~19 minutes read time
My Dearest Clyde,
I miss you terribly. Though it has been just a few weeks, it feels as though I have spent years without your embrace. The only thing getting me out of our bed each morning is the knowledge that I will get to cross off another day to your return on the calendar. Well, that and the chickens of course. But I suppose cleaning chicken coops isn’t nearly as poetic. It seems as though the days drag on and blend together, like one of your sister’s oil paintings. I remember when we visited her over the holiday season. I watched her spread the paint over the canvas with a delicate hand, blending seamlessly from one color to the next. That’s how I feel right now, Clyde, like God has taken a paintbrush and blurred the lines that separate the days in my life. I find comfort in knowing the hand is still gentle, though. I really should ask your sister over sometime, maybe an afternoon tea will help take my mind off things, maybe she’d be able to paint me. On second thought, I don’t think I look in a state to be painted, actually.
That wretched new neighbor of ours, Mrs. Hadley, was it? She paid a visit the other day, I was down in the garden tilling the soil and when I walked back up to the house she was sitting in your chair on the porch. Just that made me want to take my boot off and throw it at her head, tell her to ‘git’. But I took a deep breath and
I remembered that just because I live on a farm doesn’t mean I can’t act civil and be a lady. Though I did really want to ask her to get out of your chair. She was wearing this fancy pale blue number and a white sun hat tied to her head with a scarf. I felt a little awkward standing next to her in your dirty oversized overalls, all covered in stains, like when a big man with a beard stands next to a little girl in her Easter dress. She was holding a large white picnic basket in her lap and I remember wondering if it
was heavy on her skinny little legs, but I didn’t offer to help. Instead I just asked her what brought her across the way.
She told me she knew it must’ve been hard for me with you working overseas and so she brought over some casserole she made. I could’ve knocked her teeth in, the nerve. What? Like I’m so sad and helpless without a man in the house? I was seething at the assumption, you can imagine. Anyway, I took the basket and I said my thank yous to mind my manners. I told her not to bother to come by again because I have everything under control and so she went on her way. It really pains me to admit this to you Clyde, but that woman’s casserole tasted so good I would’ve walked down the street and asked for the recipe if the lady wasn’t such a chore to talk to. I do wish you could’ve tried some though, I would save you a piece if the freezer wasn’t still on the fritz.
I miss you really badly, hun. Please come home soon. I’m counting down the days; 123. Bring me back something sweet, just like you always do.
I love you, Your Mitsy
***
My Dearest Clyde,
When I woke up this morning something terrible had happened. I got out of bed and walked over to cross a day off the calendar like I always do, and as I was getting dressed I noticed something strange out the window. There was a load of feathers scattered up and down the little dirt path just past the vegetable garden. I ran out in such a hurry that I didn’t even slip my boots on. I just went barefoot not even feeling the way the stones and the sharp needles stabbed into my feet.
A fox had gotten into the chicken coop. I looked around in horror at the sight of the reddened feathers. Chicken guts stuck to the dirt and the walls and I could see
chunks of different body parts all scattered about. Pools of dried brown blood soaked the sawdust at the bottom of the coop. Oh, Clyde! It was truly the most God-awful thing I’ve ever seen. Our poor babies must’ve suffered so much, I couldn’t even bring myself to clean up the mess.
I’ve felt so depressed since this morning, I haven’t done any chores or eaten any food. I just put on one of your button ups, the dark green one with the little white paint stain on the sleeve, and I crawled into bed and I cried. I just woke up a few moments ago. Right in time to watch the sunset over the massacre that took place on our little farm. I hardly feel well. I could barely pick up the pencil I’m using right now to write this letter, and I’m sure you’ve noticed how shaky my penmanship is. I wish you were here with me, you would’ve known what to do about the chickens. You could’ve held me when I cried and stroked my head like you do and whispered ‘Oh baby, it’s alright. They’re up in their little chicken heaven now. Don’t you worry darlin’ I’m with you.’ and then I would’ve said ‘You promise, Clyde?’ and you would’ve squeezed me tight and planted a kiss on my forehead because you know how I love when you do that and you’d say ‘Of course I promise, Mitsy.’
