Letters

A boy sat upon a green knoll under the shade of an old oak tree, enjoying a cool, juicy orange he had fetched from the house. His mother bought a bag of oranges from a Mexican man, who was selling them from the back of his beaten-up truck. The oranges came from a local grove in Oxnard. They were the sweetest, and had the fewest seeds.

The summer was full, and saturated the home's landscape. The grass was lush and green; the flowers, freshly planted (the soil smelled new and moist), were prismatic. The two oak trees--one on the knoll, upon which the boy reclined, the other beside the driveway--extended their shade over the majority of the lawn. The porch was adorn with hanging ferns and potted plants; twisting morning glory and old ivy--it made the home look ancient, but the boy's father hated the asphalt and concrete of suburban sprawl.

A bee buzzed past, and the boy gave a start. He moved off the knoll and into the house, where his mother was peeling carrots and potatoes for lunch. He flew left up the stairs, with all the childish glee of his age. The carpeted steps groaned, as he leaped every other step. He never "walked" up stairs; he bolted off each step. Fearing he may fall and hurt himself, the mother scolded him, but he was already at the top of the staircase.

The boy slowed to a dawdle, briefly perusing his father's CD collection abreast the wall. Along the way to his room, the boy would always select a CD--usually some classic rock band he had never heard of--and play it.

The door moaned as the boy pushed it open. He threw the CD into the player, and fell upon his bed to listen. Badfinger--not palatable. He switched it out for Beethoven, his favorite. Beethoven shook the boy with passion, every time. The boy pulled out his desk chair and sat. Drawing out his pen and paper from his desk drawer, he proceeded to pen letters.

This activity gave the boy the greatest joy, and indeed he lived for it. He had many pen pals from all over--two in Paris, one in Munich, one in Bari, and one in Athens--all of whom he took to be his only friends. Adept at calligraphy, he took special care to pen with beauty. He believed it expressed more. After hours of labor--he missed lunch--he ceased for dinner.

The boy awoke early in the morning to ready himself for school. He packed his books, an array of pens and pencils--always sharp--and white, unlined paper of the highest grade and quality. The teachers allowed him unlined paper, considering his condition; he believed lined paper to be crass. His lines were truer, finer, and more perfect than the other students. The teachers marveled over such neatness.

The bus took the boy to school every morning, save one day when his mother had to drive him. On the bus, the boy sat alone. With folded arms and a vacated expression, he looked down at the passing cars with no special interest. Nobody bothered him; nobody cared. Nobody talked to him; nothing could come of it. Nobody ever got close; nobody ever tried.

On this particular bus trip, however, a girl asked if the seat next to him was taken. The boy shook his head, and smiled a bashfully. She in return gave him a full smile. She introduced herself as Sabine. Sabine Deugot. But the boy did not, could not, reciprocate. He turned his attention back to the window.

The next morning, again, Sabine took her seat next to the boy. She gave a full smile and a note: "Why don't you like me?"
The boy folded his arms and buried his face, embarrassed. Confused, Sabine consoled the weeping boy.

And the morning after, the boy came with a letter written on his finest stationary. But she didn't take her seat next to him. He would get off at her stop and deliver the letter, during the trip home in the afternoon.

The boy walked sheepishly up the garden path, tucked the letter under the mat, and scuttled back to the public sidewalk. He'd walk the rest of the way home; it was no more than a mile. His mother would be worried sick; she usually waited at the bus stop for him.

His mother had called around. The other mothers couldn't say. But, as the boy walked up the driveway, the screen door gave a creak and his mother, whose expression read furious, but betrayed relief, leaned against the door frame. He wouldn't tell her of Sabine.

The boy was put away into his room. He didn't much feel like doing his letters; Sabine was on his mind. Where could she have gone? Would she receive his explanation--or would she understand? The boy fell asleep, but not out of volition. It simply overtook him.

She wasn't present on the bus. The boy, distraught, began to sob quietly beside the bus window. The din of the bus was loud and unyielding. Still, paper wads and voices sailed above the folded boy. Distressed, the boy ran up the aisle, off the bus. He'd have to walk a ways to get to Sabine's.

The letter was untouched. Then, quickly, the door was kicked open, and two men carrying a small child hurried down the walkway. There, wrapped in white linen sheets, was Sabine. She had a frightening pallor and erratic breaths. An ambulance broke hard in front of the house, and Sabine was loaded up in it. They came and went without once acknowledging the boy--gone within minutes.

He couldn't go to school or back home, so he climbed up and sat out on the veranda to wait for Sabine.

Hours past and the same two men returned. This time they took notice of him and made to shoo him off, but tears came to the boy and the men stopped. They asked, first, his name--no answer--then, why he was crying--his crying intensified. They mentioned Sabine and the boy's head jerked up, eyes washed out and red. His mouth quivered as if to cry once more, but the men quickly came to him.

Sabine had contracted rubella and had gone deaf. Her mother had arrived from Los Angeles as the news of Sabine's condition reached her. The mother was an actress. The two men, the father and the family doctor, allowed the boy to visit often. They found it odd that the boy would only come as Sabine slept, and only to place a letter beside her head on a pillow. Sabine would write back and have her father personally deliver it.

When she recovered, though still deaf, Sabine and the boy would make dates to the park and to the cafes. They were inseparable and always hand in hand. They smiled ceaselessly, pleased to sit and eat quietly together.

And on the bus, the boy would sit eagerly for Sabine; she'd take her seat beside him and bashfully lean in to kiss him on the cheek. The boy would blush red and Sabine would smile wide. She loved the boy. The boy loved her. Their love enfolded in letters and words; notes and sweet nothings.

On they rode the bus.