Disclaimer: Not mine.
A/N: This idea was with me for a few days before I was able to write it down. Hope you enjoy!
His hands are gripping the steering wheel, the same way they were more than half an hour ago. His window is rolled down, but it hardly makes any difference in the temperature, seeing as his shirt is soaked with sweat. He blinks now and then to keep sweat from rolling into his eyes. One other car has passed him since he pulled to this spot and turned the ignition off. There is no breeze to circulate through his window, making the heat heavier, a blanket draped over his slim form. He drove for more than four hours to get to this place, and yet he hasn't gotten out.
An envelope on the passenger seat contains a letter that he wrote a long time ago, but had some trouble sending. After all, how does one know the street names of Heaven unless they've been there? And then, of course, it would be too late. That wasn't the only thing that caused him trouble though. The whole situation, the whole idea, the contents of the letter, the person he had written it to... that was really the problem.
But she had urged him, strongly, to drive down to Baltimore and give him the letter. Well, 'give' being a relative term. It was more 'place it at the foot of his headstone' than 'give it to him'. To hand it to him would be quite difficult. They had talked at length about it, about the topic surrounding the reason he had written the letter on to so many other topics, completely unrelated, yet related simply because of how he had met her. The circumstances under which they had begun to know each other better. To know each other, period.
There are heat waves coming from the hood of his car, weaving themselves into the air, surrounding themselves with more heat. He's thirsty, the back of his throat aching for water, but he denies himself. He's not ready to get out of his car yet, and until he is, and until he does this, his thirst will have to wait. Mentally, he reviews the contents of the letter. He's read over it so many times since he wrote it that he practically memorized it. Now, every word causes another drop of doubt to fall from brow, only to land on his clothes and soak in. But still, those drops are leading him closer. Closer to the resolve that will allow him to open the door, take the letter in his hand and give it to his father.
Dear Dad,
You know, they have us write these letters to our family in case we die in the line of duty, but I never thought I'd write a letter to someone who was already dead. Although you, being dead, receiving a letter from me is probably as weird as Mom or Bernie receiving a letter from me after I'm dead. But that's not why I'm writing, to tell you how strange this world we live in is, or rather, the world I live in.
He had rambled for that first paragraph. But at the same time, he had felt it necessary to keep it. It represented something, he knew, but he could never put his finger on it, no matter how many times he read the damn thing. In the end, he always gave up, put the letter away until the next time he took it out and decided to ponder its hidden meaning.
After you died, Mom moved us to New York City. We stayed there for a few years, then moved back to Pikesville, but to the other side of town. Mom was so ashamed that you had committed suicide. I still don't think she's come to terms with it, or you. She never was able to understand why, though now I think I may have come up with reasons somewhat closer than hers. Although, one never knows. Maybe she did figure it out. We don't talk as much as we should, nor do we see each other as often as we should. But don't worry, we're both getting along fine.
After he had written that his mother was ashamed of his father, he immediately started to wonder if he should put it in there. He didn't want his father to think that his mother hated him or anything. He had brought up this point with Amy, but she had told him to keep it in there. It was important for his father to know all that. Still, he was doubtful, but she had fixed him that look she had and he gave up on that point.
After high school, I went on to college. Because of the conflict in Vietnam and my feelings concerning it, I dropped out, travelling many times to Washington, DC to participate in protests. I wondered at the time how you would feel. I know Mom didn't necessarily agree with what I was doing. She felt, as I believe you did, that America had a right to intervene in Vietnam and try to stop Ho Chi Minh and the communists. After the war, however, I returned to school and finished.
I took up many odd jobs, trying to find something that I might take serious interest in and pursue as a profession, but nothing did. Then I decided, almost on a whim, to try to get into the police academy. I was accepted and began training. Perhaps I thought that becoming a cop would make you proud. I know that you always looked upon them with great respect, along with soldiers, but after Vietnam, becoming a soldier was the last thing I wanted to do. Still, there are times when I wonder at my choice of a cop. There are events from my life that I feel might have played a role in my career choice, but on the other hand, I thought my ideas of the world and government would have swayed me. Apparently, they didn't.
