THE LETTER

The Letter

            Michael woke to the sound of thephone.  He lay motionless in bed untilthe ringing stopped before reaching for a cigarette.  He lit it and inhaled, which caused asensation of pleasurable burning in his throat. He knew the pain was due to staying away with four nameless others untilall hours of the morning discussing with vehemence the administration’s lateststand on Persia.  The conversation wentalong the same predictable, sing song mantra, academia lines that hundreds, ifnot thousands of discussions Michael had involved himself in over the years.

            Snippets and sentences of tiredplatform statements rolled in his mind as he looked about the room, his eyessettling on the bookcase beside the bed. 

            “We the educators, students, andartists of the nation need to have our voices heard.”  One nameless professor of art historysaid.  Others urged a petition drive toprotest the administration. 

            We, 1984, Brave New World.

            “This can’t be our reaction.”  Michael said to the professor and to theothers.  “All we’re going to do is sign apetition in response to an act of international aggression?” 

            “Yes, that is exactly what we aregoing to do.”  The professor respondedwith vigor.  “Fill the mailbox of yourlocal elected representatives until we are heard.  That is democracy in action.” 

            Michael sighed as the others agreed,the very memory of their weakness causing him to close his eyes.  He opened them again, seeing a picture ofMalcolm X on the bookshelf.  Below he sawother books:  The Possessed, Fathers andSons, and One day in the life of Ivan Denisovich. 

            “I don’t believe we need apetition.”  He said to himself, crushingthe cigarette against the ashtray.  Herolled out of bed and threw a bathrobe over his shoulders.  He turned on the television and sat in theeasy chair next to the bed, running ragged fingernails over the worn browncloth of the chair’s arm.

            The news drawled on, the hate of thenew day much like the one before it and the day the previous week he firstheart of possible operations against Persia. He looked above the television at a map of the world.  “Between which two countries does one findPersia?”  He asked, his voice crackingwith cigarette strain and hollow mirth.

            “Three ducks in a row.”

            He turned off the television and leftthe bedroom, ready to begin his morning routine.  He started the coffee, measured the previousevening before turning in for bed.  Heopened the front door and picked up the morning paper from the top step, andbrought the mail inside to the kitchen table. He scanned the headlines of the paper as he waited for the coffee,hoping for something of interest. 

            “Death, taxes and war.  The usual.” He muttered to himself.

            He poured the coffee and beganflipping through the mail, tossing aside official looking envelopes.

            “Bill, bill, bill, junk, junk, andmore junk.”

            Two pieces of mail seemed to want attention;a letter from a writer Michael knew and a plain envelope, lacking stamp oraddress marked only with the word attention. He pushed that aside for the moment and opened the first.

Michael,

            I have not heart from you in sometime.  How goes the battle?  Has there been any progress on yournovel?  I speak of your novel ofrevolution and not the romance rubbish you had planned. 

            I fear you may lose heart if youisolate yourself, so please write or come to the city for a weekend. 

Reginald

            Michael lit another cigarette,leaving the letter open on the table before him.  Had he made progress on his novel?  He hadn’t made progress in months, the lastentry in the manuscript reading like a helpless plea. 

            “What can I do to stop the train ofcurrent events?  I am merely one ant inthe hill.”

            He shook his head, as if to dispelthe thought and took up the envelope marked, Attention.  He opened it and removed a single sheet ofpaper, which contained three typed lines.

            Inaction ends today. 

            The revolution begins today at ______ building. 

Meetin the back room.  Oneo’clock.

            Nothing was printed on the reverseside, no name or contact numbers.  Heknew the building referred to in the note, an abandoned warehouse outside thejewelry district, approximately a mile from downtown and less than two milesfrom his apartment.  He looked at theclock, the time being twelve thirty.  Heknew he could make the appointed time if he left immediately.  He ran his fingers over the letter and tookone final sip of coffee.

