Pen Pal

It’s in the evening and I’m still wearing the same decade-old reunion tee and home-sewn flannel pants that I’ve had on for the past three days.  I shuffle out the door and down to the mailbox.  I look forward to the next two minutes that are to follow.  No one will be asking me for anything, spitting up on me or wiping their nose on my pant leg.  I inhale deeply while I walk, enjoying my uninvaded personal space, ignoring the scent of sour breast milk that has crusted into my hair.  Though I appreciate the solitude, pulling the mail out of the box is always a disappointment—someone demanding money or someone advertising something I can’t afford…until one evening, I get something out of the ordinary: I get a letter. 

It’s a small envelope and in the middle, my name is printed neatly in block letters, my address underneath. In the upper right corner, is an unremarkable Forever Stamp.  In the upper left, is written J. McDonald followed by an unfamiliar address in a neighboring township.  I squint at the name, trying to access any sort of familiarity.  J. McDonald...J. McDonald.  I scan my memory bank while I walk up the sidewalk towards my attached townhome, parking lot and common driveway, the sun melting into the bare trees that only somewhat block the view of the freeway behind me.  I rip the envelope open to find a single sheet of lined paper folded into beautiful origami.  I hold it in my hand, then turn it over and examine the intricacy.  It’s so pretty, I don’t want to ruin it, but my curiosity trumps my sentimentality and I unfold the paper while slowly crossing the parking lot to my front porch.  J. McDonald, J. McDonald, I silently mouth the name, hoping to trigger some muscle memory in my lips or tongue, but I come up with nothing.  I open my front door so I can hear a baby squawk and sit down on the front step.  

The letter is written in pencil with the same neat handwriting that is on the envelope, a date at the top.  “Dear Ann,” it begins.  No one has called me Ann in a long time.  Ann sounds proper.  Ann sounds like someone who doesn’t buy thirty-two jars of baby food every week.  Ann sounds like someone who gets regular manicures and meets up with her friends for lunch. Ann goes to cafes, to bistros, even.  I read on.  

J. McDonald opens with the hope that they are writing to the correct Ann.  Oh, this is the correct Ann, I decide.  Ann is someone who receives letters.  

J. McDonald continues. Is this the Ann they grew up with, they muse, who they went to high school and attended senior prom with, who, in the end, they treated poorly and have regretted doing so ever since? 

I squint into the parking lot from my porch.  Who did I go to senior prom with, again?  I reach back into my memory but only bring back a fuzzy mannequin with a blank face wearing a tuxedo.  Jason? John?  Jared?  I need to be this Ann.  I need something.  Jared McDonald…Jared McDonald, was it?  And did he treat me badly?  I can’t remember, it seems like a lifetime ago.  He could have treated me badly, couldn’t he have?  He must have. I read on.   

J. McDonald wants to apologize for the way he treated me, “for the things he done.”  He wants me to know that he has changed, that he has found Jesus. 

Well, that’s nice. Good for J. McDonald.  He must be a swell guy.  Of course he is. 

J. McDonald writes on. If I am the Ann who he knew from so long ago, would I kindly write him back? He doesn’t have much in his life to look forward to anymore, he claims.  

Well, I can relate to that, Jared.  Jeremy? Jack. Jack McDonald, that rings a bell.    

Am I the same Ann who he has loved for twenty years?  

Jack!  I’m flattered!   Heat rises to my face.  My heart thumps in my chest.  Wow, twenty years?  Jack McDonald.  Jack McDonald?  Was that his name?  Sure.  Wow, imagine that.  I must be something special!   Someone has been pining for Ann!  Me!  For twenty years!  Jack McDonald!  Jack?  Or was it Jerry?  

He goes on.  If am not the Ann who J. McDonald (Justin?) knew from so long ago, would I kindly write him back anyway?  Being incarcerated is extremely boring and he needs something to continue living for.  

Jacob?  Jonath—

Wait, incarcerated?  

I reread his last sentence. 

All at once, it becomes clear to me that I have been written to by a prison inmate.  

He has included the best address to write back to, which is directly to the Camp Hill Penitentiary.  He ends the letter with a plea, that I write him, even if I am not the Ann he has been loving all these years.  He needs to know if he has found her or not, plus he needs something in his life besides prison, beside his cell walls. 

I look at the creases criss-crossing over the surface of the letter, the complicated chaos. From inside, I hear a baby wail.  I stare at my townhome.   Suddenly, I feel like I’ve never been more understood.