Work Text:
Arthur Lester checks the mail – steps outside the threshold of his door, keys in hand, and goes down in front of his house to the mailbox. He hums something he’s been writing, though he keeps pausing on a particular note. His mind feels clear but unsure what exactly it’s clear of. He hasn’t gone to the bar in a while, maybe. Been too busy – with what?
That’s not it. Life has felt too quiet, recently – that must be why everything blends together, at least since Bella died. He’s not very aware of himself, just the New York house he bought – how long has it been, six years? Something must have happened within that time, his mind just barely brushes against. The sureness that there’s something else rises and falls like the chest of a sleeping child. Right now, he’s doubtful. But above being doubtful, he’s focused on checking the mail.
He pulls envelopes out of the mailbox. One from his father-in-law, one from Ms. Tess, then it’s empty. He then takes a look at the sky. He feels like he should be pointing them out to someone, hands on his knees as he bends down towards his child and tells her the names of the different types of clouds.
Faroe – where is Faroe? It’s too late in the day for her to be asleep, but honestly they don’t have anything to do. Maybe Ms. Tess is taking her out somewhere, yeah? Would Arthur really forget like that? He hasn’t before – maybe things have slipped his mind, but his daughter’s location? Maybe that’s what they’re writing him about, maybe he told Daniel he’d write or he forgot to pay Ms. Tess – his music is a bullshit reason for the days to fade into eachother the way they do. His poetry was the same when he was young.
Well. Now he’s just standing there staring at the sky like it’s about to come crashing down on him. He’ll check Faroe’s room, make sure she’s alright because she must be, and then he’ll read the mail. He’d do some composing, but it just feels wrong, recently. Like there’s something else he’s meant to focus on.
When he comes into the house, though, he sees a cardboarc box he doesn’t recall packing. The cabinet he put together with Bella – it’s empty. While it used to house cheap supplies and medicine, with a radio and a family photo or two sitting on top, everything’s now haphazardly packed up with another cardboard box sitting beside it, half-full. His face screws up immediately like he’s scrutinizing the scene. What did he want to —? This is how he packed when he was leaving school, when he bought this house in the first place. He doesn’t want to leave. He wants to stay here with Faroe and his job and the duck pond they go to in the summers. He’s making a life for himself here.
He turns away to distract himself – he must’ve done that, but why? He should get this checked, or at the very least leave the house more. He hasn’t spoken to Tess in a couple of weeks – Faroe can’t be with her. But if she’s not with her, then she must be at home, so Arthur pulls up a chair. It scratches against the tile floor of the kitchen, where there are a few more boxes he must’ve neglected to break down for the recycling. Nothing’s in them, though, so he dismisses the preparation for something that’s never crossed his mind as a fluke or sleepwalking. He hasn’t sleepwalked since he was – how old was Arthur when his parents passed? In the orphanage, he was scared stiff maybe twice a month when one of the adults there talked to him ‘til he startled and stood bolt upright. But at least that had a cause. Now he swears he’d forget his name if it wasn’t on the envelope that he tears open now.
He reads Daniel’s first. His penmanship is neat, slanted to the left in a way that clarifies that he didn’t enjoy writing it. There’s a thick black border around the edge – a practice Arthur himself never paid much mind to, but Daniel’s old-fashioned and Arthur’s pretty sure that’s mourning paper. He doesn’t want to draw a conclusion, he doesn’t know where to start and the thought makes him nauseous. He switches from puzzling over that to skimming the uncomfortable script.
Hello, Arthur
I apologize that I have to write you, but my attempts to speak to you on the phone were futile. I called several times and refused to pick up. If I weren’t preoccupied, I would go over to your house, but you don’t seem to indicate that you’re in quite a state for that.
I believe that we need to discuss arrangements for the funeral of my granddaughter and your daughter. I’m apologetic that this is necessary – she certainly shouldn’t have died that youn–
Arthur lifts his eyes from the page in the middle of the word. He doesn’t remember– when did– is that why– why can’t he remember? This is– the thoughts are all choked out by the sound of his own breath, because this wasn’t sudden. If he was apparently thinking of packing up and leaving, if funeral arrangements were inquired about before apologies, that must mean he’s been forgetting. And remembering. Packing up to leave her memory behind when half of the time he doesn’t even know how in hell she died? His mind’s trying to protect him from things that’ve already happened and it’s so fucked up. He doesn’t even know, his brain keeps making excuses but if somebody asked him his mouth would be dry and every word would burn.
He knows but it doesn’t unblock his mind, of course it doesn’t. Nobody wants to remember holding a body too small, too frail, in their arms. Forgetting is worse, though. Honoring one’s memory is the only human thing to do at a time like this. Feels like there’s blood on his hands, palms dry and nails cracked while everywhere else on his body is slick with sweat as he realizes his heavy breaths are the only ones in the entire house. Everything else is still, not ready to leave and not ready to stay, impossible to remember but not ready to forget.
He’s barely there as he walks to the bathroom and washes his hands. And that pouring sound of the water from the faucet plays that last note in his mind, the one that cost him his daughter’s life. Running water, clear over his hands, he remembers the sensation of it dampening the ankles of his pants as he crouched down. He still can’t picture Faroe’s corpse.
Feeling even worse now, Arthur decides hell, how can it get worse than this? He sits back down at the table, even pulls up her chair just to do something for her. Make sure she still exists, even though she doesn’t because of him. He looks back down at Daniel’s mourning paper.
I’m apologetic that this is necessary – she certainly shouldn’t have died that young, whoevers fault or negligence that may be attributed to. I still need to know the necessary arrangements, and as you were Faroe’s father, it’s very important that you contribute.
He goes on to say that he’s willing to pay for the tombstone – of course, he has the money for that. Please write him back by this date if he remembers, everything that makes it much more final than Arthur’s mind will let him agree with.
May God find you.
Daniel Saltzman
The last lines of the letter, words crammed into the bottom right corner, hurt. May whatever’s out there find him and his dead daughter and his failing mind and everything that’d come to fruition if he didn’t have so much of it.