But I can tell you that boy with the ice cube wore a red T-shirt and white jeans and he picked up my ponytail and held it between his fingertips and said, “Very pretty.”
“Is it worth any money?” asked Polly.
“I doubt it. How could you prove it really was from the Wall?” asked Isabel. “It just looks like a piece of rock.”
“DMA testing,” said Polly. The child watched far too much television.
“It’s DNA, not DMA, and that comes from people,” said Esther.
“I know that!” Polly had arrived in the world outraged to discover that her sisters had gotten there before her.
“Well, then why—”
“So who do you reckon is going to get voted off The Biggest Loser tonight?” asked Cecilia, while simultaneously thinking, Why, yes, whoever that is observing my life, I am changing the subject from a fascinating period of modern history that might actually teach my children something to a trashy television show that will teach them nothing, but will keep the peace and not make my head hurt. If John-Paul had been at home, she probably wouldn’t have changed the subject. She was a far better mother when she had an audience.
The girls talked about The Biggest Loser for the rest of dinner, while Cecilia pretended to be interested and thought about the letter sitting on top of the fridge. Once the table was cleared and the girls were all watching TV, she took it down to stare at it.
Now she put down her cup of tea and held the envelope up to the light, half laughing at herself. It looked like a handwritten letter on lined notebook paper. She couldn’t decipher a word.
Had John-Paul perhaps seen something on television about how the soldiers in Afghanistan wrote letters to their families to be sent in the event of their deaths, like messages from the grave, and had he thought that it might be nice to do something similar?
She just couldn’t imagine him sitting down to do such a thing. It was so sentimental.
Lovely though. If he died, he wanted them to know how much he loved them.
“. . . in the event of my death.” Why was he thinking about death? Was he sick? But this letter appeared to have been written a long time ago, and he was still alive. Besides, he’d had a checkup a few weeks back, and Dr. Kluger had said he was as “fit as a stallion.” He’d spent the next few days tossing his head back and whinnying and neighing around the house, while Polly rode on his back swinging a tea towel around her head like a whip.
Cecilia smiled at the memory, and her anxiety dissipated. So a few years ago, John-Paul had done something uncharacteristically sentimental and written this letter. It was nothing to get all worked up about, and of course she shouldn’t open it just for the sake of curiosity.
She looked at the clock. Nearly eight p.m. He’d be calling soon. He generally called around this time each night when he was away.
She wasn’t even going to mention the letter to him. It would embarrass him, and it wasn’t really an appropriate topic of conversation for the phone.
One thing: How exactly was she meant to have found this letter if he had died? She might never have found it! Why hadn’t he given it to their solicitor, Miriam’s husband, Doug Oppenheimer? So difficult not to think of him in the shower every time he came to mind. Of course it had no bearing on his abilities as a lawyer; perhaps it said more about Miriam’s abilities in the bedroom. (Cecilia had a mildly competitive relationship with Miriam.)
Of course, given the current circumstances, now was not the time to be feeling smug about sex. Stop it. Do not think about the sex thing.
Anyway, it was dumb of John-Paul not to have given the letter to Doug. If he’d died she probably would have thrown out all his shoe boxes in one of her decluttering frenzies without even bothering to go through them. If he’d wanted her to find the letter, it was crazy to just shove it in a random shoe box. Why not put it in the file with the copies of their wills, life insurance and so on? John-Paul was one of the smartest people she knew, except when it came to the logistics of life.