, I hadn't read the book.