The Miracle Letters of T. Rimberg Page 3

  For ten more seconds I stood, frozen . . . a bit confused as to the next step a nude Marxist revolutionary should take. Then Hendricks started applauding, which startled me to action. I pulled on my pants, pulled my shirt back over my head, slipped my tasseleds back on, flipped a double bird, and ran the hell out of there.

  Dee Anne screamed behind me: “I'm calling the police! You stop where you are!” But I kept running and went down the steps, through the lobby, and out into the brutal suburban light of the parking lot.

  And I drove home to my empty house, sealed from the heat, not even kitty to greet me (did you know I left him with the kids when Mary asked me to go?), which might have been depressing, had my triumph not been so complete! And I holed up in my living room, expecting the cops to come take me. And I gripped a butter knife, which I was planning to charge them with, to see if they'd shoot me (a Marxist Martyr!).

  But they didn't show up. Complete victory!

  I am all air! This is the heady buzz the Communards must have felt in the early days of that great Paris Commune. What a glorious revolution. My days of laboring for the MAN are done!Karl Marx must be smiling, somewhere. Workers everywhere must be smiling.

  Thank you, David. Have a GREAT day!

  Day Two:

  Transcript 3

  * * *

  I was jittery in the chair in front of the television in the middle of the night. I remember . . . the night I wrote that work letter to David. The night I left my job. Jittery. I'd gone to sleep, but then couldn't sleep because . . . I dreamt a whole story and woke up and then fell asleep again and the dream picked up right where . . . Finally, I woke up choking.

  Yeah, there's a description of the dreams in the journal.

  At least the door is open—so dark, those marching feet are soldiers. Spotlights strafing the sidewalk near you. You stand in terror, icy sweat, shaking. You bumble at the door, smash into the door, find the knob, turn it, and it opens, and you fall forward into a lobby, dark, no light except for gas light from the street and the strafing spots. Who is that little girl? She's in shadows. Eyes lit. You roll from your side onto your face and press yourself to the floor, the floor vibrating with sound from outside. It is black and white stone, the floor. Don't look at that girl. Don't look. You press yourself to the floor in the dark without breathing, cold stone. They're coming after you.

  That's not it. I wasn't afraid the cops were coming for me because of getting naked at work. I didn't do that. I wanted to be a hero, maybe . . . but I made it up. Thought about it, but I didn't.

  The letter was a lie. I didn't even go into my office that morning.

  I drove to work sort of buzzed. I sat in the parking lot, sweating. Then I drove home.

  No, I did not have sex with a salesgirl.

  No, I didn't send the letter to my boss.

  I didn't go back to work ever.

  Letter 5

  August 23, 2004

  * * *

  Dear Dee Anne,

  You can't fire me. I'm not going to show up, which means I quit. I'm gone. Good riddance.

  Hope your meatloaf Sundays continue to be as satisfying as you always professed (though I doubt they were satisfying). Quick point of advice: stop telling everybody every morning what you had for dinner the night before. Oh shit GOD did I hate Mondays—having to nod and smile and laugh at the appropriate laugh pauses in your stories about your daughters eating meatloaf, while all I wanted to do was put a stapler to my temple and slap it hard enough to end the misery. You are so boring. You lack any quality I would call interesting (except your hairstyle—très Glam Rock). Okay, you are great at your job (whatever that means). And I suppose you're a decent person. You're probably a good enough mother even, given your serious limitations, what you understand of the human condition (nothing). But, you're replicating yourself with these daughters. Three more little Dee Annes will eventually populate the cubicles of some financial services company in the Twin Cities. They will bring their husbands to your house each Sunday night and eat meatloaf. And they will head to the office every Monday with no story to tell, but they will tell it anyway, because they are soulless and totally boring. And there will be more suicides in the world. More and more. Jesus, Dee Anne. Listening to you killed me, Dee Anne . . . You're a good person, I guess . . . but is this what a decent life has to offer? Meatloaf dinners and fluorescent lighting? Is this really it?

  What a fucking nightmare. Your poor kids. Your poor, poor kids.

  Of course this is a suicide letter, Dee Anne. Of course it is. You kill me.

  Take care!

  T. Rimberg

  Letter 6

  August 23, 2004

  * * *

  Charlie, my son,

  What do you love best as an eleven-year-old? How can you do it forever? How can you make it the focus of your life? Do you think you'll major in theater in college? I'm sorry I didn't take you to auditions at the Children's Theater. I ran out of time. I ran out of gas. Don't ever focus on making a living. Make the life you want. Maybe you'll be a painter. (I'm looking at your fifth-grade self-portrait now—beautiful.) Be artistic. Don't worry about money. Don't have fear. Or if you do fear, make sure you disregard it and do what you need to do. Please, Charlie, go do what you love no matter what.

  Save the money you're going to get from me. Let that money protect you, so you don't worry. Go make a real life.

  I love you. I love you so much. I miss you. I am so sorry. I am so sorry.

