Dear Camilla,

6: Howard

Dear Camilla,

Sometimes, I get lonely so I go back to that day I met you. My mother told me in confidence, years later, that it's a miracle you and your father showed up to that first fencing meeting at all. Apparently, there was a liquor store just two shops over from the studio back in the 90s and your father had expected it to still be open. It wasn't, but I'm glad he did come, though, because you wouldn't have been allowed to continue if he hadn't. My mother filled in as your guardian every year after that. I don't think your father noticed or cared.

That first day, all the students, you and I included, stood in an awkward circle formation on the navy blue foam mats introducing ourselves. All the parents, my mother and your father included, were staggered around drinking galloned water from tiny plastic cups, chit chatting about whose kid belongs to whom and "are you going to the Sunday sermon" and "did you try that pie Sarah brought to the bake sale?"

I guess your father got fed up, so he pulled out a shiny gold flask and poured straight Vodka in his cup. It looked like water at first, but I remember doing a double take because the adults got quiet suddenly. There was an audibly uncomfortable silence. I could tell they were sneaking glances in, watching him with a mix of pity and morbid fascination, murmuring and giggling like they were teenagers again. I saw you glaring at him as if to tell him to get his act together, but he didn't seem to pick up on that. I sympathize with him, in a way, though. I don't think I could tolerate much of the dreadful, pretentious, backhanded "I'm better than you" commentary that the conversation was composed of.

He stood out without the alcohol, too, your father did. I knew his name was Howard because you talked about him often, longing to get back the father you once had. We didn't go to your house, though. My mother worked long hours, so we could have mine to ourselves. And, if she was home, the most we would hear from her was something benign, like: "girls, there's some snacks in the fridge if you get hungry!" So, we spent many afternoons, just the two of us, on the colored towels by the lake. We would devour cherry popsicles that melted far too quickly under the perennial Tennese sun.

Howard wore a big red flannel jacket that day of a similar color, coincidently, to those popsicles, complete with a gray hood and faded, unintentionally ripped denim blue jeans, splattered with white paint stains. He towered over the other mothers and fathers, his dejected expression and sad eyes gave him the appearance of a grim sailor watching a foggy horizon, looking out towards a sea of eventualities that never arrived. You looked a lot like him, I thought. You haven't changed your style much since your Senior year of high school either, but it's probably for the best because even then you were ethereal, if not a little alien looking. To this day, I imagine you have the same short, ashy brown bob haircut with geometric bangs that show off your angular features. Your thin, fair eyebrows make your pale eyes look gigantic, infinitely inquisitive and intelligent. There's a small smattering of freckles atop your sharp nose and reddish pink, hard mouth. I imagine you're still the tall and slender, elvish girl— delicate, like a reed.

A decade later, I don't know why you chose to stand up for me that day. I wonder about it often. Was it a matter of principle to stand up for the underdog or were you particularly sensitive that day because your father was being ridiculed as well? Was it something special about me as an individual? Either way, I'd like to think that you got good karma for your actions that day. See, my mother, ever observant and calculated, took notice of you. She saw the relationship between you and your father; the dark warning stares connecting you two could have stopped any sober man in his tracks, but were powerless against Howard's drunken oblivion. When the hour and a half informational introduction session was over, the equipment put away tidily and the mats rolled up, Howard was dangerously drunk. I guess a concerned parent or employee had called the cops because before your father could back his truck out of the parking lot, a cop car was beeping its siren, pulling him over. Some of the other parents had already driven off, but there were several, my mother included, who stuck around. I remember your dad was breathalyzed and promptly handcuffed while a small crowd gathered around.

You blended in with the crowd well enough to avoid police detection, but I have never seen you look so scared. A mix of disgust, anguish, and embarrassment painted your expression. Howard was shouting, then screaming, then sobbing. Let me go, let me go, he kept repeating as the officers put him in the back of the cop car and took him to the county jail.

Though that seems like a terrible situation, the good karma came from my opportunistic, well intentioned mother swooping in to your rescue, essentially adopting you as one of her own. She offered to take you back to our house while the police sorted everything out. I think she had a particular soft spot for your situation because it mimicked her upbringing. She doesn't talk about it much, save for the off handed comments and clues I've gathered over the years; easy to flinch and hard to pry open, always worked and never drank. I always suspected that my mother loved you more than me. You are a self-starter, ambitious, and took on responsibilities around our house, namely the challenge of raising and looking out for me when my mother couldn't, or wouldn't.

You were an ever present character in my upbringing because, ever since your mother's death just three years before we met, your homelife was terrible. You told me later that a drunk driver hit your parents' car after the assailant crossed over the yellow line, speeding on the backwoods highway. Howard was the sole survivor of the crash. It took such an emotional toll on him that he ended up becoming exactly what hurt him.

The years after your mother's death passed as quickly as your father fell apart. He called the next morning from prison, and I overheard him tearfully claiming that everything would be okay and that his construction buddy from work was going to bail him out soon and he would be home as soon as possible and sweetheart, did you get back alright? He said he was so, very sorry, but I thought he still sounded drunk. Your jaw was clenched for the entirety of the conversation and you only listened silently. You hung up promptly after he apologized.

You didn't leave our house until Monday, but I didn't mind. We sat across from each other, the white polished table between us reflected sunlight onto your face, illuminating your eyes. You stared at me intensely. It felt so, impossibly good to be seen by you, Camilla. When you saw me there for the first time, that is where I see our story starting.

Sincerely,

Maxine