What He Offered

Chapter 23: Correspondence

Bones stopped to wonder: if she had mailed, say, one letter a month to Booth in Afghanistan, would she have spared herself the eight months of misery that followed her return to D. C.? That is certainly what Booth's narrative suggested. His soft-hearted side (Tim) had argued for continued trust and patience, but that was Tim's nature: to be passive, to wait. It was different for the hard-hearted side (Vic), whose first instinct was to be active, to chase. Once Vic had determined that she had passed beyond his reach, continuing to chase was senseless. She acknowledged that, in not sending the letters she had written, she had played a part in sealing her sad fate.

To say she had written letters was inexact. Before leaving for Indonesia, she had procured a supply of hardbound journals with the intention of filling their unlined pages with drawings of the skeletal remains as they presented in situ and also once unearthed. She planned to take photos as well, of course, but there was this advantage to making drawings of the bones: in addition to the simple pleasure the activity brought her, she could pencil in notations and observations right on the same page.

Over the weeks in Maluku, she filled several volumes with sketches, some merely workmanlike and others quite beautiful. In those troubled months, studying the bones and limning their shapes on paper was a kind of therapy, a zen practice. But she was a writer as well as a competent draftswoman, and it soon occurred to her that she could fill some of the journals with words alone. From previous experience in keeping a diary, she knew it would help her focus to have an audience in mind, and so, the first night, when she sat down with the glaring white of the page before her, she wrote, "Dear Booth."

She did not censor herself: she confided all her doubts, confusions, regrets and speculations to the page. She completed the first volume by the end of the third month, and took up a second. And then, she had a daring thought: she would send the completed journal to Booth in Afghanistan. She had set her feelings down as they came to her, all jumbled up and hazy, so perhaps he would be able to make neither head nor tail of them, but they were honest feelings and true, so he might, equally, value them for that reason alone. She vacillated: to send or not to send, send, yes or send, no? She went so far as to enclose the journal in a padded manila envelope and, if a post office had been less than half a day's car ride away, she might have taken the plunge and mailed it off, but in the end, for one reason or another, she hadn't. She wondered what she'd done with those volumes…

She glanced at her Patek-Philippe wrist watch. Heavens, look at the time! She turned back to the screen, and discovered, to her surprise, that the next section looked epistolary in form…

A Tale of Twin Booths, cont'd

Dear Brennan, I dare to hope that now that you have emerged from the rainforests of Maluku, you will be able to read and respond to email sent to your work account. I entreat you, as a voice crying out to you from the desert wilderness, take pity on me and let me have some news of you, and, if you are feeling particularly generous, news of our mutual friends. I really miss you. Tim

Dear Tim, it would serve you right if I disappointed your expectations as you did mine when you failed to turn up at the reflecting pool with Vic, but I have so few opportunities to be the bigger person in our relationship that it would be profligate of me to pass this one up. So, I will put your greatest concern immediately to rest and tell you that I am as ever hale and hearty, and in good general spirits. I would love to be assured via return email that you are the same.

As I say, it was a most unwelcome shock to me that you chose to remain in Afghanistan instead of rejoining our team. I understand that you are an invaluable asset on the base (as a sort of father confessor, of all things), but selfishly, I want you back in D. C. where I can monopolize your attention, or, at worst, share you with only a few select others. Your stand-in, Dr. Lancelot Sweets, is a nice enough boy, but he is in no way your replacement. Which is to say: I miss you, too, sweetie.

I don't know how often you and Vic are in communication. I have the impression (I hope incorrect) that you and he are somewhat on the outs at the moment, so, as time permits, I will fill you in on what's new here as if you were entirely out of the loop.

You didn't ask about Jay by name, but I expect she's foremost on your mind. Jay remained in Maluku when I was recalled. She has made several good friends among the members of the archeological team, including the eminent Dr. Fred Burkle who has taken a particular interest in her. I have no doubt I left her in very good hands. She will return when the expedition wraps up in a few weeks.

I have met Vic's Hannah. I admit it took only one look at her photo to see why Vic was attracted to her: she's nearly a clone of Rebecca (or Tessa, take your pick). Although I like Hannah very much (she and I share many common character traits, after all), and, from the little I have been able to observe, she appears to make Vic deliriously happy, I find I'm worried that Vic is choosing his romantic partners in a neurotic manner, as if he is looking for Rebecca in other women in order to have a do-over which will end successfully. If I am justified in my concern, well, we all know Einstein's definition of insanity. I can just hear you now telling me to quit my amateur analyzing, and leave psychology to experts such as yourself, which I will happily do upon your return.