  Your Dad

  Day Two:

  Transcript 4

  * * *

  Authenticity is what I wanted. I wanted to live for something. (Of course I had no idea for what, after a failed attempt at a true love affair, my big heroic act, which was actually an illicit adulterous affair, which ended my sad marriage.) I mean . . .That's what I want for my kids. Authenticity. I lived forever to be alive . . . just to stay living, but not for anything . . . ate food just to . . . eat.

  Yes, I did just get dizzy.

  Pale?

  I'm not a big fan of . . . and talking about it . . . That was a terrible accident, you know? My arm hurts in this stupid cast.

  I'm tired, Barry. I'd like to stop.

  Day Three:

  Transcript 1

  * * *

  Yes, good morning.

  Chipper? I am feeling better today—not so achy.

  Only until ten. Shit . . . shoot. That's disappointing. I enjoy your company.

  I really do.

  I'm not normally such a sad schlump. Sorry about that.

  No, no, no. No problem . . . I can read this afternoon while you're out.

  You feel guilty? Did you have a Jewish parent, too?

  Yeah, I'm funny. I'll do my best to be concise.

  I knew the money was real when I quit my job. I wasn't risking anything when I quit.

  I'd taken the check to the Wells Fargo branch in the neighborhood. I thought the check was fake, probably . . . I mean come on, you know? But . . . thought I should make sure. Then it wasn't fake, because the teller made a phone call and her eyeballs blew up and she took it, deposited it, and asked me about my other accounts, then she sent me to a cube in the corner, to the personal banker at the branch, Hector, who smiled across his whole bald head and shook my hand really hard. And then Hector insisted I make an appointment with a “wealth manager” in an office downtown, Linda, which I did from Hector's phone, and then I took the bus and took a fast elevator up to the twenty-third floor and walked into this—this office in a skyscraper down there and . . . Linda was so chipper. It was a lot of money. People don't have bank checks for that kind of money, except me, apparently. And I was fine with getting her help, too, you know, even if I don't necessarily like what Linda's about.

  Oh. Well, I suppose I don't know what she's about. Linda has been great to me, really. She got an accountant set up. And I want to preserve as much as possible for the kids. Grow it for the kids. Linda helped me make trusts . . .

  P
rotecting my kids. Those are big trusts, Barry. My kids have more money . . . not that money will protect them . . . Well, it sort of will. On one hand, anyway. Money goes a long way in this world. Huge insecurity for me . . . growing up . . . was fear of being poor . . . though we weren't that poor, I found out. My mother didn't tell the truth about money from Dad . . . I don't want to talk about Mom. My kids will not fear for their material security. This is the only way I can help them.

  Letter 7

  August 26, 2004

  * * *

  Dear Mom,

  If you know about my death, if you're even cognizant, it isn't your fault. Okay? I mean, you did good work with not much in the way of resource. You made a decent home out of nothing. And look how David turned out. He sure is one of life's big winners, don't you think? That cat can really earn cash. And his wife is hot. You didn't have anything to do with me dying, Mom. You were David's mom, too, and he's great and his wife smells like expensive lotions. It just isn't your fault I'm dead.

  Well, I kind of take that back.

  In a sense it is your fault. Biology. Genetics.

  I think I've read that depression is ninety percent inspiration and ten percent perspiration. And while I have perspired—yes, I fed the fire for years, muscles straining, mind trolling for the darker meaning up the silver clouds—I can't be blamed for the inspiration, can I? That's on you. I have to blame you for my biology. You did inspire me, breathed life into me, gave me my chemicals and my brain configuration and my combustible hardwiring, etc. For my biology, I must place responsibility squarely on your shoulders (and on Dad's—we can't forget).

  But something else . . . you couldn't have known. You couldn't have thought straight about reproducing your own vulnerable infrastructure back in the sixties. You probably thought being blue was a personal problem. And, so, it was a thoughtless act, making me—thoughtless, because you couldn't have thought, “I don't want to make a sad child.” You shouldn't blame yourself. I'm not going to blame you for anything. Biology is out of your control. So okay? Don't blame yourself, Mom.

  And . . .

  Do you remember Martha's Vineyard? You rented me a three-speed to use around the campground. But one day I biked out of there without letting you or David know. I was 13. And I biked along that busy country road, past the gray million-dollar clapboard homes, through the sea air, until I hit the quaint town there and pulled between parked sports cars to this ice cream shop and parked the yellow bike and bought a strawberry cheesecake ice cream on a waffle cone. Christ, was that good ice cream. Makes my mouth water thinking about it . . . There were so many opulent automobiles running slow down the central street of the little town: Beemers, Mercedes, Jags. Holy Christ. I have no idea what we were doing in Martha's Vineyard, except you had Kennedy fantasies, loved John F. Kennedy, who is also dead, by the way, and was then. And I felt like such a chump in all that wealth, us camping out at the crappy campground, driving cross-country in a Chevrolet Chevette (with which we pulled a camper? How?). Then I saw you drive down the town's main strip, your face white and blotched. You looked like an antelope with lions circling, just so scared, apparently for my sake. And when you drove past the other direction, I called out, “Mom.” And you slammed on the brakes so some Richie Rich had to skid on his scooter not to hit you. And you jumped out of the Chevy in the middle of that busy street with all those Beemers and Mercedes honking at you and ran to me and hugged me, and Mom, I felt mortified and in love to see you and so rich to be cared about like that. I know you tried your best.

