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"A letter?"
"Yes. Mrs. Liddy brought it up to your room when she went up with some linen."
"Thank you," I said and ran upstairs to find the letter on my bed. I had been expecting a letter from Jimmy telling me about his plans for a visit to New York, but I saw from the envelope that it had been forwarded here from the Cutler Cove Hotel. When I turned it over, I saw it had been opened and resealed with tape. But the name and return address made my heart leap. It was a letter from Daddy Longchamp, the man I had grown up thinking was my father, and who still seemed much more like a father to me than Randolph Cutler ever had.
I threw myself on the bed and opened the envelope quickly. I saw from the date on the top of the letter that it had been mailed nearly three weeks ago.
Three weeks! How horrible, I thought. How long had it been kept at the hotel? And I just knew Grandmother Cutler had read it. What right did she have to do such a thing?
I tried to put aside my rage for the moment but I might as well have tried to hold my breath for three hours. I was still shaking with anger as I read.
Dear Dawn,
I am pleased to tell you that I have been released from prison. I'm still not sure how or why it happened so fast, but one day the warden called me in to tell me my parole hearing had been moved up. But jail ain't been the worst part of all this. The worst part's been my knowing how much I hurt you and Jimmy and Fern. I never meant it to be this way and I'm sorry. I surely wouldn't blame you for hating me forever, and I do hope that you're having a good life now that you're living with your real folks who I know are rich. At least you'll never have to scrimp and save the way we usta. No more grits and peas for dinner.
I've got me a good job. The prison authorities located it for me. I'm a maintenance man in a big laundry. I also got a nice little apartment not too far from where work. It's going to take me a while to earn enough money to buy me a car, but I can't travel far for a while anyways on account of the parole rules.
The nicest thing that's happened is Jimmy calling and writing me. We're becoming good friends again and I'm mighty proud of him. He says he keeps in contact with you, too. It hurts me that Fern is off living with strangers, but I've been told she's living with good people who are well-to-do folks and can give her what she needs and then some.
Of course, I'm hoping that someday soon I can get her back. I asked my parole officer about that, but he says that's something he don't know nothing about just yet. All he said was if the family goes ahead and adopts her, I'd have big problems. I'm just afraid it's going to take an army of lawyers to straighten it out, but since I'm to blame, I can't complain much.
Anyways, I wanted to write to you to tell you I'm sorry for the hurt and pain I caused you. You was always a good girl and I was always proud to be your daddy even though I really wasn't.
The truth is I miss Sally Jean and you and Jimmy and Fern so much it hurts like a punch in the chest. Some nights I don't sleep at all remembering. We had tough times, but we had each other then.
Well, that's all. Maybe someday me and you will meet again. But I don't blame you if you don't want anything more to do with me.
God bless you.
Daddy
P.S.: I wrote it because I still think it.
I clutched the letter to my bosom and sobbed, rocking back and forth on the bed. I cried so hard it hurt my stomach. Tears streamed down my face and soaked my blanket. Finally, I took deep breaths and choked back my tears. Then I stuck Daddy Longchamp's letter between some pages of my journal and went to my desk to write back to him.
I told him I didn't hate him and I knew everything. And I couldn't wait for the day we would meet again. I wrote pages and pages, telling him about my life at the hotel, how awful my real family was and how being from a family that had a lot of money didn't make life happier for me. Then I told him about New York and my school. The letter was so fat, I had a hard time putting it into an envelope. I sealed it and rushed out to get it mailed. Because of the delay, his letter having gone to the hotel and being kept there so long, he probably thought I didn't want anything to do with him. I wanted to tell him that wasn't so as fast as I could.
Trisha called a few times that first week to try to get me to take the bus to visit her and her family. I told her about my strange conversation with Agnes and what she had told me was in the vase in the glass case.
"Oh don't believe that story," Trisha said. "It's something she took from a play."
"I hope you're right. I feel funny every time I go in there now."
I promised I would seriously consider visiting her, but I had a wonderful surprise occur early one morning when Agnes knocked on my door to tell me I had a phone call from Madame Steichen.
"I've returned to the school early," she declared and paused as if that explained everything.
"Yes, Madame?" I said.
"I have an hour between nine and ten free every morning beginning today."
"Yes, Madame," I said. "I'll be there. Thank you."
"Very good," she replied and hung up.
I felt like I was walking on air and when I attended these special lessons, I sensed a change in Madame Steichen's attitude toward me. Her voice was softer, her commands given with a more loving tone. Also, I noticed that when my other teachers, and even teachers I had not yet had, learned about my special lessons with Madame Steichen, they treated me differently as well. It was as if I had achieved some celebrity status.
Trisha was the first to return from the summer break. We stuffed three hours worth of conversation into the first hour we spent together. I told her about the things I had been doing in New York and described my lessons with Madame Steichen. She was very excited and impressed. Then I showed her my letter from Daddy Longchamp. She read it and cried and was outraged when I explained how long it had been kept at the hotel and how it had been read.