But none of that did happen. Because you’re gone across the ocean being a good husband providing for me, and I’m here crying over chickens I was eventually going to butcher and eat anyways. I make myself sick, pitying myself so bad. Especially writing all these letters about how much I miss you, it makes me feel guilty, because I know you’re missing me too. I’m sorry Clyde, you don’t need to be worrying about me I’ll be fine. I only have 104 days left, I’ll make it through.
Send me a picture of you in your next letter, I want to make sure I don’t forget anything about your beautiful face. Oh! And I nearly forgot, I bought that painting from your sister, the one she was painting at Christmastime. I shipped her a couple of jars of my apricot jelly and she happily mailed the painting to me. I hung it in the kitchen above the dining room table. Sometimes, if I wake up early enough, the light from the kitchen window hits it in just a way that the whole kitchen seems to turn golden. I like to sit there and drink my coffee and watch as the color creeps in to touch every surface, then slowly fades away like it was never there. Quiet moments like these feel special to me, like a little secret between me and the world. I can’t wait to share the secret with you.
I love you, Your Mitsy
***
My Dearest Clyde,
I feel regrettable to write only of bad news, but I’ve been feeling terribly ill as of late. I can’t describe this feeling, but it’s as if all my limbs are made of sand. They weigh me down and the sand leaves me cotton mouthed and heaving. It’s hard to breathe, like there’s a brute stepping on my ribs, pushing down with his heavy, metal toed boots. With the chickens gone I hardly have reason to get out of bed anymore. I brought the calendar to my bedside and I sleep with it under my pillow. It’s become pretty ineffective now though, because I hardly know what day it is. Sometimes when I wake up it is dark outside, and I can’t tell if I slept for 3 hours or 30.
Even now, writing this letter is taking a large toll on my energy. I feel so tired. I would send for the doctor but I’m afraid he’ll send me to a mad house or dope me up on that new medication you sometimes see in the papers. The leaves are starting to turn and the nights have a chilly bite that pinches at your nose. The vegetables in the garden rotted long ago because I never harvested them and food is running low. I’m not worried about it though, I hardly have an appetite these days. I’ve begun to notice that my skin
looks thinner and my undereyes have this hollow feeling. Like I’m looking at a ghost. So I threw all the mirrors out; I was starting to feel haunted.
Mrs. Hadley started coming by again, sometimes when I’m laying in bed not asleep, but staring at the ceiling, I’ll hear her knocking at the door. She shouts ‘Mrs. Stradford! Are you okay in there? I haven’t seen you in church in an awfully long while. It’s not good for a young little lady like yourself to be cooped up inside all day.’ I never answer and she eventually goes away, at least until the next Sunday when I don’t show up for church again and she comes and checks on me and the whole process starts over.
Lately I’ve been taking up a sort of bet with myself, seeing how long I can go without making a sound. It’s been days since I heard the sound of my own voice. I’m scared if I talk now it’ll sound foreign and strange. I don’t want to be a stranger to myself, Clyde. What if I never speak again?
I promise I’ll try to get better before you return. I don’t want you to come back and have to pick up the pieces of your broken wife. Just 79 more days–I think. I can fix myself up by then.
I love you, Your Mitsy
***
My Dearest Clyde,
I don’t know how to describe it, but I’ve had an epiphany of sorts. This morning something inside of me just clicked, and I realized I was acting a miserable fool. I don’t need to be cooped up in my bed, in the house, in this town even. I control my own life. I threw off the covers with a fervor I’ve only ever experienced a few times in my 26 years and I got dressed. I was going to make myself some breakfast but all the food in the pantry had spoiled, so you know what I did? I went to the market. Yes, I’m being honest, and Clyde, you’d better believe me when I tell you, those silly people couldn’t believe their eyes. They stared at me mouth agape like they didn’t know what just hit them. I smiled brighter than the sun, wider than the seas, wilder than a jungle, and they all paled at the sight of a woman so confident and so free. It was so funny I had to pinch the skin at my sides not to laugh in all of their faces.