  So, don't worry about it, you know? Don't blame yourself for this, if you're even cognizant. I existed because of you, and the good parts of my existence were because of you. I'm dead for other reasons. Be well. I love you. Charlie, Kara, and Sylvie love you, too.

  Your son,

  T.

  Day Three:

  Transcript 2

  * * *

  Tick tock. Getting to ten. What do you want to know, Barry?

  What?

  I couldn't be with my kids. That's a different story.

  No. No kids and I had money so I didn't have to go to work. Why not just die?

  No family. No work. Should I watch cartoons and drink beer? Have some more nightmares so I'm awake for three a.m. infomercials about exercise equipment? That's a lonely—that's a lonely place . . . Should I think about Chelsea's long . . . her smile, her eyes . . . all gone? Why not cash it in?

  I had the affair with Chelsea.

  I told you I couldn't see the kids.

  I really don't want to talk about it.

  Mary wouldn't let me see the kids without her being there. Okay? Just . . . because.

  Fine. Early in August Mary stopped by to drop off the kids—their Saturday with Dad! And I was completely wasted . . . It was ten a.m. I wanted to have one drink . . . to relax so I could enjoy being with them. I had maybe a hundred beers and Mary was extremely furious . . . about me being . . . and she worked with the lawyer . . . So, no kids. No more kids.

  Listen. I know it's not . . . I think I have to . . . I'm going to grab a cup of . . . I have to run. You go to your meeting, Barry.

  Things changed, yes. In the next day or so. Everything.

  Letter 8

  August 26, 2004

  * * *

  Dear Mary,

  Listen. There's going to be a lot of talk. Who did what to whom, etc. Just to set the record straight, Mary (Mary . . . Mary . . . Do you know I love your name? I do. It is so solid. It is to be counted on. I love you.): I did it to you. I was the cause.

  There is nothing you could've done to save us. Not paid me more attention. Not given me wider range to explore. You are the good one. I am the bad. And, you were right to kick me out. And . . . AND, you are not the cause of my death (though my inability to be a good husband and good father are parts of the calculation).

  Feel free to photocopy this and send it to anybody who knows us.

  Today, on the twenty-sixth day of August, in the year two thousand and four, I, T. Rimberg, say to you all, heareth this: My Sweet Wife Mary (divorced so not widowed) Has No Blame In My Death, Which Was Done Unto Me By Mine Own Hand, Thank You.

  Yours truly,

  T. Rimberg

  Letter 9

  August 26, 2004

  * * *

  Dear Mary,

  I'm not bitter. If you ever get my other letter, I want you to know I am not bitter even though I said that Divorced So Not Widowed thing. And I would want you to be my widow. Not just my former wife. Oh Jesus. If I hadn't been such a fuck-up. I am a fuck-up, Mary. I got so lucky to find you and then fucked it all up . . . I fucked everything up.

  I'm so sorry.

  I do love you,

  T.

  Day Four:

  Transcript 1

  * * *

  I had pancakes today for breakfast. I love Mrs. Butterworth. Is it even syrup? I don't know. It glistened in the sun.

  Yes. A little will and testament in the journal. Here:

  Item: The Chicken Dance is to be played at the funeral. Everyone in attendance is required to dance the Chicken Dance.

  You know the Chicken Dance?

  Of course. Green Bay weddings!

  Item: My skull is to be cut in two, the top part polished a shiny white and used to serve mixed nuts on Super Bowl Sunday.

  That's disgusting. No, I know.

  I was ready to commit suicide on August 28, I think . . . I really thought so on August 27, before I had too much beer. But I had this dream that night, or in the morning. This dream was so real . . . I'd gotten into that apartment building and the war noise outside . . . I took the elevator . . . that little girl standing next to me, holding my hand . . . and I went up and into an apartment on the fifth floor—we both did, me and that little girl—and my dad was in the apartment standing at the window looking out at Nazis marching on the street. And he was laughing . . . me and the girl standing next to him . . . He was just . . . crazy . . . ha ha ha ha . .
. just dying at all this . . . troop movement, and violence. The Nazis were marching deportees—Jews with the Star of David sewn on their clothes, who were trying to carry huge suitcases and their kids were trailing along behind . . . tripping on dropped bags, skinning their knees and legs, dragged up to their feet by guards . . . And my dad's laugh rang out (now that I think about it, it was probably my grandfather, not my dad—but I wouldn't have recognized that guy), and I screamed, No! What are you doing? No! and then I woke up, this scream in my throat, heart exploding, the walls and ceiling collapsing in.

  I jumped out of the bed and there was some light in my mom's room, some morning light . . . I was still in my clothes from the night before . . . the walls were coming down . . . I ran out of the house . . . It was five a.m.

  For a long time people I love . . . just atrophy. Mom going away. And I lost Chelsea and Mary and my children. College friends—gone. And before that my dad and with my dad—all the family I might have known from him . . . My brother . . . I was completely alone. But, because I jumped out of bed at the crack of dawn . . .