Those had been the hardest parts to write. After nearly thirty years of being a cop, he had yet to figure out just why he had become a cop. He assumed some of it had to do with pleasing his father, but some of it surely had to do with things he'd witnessed. Maybe the abuse done to his childhood neighbor in New York, or maybe it was a simple childhood awe of the police shows he watched as a young boy that never really left him.
As for his participation in protests and such against the Vietnam War, he was nearly positive that, if his father had been alive, there would have been many heated disagreements over it. His father had come to America as a young man out of a concentration camp. The United States was the greatest thing that had happened to him since... since forever. He was free, and best of all, there was no Hitler and no daily dose of death. If his son started protesting against his government's actions, well that was a slap to the face of a father who desperately wanted to repay the country that had taken him in.
First, I was a beat cop in the Southwestern district of Baltimore, and eventually I became a detective, doing a stint in the robbery division and then finally settling down with the homicide unit. I married Gwen as a beat cop, then we divorced. I married three more times, all of which ended in divorce. Mom has never liked that either, unable to understand why I can't seem to remain married to any one woman for the rest of my life. She doesn't seem to understand the fact that I don't know why either. I suspect some things are meant to be left un-understood for a good long while, perhaps eternity.
After my last marriage broke up, I retired from Baltimore and moved back up to New York City. A couple months of retirement, and I realized I wasn't made for it. As odd as it sounds, I needed to be a cop, I needed to work. So I took up the position of a detective for the NYPD in the Special Victims Unit. I've been here for a couple years now, been through as many partners, and slid into as much of a routine a detective ever has.
The kinds of things I've seen in the past couple years have been some of the most horrific ever, but have led me to the most thinking. I learned long ago to not ask why someone kills someone else, yet I found myself learning that lesson again after joining SVU. Still, I've found myself thinking of you more than before. Wondering why. I know that no matter how hard I search for that why, I'll never truly know. I'll just have assumptions, ideas. I used to think, in the naivety of childhood, the innocence of childhood, that it was my fault. I told you I hated your guts and the next day you were dead by your own hand. I've long since realized it wasn't my fault, not entirely. There are times that I think being in a concentration camp and seeing what you did might have led you to depression and then suicide. There are many more theories, explanations to myself why you did it.
To be honest, after the shock of finding you, I was angry with you. With you and myself. Looking back, I imagine I was more angry with myself than you. As time wore on, that anger was replaced with curiosity, and of late, it's been replaced by forgiveness. That's the reason I wrote this letter. Why I've rambled on for so long. To tell you I forgive you.
The last drop of doubt falls from his brow and he moves for the first time it what seems like eternity. Hands still gripping the steering wheel, looks down at the envelope staring at him from the passenger seat, daring him. Squinting his eyes, he looks to his left, the west, where the sun is beginning to set. He takes his hands off the wheel and one goes for the letter while the other slips into the handle to open the door. Pulling it, the door swings open and he steps out, ignoring his aching joints. That can wait, along with the still aching thirst.
He leaves the door open and crosses the gravel road, walking straight down the row of graves. He hasn't been here in years, nearly a decade and a half, but that doesn't diminish his memory of where his father's headstone lies. He weaves among the graves, letting his tired feet guide him. There it is. For a minute, he stands over it, looking at the name and the lack of any decoration around it. Kneeling in the grass, he reaches out and traces the letters of his father's name, then pulls his hand back as though burned. Hanging his head, he allows a small prayer to escape his lips then looks back up at the unforgiving stone. He props the letter up against it, then stands and turns around, walking back to his car without looking back.
Climbing back into the car, he starts it, turns on the air conditioner full blast and goes back down the gravel road that leads to the city he left nearly eight years ago. To a bar where he can get a cool drink, meet up with some old friends and rehash memories of times long past. To a hotel he'll crash at until early the next morning and then leave for home, leaving a part of him he should have left years ago to his father.
Love,
John