Lew has lost his job. For some reason he destroyed a whole bunch of documents and refused to type out any names of policy holders because he seemed to believe he was killing them. Saul has been very kind and lets us stay in the apartment. Last Tuesday I couldn’t find Baby. Lew was in the kitchen. He had put Baby in a cupboard and was leaning back against it, crying. He said he didn’t know how to protect him and didn’t know what to do with a child who was here to destroy us all. I immediately took Baby to my parents’ house, where I’m staying now. I go to see Lew during the day. Everyone has been trying to convince me to have him committed, but the thought of sending him back to such an awful place, of betraying him, horrifies me. Everyone looks at me with pity here, though I sense that many of the women are pleased in some way, seeming to feel I needed or deserved to be brought low.

I’m sorry to hear from Ruth that you’re probably not coming back in the summer either. She’s with you now, I know. She’s actually talking about buying a place in Boston. I’d hate to lose her too.

Love,
Annie

Dear Annie:

I’m sorry. I’m so sorry about Lew, so sorry about not coming back. If there were some way I could send you my silence, could express how much I miss you without it seeming—I don’t know—inappropriate, I guess. If I could convince you without sounding as insincere as I clearly have been that not five minutes in the day goes by without me thinking about you and Lew. About you. Rachel’s hair was the truest thing I spoke of in that letter.

How do I talk to you, Annie? You’re married to my best friend. You have a child. I’ve always felt so wrong, always wished I were someone else. Being in Boston is intoxicating. There are so many ambitious and compelling people here and I want to know everything about them. I want each one of them to respect me, love me. That is my flaw, I know it. You and I are very similar in that way.

How do I talk to you, Annie? How can there be any real intimacy when everything I say is a lie? Has to be a lie. Has been—necessarily—for a long while. When you told me you were pregnant and getting married, I couldn’t wait to leave. You say you look forward to my letters. I dread yours. I’ve failed you and Lew, and you—the two of you—are everything to me. And I want to live. I want to have this life.