Once I got home with my groceries I went to work, cleaning out the pantry, cleaning up the chicken coop, raking leaves, dusting, mopping, shoveling out the rot from the garden. I worked until my fingers went blue from the cold, not stopping for so much as a drink of water. I was pure energy, pure feminine fuel. Not quite rage, but something else, something different. I felt like a goddess in my own body, I could feel liquid gold running through my veins buzzing up through my skin. And at the end of the day I took a nice, hot bath. I must’ve been in there for 2 hours, until the water went chilly and left goosebumps up my prickled spine.
I tried to go to bed but I just have so many good ideas running through my head. I can’t sleep, I’ve got big plans, Clyde. Big, big plans. Ooh I’m getting nervous energy just thinking about it, I honestly can’t believe I didn’t think of this sooner. I can’t tell you about them, not yet. Soon, 35 days.
I’ve got to wrap up this letter though, it’s getting late and I really should get some sleep. After all, I’ve got church in the morning.
I love you, Your Mitsy
***
My Dearest Clyde,
I have never felt more alive. The fall air fills my lungs and I take it all in selfishly, gracefully. Lately I’ve found myself laughing at everything. Who knew the world was so
funny? Everyone’s so serious nowadays, I think they just need to be more like me, relax a little bit. I always tell them, just laugh, it’s good for the soul.
I see all these women sitting in the pews at church with their fancy hats and tight lips, glaring bullets at their children for not minding and I can’t help myself. The preacher tries to get on with his preaching but my laughing is distracting, before I know it, everybody’s staring at me. This makes me laugh even harder, can you imagine? Caring so much about one woman’s laughter to interrupt an entire church service? Afterwards I hear some of the older ladies whispering amongst themselves about how they don’t know which was worse; when I never showed up to church or now that I show up, I can’t stop laughing. I stifle another laugh at this.
The people in the town are starting to think I’m crazy. How typical. I’m not crazy, just so you know. In fact, I feel more sane than ever. My long wait is nearly over, you’ll be home in a week and the house is so clean it shines. I threw out all the furniture, I realized it was holding us back from becoming our greater selves. I threw out a lot of stuff. Clutter. It was all clutter. Gunking up our house and our minds. I like it much better now and I think you will too. The walls are all blank, empty canvases to project any ideas you have on. The only thing I kept was your sister’s oil painting, I couldn’t throw it away. Some days I’ll just stand in the kitchen, stiff as a board, and stare at it for hours. I try to pick out each brush stroke, see if I can count how many fibers the paintbrush might’ve had.
I threw out all our clothes too, everything except our wedding clothes. Whenever I go out I wear the wedding dress, people stare but I think it’s funny. I paid for this dress. Why can’t I wear it? I ask and they shut up and walk away real fast. I like wearing it out and about, it makes me feel like a princess walking among peasants. I like feeling
like I’m better than these people, because I know I am. This is just one way of showing them that I know. When I’m not out I just walk around the house naked. Most people are too scared of me to visit now, so I’m not worried about anyone seeing.
Plus, no clothes makes me feel strangely animal, wild and dangerous. Sometimes I crawl around the house on all fours and make these weird grunting and howling noises, just to see what it’d be like. I pretend I’m a fox, I slink around on the floor, stalking my prey, not making a sound. I leave a cooked chicken in the living room, I like to pretend it’s alive and unsuspecting. I sneak up real close and then I pounce. I tear at the flesh with my bare hands and gnarled teeth, I feel unstoppable. The adrenaline falls over my head like a goose down blanket, and when I’m full, I like to lay down under the window and rub my round little belly. I leave the clean bones in a pile in the corner, I think I want to make a baby mobile out of them.
