Letters' End

            Mineral Point is an artisan haven in what is known as the ‘Driftless Region’ of  Wisconsin, where the Ice Age neither flattened the land nor left ten thousand lakes. Rather, the rolling hills and gulleys make for winding ways into and out of town. Jackie and Ray went to high school here in the late ’90s, both satisfied and a little surprised to graduate. She got a job at Lands’ End in nearby Dodgeville (labels dept) and he joined the army, eventually to do several tours in Afghanistan and Iraq. He died in the summer 2006, years after anyone in Mineral Point had heard from him, including his parents. Jackie asked them about him, roundabout Christmas 2003, wondering if perhaps his military postal connection had changed. She’d received just a few letters for the dozens she sent, and only one email that essentially said, ‘I don’t do computers.’

            While they hadn’t exchanged promise rings, Ray gave Jackie his pet rabbit Fuzz to hold onto—for her sake, maybe, more than his. It was hard to know with Ray, lovely loner and veteran in the War on Terror. If his rare letters always signed off with ‘love you, lots’, the content above that was all about duty—a soldier’s raison d’être if no full coming-to-terms could be had, especially in the limitations of lined paper, and stamps, and…

            An envelop arrived at Jackie’s door, delivered personally by Mineral Point’s postmaster general (Dorine, who liked sorting things but never wanted to be in charge). “Awfully sorry, Jackie, to give you this so late. You see, we found it behind a file cabinet—which, like the legacy of ‘snail mail’, is going by the wayside. It’s a letter addressed to you, and… we’re awfully sorry.”

            From Ray. Postmarked February 14, 2006, Rose Barracks, Vilseck. Before opening, and without thanking Dorine, Jackie ran to her computer to Google ‘Vilseck’, confirming her guess that he’d gotten as far as Germany—maybe en route to Wisconsin. She recalled hearing that he died—someone had said it at the Pointer Café, roundabout that year’s Columbus Day—when fighting was fierce in Ramadi. His folks wouldn’t say, despite Jackie’s pounding on their door after leaving the Pointer Café. Germany. Valentine’s Day. Before facing the anti-Cupid arrows of Ramadi.

            And before tearing open the letter, Jackie went to the hutch to fetch Fuzz, hanger-on to her life and his. Plopping this geriatric onto her lap, she read from the hand of a ghost:

Dear Jackie,

Deployments near, like always. Miss you, like always. Haven’t been good at writing you much, maybe cuz saying stuff is never much fun. Hows Fuzz? Been not such a pain? You can set him free in the woods if you want—I think he’ll agree thats ok, and I don’t want to put you out feeding him, cleaning his crap, stuff like that.

Happy Valentines. Getting it late—you know I’m a shmuk. But you are definally the love of my life. I mean that, Jackie. And if you can be happy even with some other guy, I‘d be happy to die here, line of duty, thinking that you (and Fuzz, and who ever else) might be happy too—well, that would kick royal ass. Sorry to sware—army drags down, you know. That would be cool. I’m just always thinking of you. Your letters keep me alive. I know its unfair to say that, when I’ve been so lousy at writing you back. Like school—I never got into the groove. Shits real now, like dyingly real. This may be the last letter I write, unless...

You remember the Lorax and his goddam UNLESS?—library lady read it to us and ran to her backroom to cry, like we were disappointing her or sumthing. 3rd grade she’s leavin us as wrecks, like Lorax needs me or you to fix that comic book mess, and now I’m heading back to Iraq waiting for some unless to, I dont know—stop me? Won’t happen, of cuorse.

Write me, Jackie, if you want me to come back. Then I will. Done with this shit, if you say so. And if no—I understand. Thats why I gave you Fuzz. To have or let go. Your leters lift me, even if you decide not to send. I’ll live longer with them, tho. Just sayin.

                                                                        love you lots,

                                                                                    Ray

            No post-script. Typical of Ray, if the other way (PPPS) with Jackie, who would have answered this in the fire of five minutes or five hours, depending on the semi-complicated routes of Mineral Point distribution, sometimes toward Madison, sometimes toward Twin Cities. Not that Jackie read the schedules so close. Thirteen years too late—damn, Dorine!—what parsing of minutes or hours could matter? Implied, if Jackie could take such liberties, was a sort of lifeline Ray was throwing, post-haste. As their favorite artist sang: ‘I would die 4 U, Darling if U want me 2’. Ultimatum not as playful as Seuss. And now Prince had also died, of some sinister sly.

            Which begged her research. Gently tossing Fuzz from her lap, Jackie spent the next two hours beseeching the web where the hell her shoulda been husband would be, then and now. “Let’s see—cast of casualties, Ramadi, and…” she had to be kidding. Deployments could be anywhere. Letter coming thirteen years after fucking fact, why not start there? Vilseck, via Wikipedia, depicts an army base that balances Pizza Hut amenities with Code Red readiness for WWIII. Ray’s letter gave no sense of such balance, and Jackie reread the Lorax angst of ramped-up ramifications: unless Ray didn’t make it out of Ramadi, he died somewhere in the in-between.

            Jackie, frustrated with online limitations, contacted the V.A. by phone, then by letter, coupled with more useless knocks on Ray’s parents’ door. In the end, the V.A. sent this letter: “PFC Raymond Smith died at Rose Barracks, Vilseck. Details classified.”

Daniel Martin Vold Lamken (2019)