            “What can this be about?”  He wondered out loud.  He rose and entered the bedroom, changinginto jeans and a navy blue sweatshirt. 

            “I might as well see who sent methis memo.”

            With haste, he grabbed a jacket andcigarettes and stepped into a rainy early spring afternoon.  He walked quickly, not giving notice to hissurroundings or even to the traffic passing him.  In a little more than twenty minutes, hereached his destination, standing across the street from the warehouse.

            He saw nobody, no movement of anykind, save for a bit of trash which blew about in the light spring wind.  The paper stopped at his feet and he pickedit up off the ground.  It was identicalin every respect to the note he received in the mail that morning.  He crumpled the paper, dropped in to theground and crossed the street towards the warehouse. 

            He was greeted by the faded brickfaçade of the warehouse, cracked in places, and holes large enough to seethrough in others.  The building staredback at him in silence, a shouting stillness that unnerved him, bringing sweaton his temples.  He reached for the door,a giant of peeling fire engine red and turned the knob.  With a show of intended boldness, he pulledthe door open and stepped quickly into the darkness. 

            He guided himself along the wall,the dirt and grit of years falling from the wallpaper.  He made for a dim light through a doorway,the faint drip of a broken faucet barely audible to him over the incessantpounding of his heart. 

            “Hello.”  He heard a voice. 

            He froze, his knees threatening tofail below him, the swimming feeling in his stomach nearly causing him tovomit.  He turned and saw the outline ofa man.  The man stood in the archway to aside room, chewing on a cigar. 

            “The others thought you wouldn’tcome.”  The man said, his voice a coldsteel monotone, which Michael felt deep inside his chest as the sound bouncedwildly around the open space of darkness.

            Michael tried to swallow, but histhroat failed him.  The man walked towardshim, bringing into focus his features. He was a tall, bald man of sturdy build wearing a long brownovercoat.  Michael didn’t recognize hisface or his voice.  

            “I told them Michael.  I knew.”

            He lit the cigar and stood for somemoments in silence, puffing, keeping his eyes on Michael.  Michael became aware, slowly, with dawningknowledge, of the presence of others, lurking in the quiet and shadows,watching him. 
            “What is your name?”  Michael managed to ask, his throat dry andcracked from cigarettes, which made speaking painful.

            “You’ll never know.”  The man said. Michael could see the weapon in his hand, glinting glow red with eachpuff of the cigar. 

            “What of the note?”  He asked to fulfill a final curiosity.   

            “It is not a deception.  It tells you all you need to know.  You are, after all, the writer my friend.”

            Michael felt the anger risinguseless and red from his stomach, bringing bile to his throat. 

            “I’m not your friend, Nazi.”  He said spitting his words with all thecontempt and hate he could muster. 

            The man laughed and the otherfaceless, hidden men joined the cold, steely mirth, laughing with emptyidentical guttural sounds, a vocal applause. 

            “A Nazi?”  Hardly, my friend.  I am an American.  I am here to protect my country, which I lovewith all my heart.”  He said slowly, withno emotion to be heard in his voice. 

            “Liar.”  Michael said.

            “I am an American!”  The man roared, the sudden violence in hisvoice making Michael jump back in shock.

            The man came closer, within arm’sreach, and pressed the weapon into Michael’s ribs.  Michael saw the empty cold hate inside palegray eyes, which bore into his own with an energy that made him lose all hope.

            He pushed Michael in the directionof the stairs at the end of the room, following closely behind and pressingconstant the metal of his gun into his back. The man grabbed his shoulder and stopped him at the top of the stairs,reaching past him and turning on the light with the pull of a hidden cord.  Michael saw the bodies piled upon each otherat the bottom, arms crossed with legs, tinged of red bathing the scene.

            He exhaled a moment before he felt aripping crack sound in the back of his head. He fell and fell, his scream of anguish extinguished as he landed in themass of bodies at the bottom of the stairs.