BEA MYERLY

Dear Mr. Welch,

There are no words

Dear Mr. Welch,

It has taken me most of the summer for me to realize the error of my

Dear Mr. Welch,

Voltaire was right when he wrote, “Regret is

Dear Mr. Welch,

According to my sophomore-year journal, you said the following while lecturing on reparation attempts made to Japanese Americans interred during World War II: “Sometimes saying sorry just isn’t enough.” I fear this may be one of those times. Still, I am very, very, very, very, very, very

Dear Mr. Welch,

I hoped that if I kept my distance, if I gave you space, time would be our friend, and any ill feelings we have for each other might mend. Which is why I never bothered you all those summer afternoons you labored on your dissertation in the library. Or when you’d take your short breaks and sit on the park bench at the end of Pineapple Street, eating your sack lunch. I may have followed you, but I left you alone!

But it occurs to me all is not well between us.

Please accept this gift-wrapped box as a symbol of my sincere regret. But before you open the box, I better explain. Writing you this letter has been impossible. If you only knew! So therefore I am sending you every attempt I’ve made. As you can see by the numerous crumples of paper (over thirty in all), I have tried and tried and tried. Perhaps you’ll get what I’m clearly not able to say. Well, there’s no way around it . . .

Forgive me! I did a terrible thing! What was I thinking? Deleting your interview and not even telling you was one thing! But then to run that unbearable picture! What can I say? I will repay you. Someday, and I know this may be hard for you to imagine, you will need me. You will turn to me for a favor. And Mr. Welch, whatever—and I cannot emphasize this enough—whatever you want, whatever your wish is, I will do all in my power to grant it. I believe, as the Stoics believed (was it the Stoics?), that forgiveness freely given is meaningless. Forgiveness is earned through action.

Your forever student,
if you’ll still have me.

BM

TIM

LATE THAT AUGUST, WE RECEIVED A HANDWRITTEN INVITATION FROM JANICE Wellfleet, one of those neighbors on Oak Lane we vaguely knew, inviting us to her annual Labor Day dinner party. Flattered and yet with no idea why we’d been invited, we decided to attend, because one should. We arrived to find the Wellfleets positively giddy over their good fortune. Their youngest daughter, Polly, had just finished her first week at Princeton. “And neither of us went there!” Janice Wellfleet crowed. Barton Wellfleet couldn’t contain his pride about their oldest, Becky, who was traveling in some remote corner of the Galápagos Islands, using her new cell phone to call everyone she knew. Before disappearing into the kitchen, he said with awe, “And the reception was as clear as if she were calling from down the street!”