The Boy Carl Wrote to for Twenty Years

The letter

It took four days, because the first try came out as an apology and the second as a church bulletin, and I crossed both out.

On the fourth day I wrote it plain.

Dear Mateo,

My name is Marilyn Stoltz. I was Carl’s wife. I am so sorry to tell you this by letter. Carl died on the third of October last year, at home, of his heart. It was quick. He was in his chair by the window with the afternoon sun on him, and I believe that is where he wanted to be.

I did not know about you. I want to say that honestly, because you wondered if he had told anyone. He had not. I found your letters in a shoebox in his closet a few weeks ago, a year after we buried him, and I have read every one of them twice. I am sorry you waited so long. That is my fault. I should have cleaned that closet in the spring.

I did not know about you, but I think I knew him. In the margin of your August letter he wrote, “good man,” and that is the highest thing I ever heard of him saying about anyone.

Beth is sending an email too, in case it is faster. If you would like to write to me, I would be glad. If you would rather not, I understand, and I thank you for being his friend.

Then, because I wanted him to have something from this house that was not only sorrow, I added one line.

It has not snowed yet. It will soon.

I mailed it myself, at the counter, and Denise stamped it twice and gave me a look.

Doña Marilyn

I mailed the letter on Thursday, and the email went out that afternoon.

His answer came at nine the next morning. I was at the sink with my hands in the dishwater when Beth called from the other room. “Mom. He’s written.”

She read it to me. Then she printed it, and I read it myself, leaving soapy thumbprints on the paper.

I will not share all of it. Most of it belongs to us. This is the part I could read to the Thursday circle without my voice going.

Dear Mrs. Stoltz,

Thank you for writing. Please accept my condolences, and my family’s. I was not surprised, but I am sad, and it is different to know. I think I knew by Christmas. He never missed a Christmas in twenty years. Once he sent it from the hospital.

I want to tell you he never made me feel like a charity. I say this because maybe you have wondered, and I would like to answer before you ask. He did not ask me to be grateful. He asked me about the weather. He drew me pictures of pumps. He treated me as a person who could understand a pump, and I could, and now it is my job.

My uncle taught me the work. Your husband taught me there is a reason behind each part. I say it to the new men on my crew now: you find what is stopping the water, and you fix that one thing.

If you are willing, I would like to see your face. My wife says it is allowed to ask. We could talk on the telephone with pictures, on Sunday, if that is a good time for you.

Mateo

I read it standing and then I read it sitting down.

“Beth,” I said. “Do I have to get dressed for this?”

She laughed so hard she had to sit on the stairs.