The way he acted may have had something to do with the letters he was getting from up North. I never read them; he never told me what they said, but each time one came he’d get more distant. They all came in unmarked envelopes; they all had New York post marks. I got so I could recognize the typewriter, an elite with a broken “I.” Every time the “I” was punched, the typewriter would skip automatically, so that Willson was spelled w-i-space-l-l-s-o-n. I’d fetch the mail from the box and scan the fronts and I’d come to a letter addressed: “Mr. Davi d Wi llson”—and I’d know that whatever was inside would make David more unhappy, more unfriendly than he already was. It got so I’d take a letter from the box and see that typewriter and hope that one day I would meet the person who was using it and kill him with my bare hands. Well, of course that was just a daydream and nothing ever happened, but whoever was writing the letters, whoever David would sit up late trying to answer, whoever it was never came and I never saw him. Even when the letters stopped, it was too late. The damage had all been done.

The last letter was delivered one morning after David had left for the day. It was longer than any letter before it; I knew this because it came in a business envelope instead of a personal one like the others, and it seemed to weigh more. But it was the same person; I recognized the typewriter. I carried it up from the mailbox, up to our apartment, and thought for a long time about opening it. But I didn’t. I just sat on the bed for half the morning weighing it in my hands, feeling how heavy it was, and wondering whether or not, because it was so long, it would be even worse than the others before it. And then I decided if David wanted to tell me about it, he would, and if I could help him, I would, but if I couldn’t help him, I’d love him just the same. Then I put the letter on top of the dresser and left the room.