I have to break off for now; Angela has a simulation to show me pertaining to our current case: the double homicide of a newly-paired heterosexual couple; main suspect, the vengeful ex-girlfriend. I can't think why Vic keeps throwing anxious glances in my direction…

If you are the true friend you claim to be, you will answer this with despatch! Your old drinking buddy, Brennan

Dear Brennan, While I am overjoyed to have this first sign of life from you in eight months, I must say I find you a cruel prankster. You knew very well I would assume that Dr. Fred Burkle was a man, and that the "hands" you trusted Jay to were not merely metaphorical in nature. If I had not been able to google Dr. Winifred Burkle, I would be suffering the torments of the damned. I warn you: expect payback in kind.

I find your analysis of Vic's possible neurosis ingenious, but I feel the sample size of three attractive blondes too small to draw meaningful conclusions. I do not, however, eliminate the possibility that Vic is neurotic (who among us isn't, to some degree?).

You are exceptionally talented in many areas, Brennan, but lying is not your forte. Your word choice ("clone") gives you away. You do not like Hannah, and, to be frank with you, neither do I. That is imprecise: I don't like Hannah for Vic. She is a perfectly acceptable person in her way, but too forward for my particular taste, and certainly not a prospect for a long-term, stable relationship. I could not have made my opposition to Vic's getting involved with her any plainer, and, as you surmised, we had an argument, and did not part friends.

A few days later, Miss Julian's phone call came through. Vic showed up at my office (for lack of a better term) and announced, in that insufferable way of his, that we were leaving, and that I was to get packing, "chop, chop." I asked him if he had broken things off with Hannah, and he tried to blow me off by assuring me that she was staying behind. When I pressed him, he admitted they had no plans to stop seeing each other, at which point I informed him, coldly, that he would be making the trip to D. C. without me. What transpired next will sound familiar to you, Brennan; even as it was happening, I experienced a strong sense of déjà vu.

Vic grabbed me forcibly by the upper arm and began to drag me in the direction of my quarters, telling me there wasn't time for my foolishness, etc. I managed to free myself, and, for the first time in my life (and to my shame), I smashed my fist just under my twin's left eye with all the power of my considerable frustration and anger behind it. I shouted that I hated him, and that I would never work with him again. He was shocked, as you may well imagine: the physical violence, the rage, the vitriol —it was totally out of character for me. It's entirely possible that, in that moment, he looked at me and saw a stranger, or, what is worse, our father. But, I was too enraged to recognize any of that as it happened. I stormed away, and he let me go, shouting, "Who needs you?" (or something along those lines) after me. I have not seen him since.

So, there you have it, Brennan: a synopsis of what led to my not appearing that night on the mall. I regret many things about those events, but none more than missing the opportunity to see you.

I notice that I have neglected to reassure you as to my well-being, so I sign off as: Yours, with few serious health complaints and in mediocre spirits, Tim

Dear Tim, Your email wrung my heart. I had no idea your falling out with Vic was so severe. It explains so much about his recent behavior, which evokes very powerfully, for me at least, Shakespeare's Lady in the Play who "doth protest too much." Vic would be looking at me blankly right now, but you know your Hamlet, I'm sure.

Let me give you some examples: Vic has always been circumspect to the point of secrecy about his romantic entanglements, but now, at the least provocation, he takes out his phone and flashes Hannah's photo, congratulating himself on having secured a lover with her looks and accomplishments. When he and Hannah are out together in public, his displays of affection have all the subtly of a neon billboard: Look at me, look here! I'm in Love! And, when asked recently if he was happy with Hannah, Vic not only waxed eloquent, but went on and on, as if he was trying to convince himself as much as Sweets (who relayed this exchange to me, looking no doubt to provoke a reaction, in which attempt he failed miserably). I particularly appreciated Sweets' characterization of Vic's response as "hysterical prolixity" (the boy does have some potential). Finally, and I apologize in advance for any pain this causes you, very soon after her arrival, Vic insisted Hannah take up residence in your joint apartment. Doesn't that strike you as precipitate? He seems, to me, to be acting out of some kind of desperation, as if he's compelled to have her near.

I may be deluding myself, Tim, and I'm not trained in the mysteries of the human psyche (always assuming that such a thing exists) but I sense that Vic's bright show of happiness is more spectacle than truth: a "pay no attention to the man behind the curtain" type thing (no, don't be surprised: The Wizard of Oz is inescapable in our culture). I'm beginning to think, and I hope I'm wrong, that Vic is in real trouble.

Tim, I can't think of anything I wouldn't do to help Vic, but I don't know what to do. I need your help, sweetie. Vic needs your help. If at all possible, put in for compassionate leave, and come back to us. Yours, always, Brennan

Dear Brennan, You are the sister I never had and always wanted. I would do anything for you. I would die for you. I would kill for you, but I can't intercede in Vic's personal affairs right now. Just know this: I have faith that everything's going to be okay, eventually. Look for me when you least expect it: when you think all is lost and nothing will ever be right again, I will be there for you. I won't let you down. That's a promise from your surrogate brother who loves you, Tim.