Oh, yeah, I forgot to tell you. Those are my big plans, Clyde. I want to have a baby. I think it’s just what we need, I’m finally ready. As soon as you come back let’s do it, okay? Let’s have a baby. I can’t stop thinking about it. I want to be a mama so bad. I want to create something with you, something special, something unique, just for us. In just 7 days it’ll happen. You’ll be home and I can share all my great ideas with you. You and I can be foxes together, running around naked like the wild animals we’re supposed to be, hunting and howling. And then you’ll put a baby in me.
I love you, Mitsy
***
Dear Clyde,
You were supposed to come home today. I got your letter yesterday, you know, the one that said you weren’t coming back. That you weren’t ever coming back. Tell me something Clyde, is that new woman you’re staying for good in bed? Is she fuller than me? Does she whisper sweet names to you with her hot breath against your skin? You disgust me. When I read that letter I didn’t cry, I couldn’t even laugh. I just screamed. I screamed until my throat let out sounds that only God could hear. I screamed until I coughed up blood into the palms of my wretched hands.
How could you? After all these months where I waited patiently for you? These months where I grew sicker in my longing for you? And you turn around and deceive me like all my suffering meant nothing? You’re a pig. No, at least a pig knows what he is, you’re worse than a pig, you’re a chicken. I thought you were a fox like me but you’re a no-brained, empty-headed, cowardly chicken.
I hope you’re happy with yourself Clyde. I hope you’re just the happiest being a chicken with your new whore. You know what? I don’t need you anyways, a fox doesn’t need a pack to be ferocious, you would’ve just dragged me down. I even have the proof right here next to me.
You see, Mrs. Hadley heard my screaming, it’s truly amazing how one woman can be so nosey. She came by, knocked tentatively at the door. I was curled in a ball on the kitchen linoleum, hugging your letter close to my chest. I croaked out a sound that didn’t really sound like words. She cracked the door open slowly and I saw the look on her face as she stepped inside and took it all in. She didn’t even see me in the kitchen, instead she walked right past me to the living room. Her eyes widened in horror at the manic scribbles plastered on the walls and she covered her mouth and nose at the stench. ‘Oh God!’ I heard her exclaim. I didn’t like it one bit, this rabbit in my den, judging it as if she was holier than me.
I peeled myself off the floor, very quietly, just like I had practiced before. The only difference was that this time my prey could fight back, so I grabbed a knife from the block on the counter. Clever fox. She was standing in the middle of the room, chicken bones crunched beneath her feet. I nearly gave myself away by laughing at her. Silly rabbit, didn’t she know you should avoid making noise when you’re being hunted?
I wish you could’ve seen me, I was so graceful. It all happened swiftly like a ballet dance. I skulked and weaved around the bones, a pirouette, a grand jete. I was light, I was beautiful. The rabbit never suspected a thing until the fox sunk her teeth in. Mrs. Hadley screamed, she fell to the floor and I completed my ambush. Raising the knife high above my head before bringing it back down again, like it was lifting me up to heaven, then dragging me down to hell, over and over.
The red stained my naked body, curdling in my hair and crawling in my fingernails. I was always tired after a hunt, but this one took more out of me than usual. I laid back and let the hot liquid pool out under me. Laughing, I made a snow angel. Could your new woman ever do that? Could she fend for herself so graciously? So bewitchingly? In that moment I was more than animal, more than human. I was pure unbridled rage, bubbling to the surface. I was a goddess possessed by power, by regency.
That’s a feeling you can never take away from me. I’ve felt it, Clyde. And now I want it back. This will be the last you hear from me, you don’t deserve my words anymore.
I am more than you ever were, and I am more than you’ll ever be. And take this as a warning, Clyde. If you ever try to come back, I’ll hunt you too.
Sincerely, Mitsy