Work Text:
It was years ago that the letters started. One of those projects of the school Thomas went to back then; to have an international pen pal. Some young pupils never got beyond the first letter, shoved the reply in a drawer and forgot about the entire thing, but not Thomas. Despite struggling with writing sometimes; the cramped fingers, the ink stains, the messy handwriting, and his shyness; he pushed through, letter after letter.
It started with that postcard of Fuller he sent with his introduction, purchased from his mama’s store, and his dearest pen pal sent one back of the city she lived close by. Told him some cool history about the buildings in the picture.
When he hit his growth spurt, earlier than the other kids, he quit school and started working at the meat plant. It was a relief to be away from school and the other students, and the work provided him with a sense of purpose. To her, he was able to write about the butchering, about how it felt. About his skills with the cleaver, how he could feel himself grow stronger, that he was so good at it that he could cut through bone with ease, that he could make just as many clean finished chops as his established colleagues. He left out what they called him when they thought he couldn’t hear.
It was exhilarating to Thomas. His dear pen pal, an entire sea away, didn’t know anything about him. The freedom he felt to express himself to someone who knew nothing of the ridicule he faced, who wasn’t able to see what he looked like, didn’t know anything about him other than what he told her. He grew into himself when he wrote to her, free and true.
The money for the expensive international stamps he squirreled away from his salary at the meat plant – shrugging his shoulders when the family made a comment about it. None had tried to touch this aspect of his life. Luda Mae especially saw his excitement as a new letter arrived and was glad for it.
She was named after a love song, she said, and she was just a year younger than him. Her birthday was on the cusp of spring into summer and each year it was as if he felt the approach of it like a flower emerging from its bud. He was fifteen when she wrote that he could call her a nickname – even if it may be because he kept misspelling her long, foreign name, it didn’t matter. She was a writer, a poet, after going to school for as long as her parents could afford to send her, she worked as a typist at a firm she never named. She often sent him little excerpts from stories she was working on, which he praised even if he didn’t understand entirely what they were about. After all, she took the time to translate them into English so he could read them. It made him feel special. Appreciated. As if his opinions really mattered to her.
Even despite his struggles to word himself, it seemed she understood him. He knew it was impossible, but wanted desperately for it to be true. His daily life couldn’t be further from hers. After all, she wouldn’t feel the same satisfaction when cutting a bull’s throat, or feel the ache in her muscles, the words echoing in his head, after a day of work. At the same time, he doesn’t have hands stained with ink or broken nails from the force he hit the keys of the typing machine with.
The frequency of the letters increased and by now Thomas must be one of the only ones keeping Fuller’s postman in business. There were flowers in ink around his name in the greeting of the newer letters. After he was done reading a verse from the bible before bed, he read with her most recent letter to commit it to memory, as he did with them all. Did she reread his letters to her too? He hoped so. And as he laid down in bed, curtains still open so he could stare at the stars, he thought of her. Of a warm body beside his own. What would her voice sound like, her accent? How would his name sound on her lips?
It was barely a week later, and the postman handed him a new letter. Thomas ripped it open, reading it as he stood on the lawn, thinking that the work could wait. After all, the tourists were already dead. Their firsts… And there was no going back now. It meant many things for Thomas and the family – one of which was: no more work at the meat plant. No more insults. His eyes racked over the letter greedily. His confidence had grown since taking his first human life, and he felt he could do anything. He couldn’t wait to tell her that things had changed – leaving out the unsavoury bits, of course. Stalking inside and up the stairs, he sat down on his bed to write his response.
The day after, the doorbell sounded just after noon. Unlikely to be a neighbour as there weren’t any for miles. Tourists then? Thomas grunted as he remembered he was the only one home, and slammed the cleaver down into the wooden table. Wiping his hands on his filthy apron, he threw it off as he marched up the stairs. As he swung the door open, the most unlikely sight stood in front of him. It was her. How did she get here? The angels must have blessed him. Just to look at her, to have her close enough to touch was more than he’d ever hoped for. He stared and stared, eyes wide, as she introduced herself. Voice sweeter than honey.
She said her name, pronounced differently from how he’d said it in his head, and then: “I’m so sorry to be a bother, but is Tommy home perhaps? I’d love to see him.”
It fell silent, as he stared at her, expecting her to fade like a mirage. As he saw her falter, he scrambled, gesturing to himself. Out of his back pocket he grabbed the recent letter, he liked rereading it so he kept it with him, and showed her. Then pointed from his name to himself. Regretting how gross he must look, hands not even washed, tie crooked, sweaty from the heat in the basement. Not that she looked any less sweaty, but she still looked like an angel.
“Tommy, it’s you!” she said, instead, and hugged him. “You’ve no idea how long I’ve waited for this moment. Is it unexpected? I sent you a letter but it may not have arrived yet. Can I come in?”
Of course, he let her, with his heart beating out of his chest. Now that she was here, there was no single possibility in his mind that she’d ever leave again.