Behind the Purple Door

Dearest Rachel –

Well, I mentioned in my last letter that there were topics that I can’t write about here in any detail – and then I proceeded to go into more detail than I thought possible, but only about the first two of them. And these weren’t even the ones that I actively avoid (or the subject that precipitated this pair of essays in the first place). These were basically the ones where even I know that you just have to be really careful about who you’re talking to about them (although, perhaps, when it comes to the plan of salvation, that’s probably the opposite of what I should be doing).

So, if you’re willing to bear with another letter today (and not get too embarrassed about it, although the fact that you didn’t generally tend to in the first place factors into a few stories), I figure I might as well cover the other two topics that everybody tells me I should remain mum about. Because having to do so is a source of quite a bit of frustration, and not a small amount of fear, as well. Don’t worry; I’ll explain.

These topics aren’t just the ones you hold off on discussing in a public place, lest someone of a different persuasion take offense and invite you to settle the matter over fisticuffs (or worse). No, these are the things that, like with Bruno or Fight Club, you don’t talk about. Them’s the rules. They’re the ones only shared behind closed doors, in hushed, secretive tones, between consenting adults.

That’s right; I’m talking about… money.

What, did you think I was going to discuss our sex life? Actually, that’s the other subject, and I’ll get to it, but no… it’s our financial situation that I want to address first of all. After all, this is what started me on the subject in the first place.

You see, a while ago, while at the attorney’s office, he brought out a slip of paper upon which you had written a list of names. This was part of what we had once jokingly referred to as the Clockface Trust; twelve people (including ourselves and Daniel) with whom we planned to share some major financial windfall with, should it ever happen, such as a lottery win. We later expanded the number to include my sister, her husband and my parents, along with another friend we determined could use the benefit of such an occurrence, renaming it the Cicada Trust (because of their seventeen-year cycle, you’ll recall). However, it wasn’t ever made an official part of a will for either of us, since things hadn’t been sorted out with your parents’ estate; it was just names on a slip of paper in your handwriting.

But you know what I like to do with pieces of paper with your handwriting. I had thought to write you and let you know that I was going to honor your unofficial bequests, now that your estate is finally being wound down.

And yet, I couldn’t do it. I’d have to, at the bare minimum, obscure the surnames so that the general public wouldn’t know who was on the list. And while many of them have been mentioned in various previous letters, not everyone who has been is on there, and some of them (from either side of this yes-or-no binary) read these letters, and know the ones on the list… well, you could see how this would breed trouble, even over a relatively small amount such as your life insurance payout. I’ve essentially decided not to publish your list, but just use this letter to let you know that the bequests are being made, and complain a little about how this is the best I can do on the subject.

It’s a shame it has to be this way, but there’s no getting around the fact that one just doesn’t broadcast how one is doing financially. Granted, certain celebrities seem to make a career out of doing just that, but they’re clearly outliers – and one rather expects the rich and famous to be very nearly one and the same group of people. And while there are those who pretend to be part of that crowd (which I don’t understand in the slightest – why do that, when you have to spend so much in order more than you can afford in order to claim to be worth more than you are? Sooner or later, that’s gonna catch up with you), it’s not a desirable place to be, where those who don’t have what you do cast envious eyes on you. At best, there will be those who dislike you for that reason; at worst, there will be those scheming to take some (or all) of it away from you. It’s an unfortunate aspect of human nature.

But it does mean that it makes it hard to be happy about being successful. You always found it weird that I didn’t like playing certain games with you and the rest of the crowd. Part of the reason was that, in certain cases, you could see victory (or defeat) coming from miles away. When I was losing (which was more often than I’d have liked, but perfectly logical – I didn’t enjoy playing, so I didn’t practice, so I didn’t get any good as it), it was agonizing to keep going. But when I was winning, it wasn’t any fun either, as I knew what the others were going through, and felt like I needed to apologize for doing well.

That’s where I am today, and in some ways, where we were some three years ago. Indeed, I wonder if losing you is the one thing that gives me even the slightest permission to talk about the subject; it makes me as much an object of pity as envy, and thus offsets somehow. It’s just a theory, though…

***

Now, as much as I’ve written enough material for a whole letter already, I’ve already put this off long enough. Besides, I shouldn’t dwell too long on the subject at this juncture, anyway – I’d like to think I’ve made my point about subjects I can’t talk about, and why that restriction chafes so. But there’s one more unique issue when it comes to our love life.

I started this website, in part as a form of therapy after losing you, yes, but also as a way to try and write down stories of you and me as I could remember them, even as I related to you the things that were going on here in your absence. I knew that, the longer I let those memories fade, the dimmer many of them would get, until they disappeared entirely, so they had to be committed to text as soon as possible once they came to me, before they vanished into the past, like a dream. Sometimes, I would even acknowledge I couldn’t remember all the facts of a certain event – and occasionally, I would be contacted by someone else who had been a part of that moment, who would fill me in on certain details I’d missed; an example of this would be the old lights in the laundry room and the hall.

That’s not the case with this subject. Just about everything we did was just between us – although there was that one discovery early in our marriage that you were so pleased about that you announced it in a Bible study, when the customary “praise and prayer requests” question came up. Our leader’s wife was mortified, not unlike that time your folks came up for Thanksgiving, and your mom greeted me with a hearty “How the hell are ya, Randy?!”

But that was an exception. For the most part, these aren’t things that people discuss, despite the tacit understanding that ‘all married couples do that’; you’d think that, with that understood, there might be a little more said about it , but no. So if there are gaps in my recollection, there is no one there to fill me in on what actually happened. I can’t commit these things to text, but it’s the only way I can think of to keep those memories alive.

Now, I’ve made the occasional oblique reference here and there – even the Bible study anecdote leaves out a lot of details, such as the ‘who’ and ‘what’ – but by and large, there is a lot that has been left unsaid. And it scares me to think that, by leaving it as such, I’ll forget about so much of it over time. There’s something tragic about losing any memory of those particular moments we shared together, as much because they were just between us as anything else.

So honey, if you can slip a memory or two my way (along with permission to share it), I’d appreciate it. Until then, keep an eye on me, and wish me luck. I’m going to need it.