Dear Constance 

Words by Madeleine Pelletier

Art by Sandra Eckert

November 1, 1937

Dear Constance,

I cannot believe it has been a month since I last wrote you, dearest sister, but I have so much to do and time really does fly!

The little restaurant in town is doing well, and no meal is complete without a slice of Myrtle’s famous pie. Daniel’s wife helps me mornings in the kitchen and at the lunch hour when we deliver the pies. We’ve been especially busy these days. The ski hill has been very popular since the addition of the tow-rope, and one day a week an instructor comes and gives lessons. All sorts are coming out to try this new sport, and we’ve just learned a hotel will be opening soon.

Of course, the most wonderful news of all is that I am to be a grandmother! Daniel’s wife is expecting this spring. I am dizzy with joy, though I’ll miss having her work with me. She is such a smart and capable girl. Daniel could not have chosen better. He, too, is over the moon at the prospect of becoming a father.

And now that I’ve shared my delight, I must admit my sorrow. There is still no news from Tom. It’s been over a year since we quarreled. Will he ever come back? Can he ever forgive me? I lay awake every night worrying about that foolish young man. 

All My Love,

Myrtle

December 6, 1937

Dear Constance,

I hope this letter finds you well. I pray you are feeling better than when last you wrote. New England winter nights are long and dark and can cause low spirits along with chills in the bones. Do not give in to the doldrums! 

Life is fine here in the White Mountains. Daniel has taken up skiing, and it has caused a bit of a commotion at home. On his first outing, he crashed into another fellow and came away from it with a broken tooth and a black eye. His wife feels it’s too dangerous, but Daniel is adamant that it’s perfectly safe once you learn how. I agree with his wife, but since no one has asked my opinion, I am biting my tongue.

Do not think me foolish, Constance, but I’ve hired a private detective to find Tom. I’m all nerves, but I cannot go on without news of my boy. If we could speak, just one more time, I’m sure I could convince him to see my side.

All My Love,

Myrtle

January 3, 1938

Dear Constance,

I hope you passed a wonderful Christmas and a Happy New Year! I wonder, dearest sister, if this would be a good time for you to visit me. Some of the musings in your last letter were rather troubling and I suspect a change in your environment and the proximity of family might benefit you. Say yes and I will arrange everything.

Things continue to be busy here. Daniel has given up skiing (another tumble and a few broken fingers put an end to his sporting aspirations, thankfully, before any real damage was done) and his wife has quit working to stay home and prepare for the baby. I hired a local woman to help me in her stead. The woman does well enough with the baking, but she’s got a sharp tongue and displeases the customers. I should send her off, but I see her bruises and know the source of her unhappiness.

The detective has tracked Tom to Chicago, where he worked for a time at the rail yard, but no one there has seen him these past six months. The detective suspects Tom joined up with a traveling carnival that passed through town around that time. I’m sure that is no easy life, and I cannot fathom a man with other options would choose to live on the road. I fear he may be following in his father’s footsteps. Of course, I am keeping those suspicions to myself.

All My Love,

Myrtle

February 7, 1938

Dearest Constance,

Please reconsider visiting us. Daniel’s baby is coming soon. And the woman who was helping with the baking has gone. There are so many things to do and not enough hours in the day. I’d be forever grateful for your help.

A few weeks ago, my helper arrived at work with a broken arm and bruises on her neck. I knew she wouldn’t last much longer, so I introduced her to our friends who live near the border. The next week the woman and her children disappeared. The sheriff came to the restaurant to question me, the husband pacing behind him with fists balled and steam coming from his ears. I’m afraid they were quite disappointed by my lack of knowledge. What did they expect? I’m just a poor widow who bakes pies and minds her own business. 

The detective is still looking for Tom. He’s headed down south, where he says many of the carnival folk spend the winter. Perhaps Tom is there, or at least someone knows of him. I pray each day for news.

Daniel has been asking questions about Tom. I suppose with the baby coming, he’s been contemplating the importance of family. And, no doubt, he misses his brother too. He knows Tom and I quarreled, but not why. Tom never told him about finding the gun, nor about the memories that had begun to plague him. For all his anger at me, Tom loves Daniel. He would rather hide his pain and sever ties than risk hurting his brother. However, he did not anticipate the pain that his absence has caused. I’m wondering if I did not make the same mistake with you, Constance. 

Part of me wants to confess everything, to avoid the risk of alienating Daniel as I did his brother, but I fear if I unburdened myself now, the results would be far worse. I refused to tell Tom for fear of Daniel finding out. Tom is stubborn when he does not get his way, but Daniel is all heart. Knowing the truth about his father would destroy him. No. I must stay strong and believe I made the right choice, then as now.

All My Love,

Myrtle

February 28, 1938

Dear Constance,

Why must you worry me so? You would never be a burden and it breaks my heart to hear you say we’d be better off without you. That’s nonsense, pure and simple. You should be with family when you are feeling low. We all should. And I could honestly use your help.

Though she is not due for a month at least, Daniel’s wife has taken to her bed. Her head hurts her terribly, and she is complaining of blurred vision and trouble breathing. The doctor visits regularly, but he says there is nothing to do but rest. He concludes that she is simply a hysterical girl who knows nothing of the workings of her own body. But I believe her when she tells me something is wrong. I labored side by side with her in the kitchen for more than a year and that girl never complained once. I’ve asked our friends to find me another doctor, one more sympathetic to women. Hopefully, we will hear from them soon.

Daniel is worried sick. He asked me if I ever suffered in such a way when I had him or Tom. What could I tell him? I said no, which is the truth, but also a lie. 

I keep thinking of Tom and our last conversation. Tell me the truth, he said. But I couldn’t. No child should have to pay for the sins of their father. On the other hand, what if he takes after his father? Would he have been able to avoid making the same mistakes if I’d told him what happened? Now that Tom and Daniel are men, do I owe them the truth? I am completely lost. 

Dear sister, you saved me once. Please help me again.

All My Love,

Myrtle

March 13, 1938

Dear Constance,

We are consumed with grief. Three days ago, Daniel’s wife and baby died. Our friends sent word of a competent doctor but, by the time he arrived, it was too late. He could save neither mother nor child. I curse myself for not seeking him out sooner. 

Daniel is inconsolable. His friends offered him a bottle to numb his agony, and he has not stopped drinking since. It was always Tom that I worried about, quick to anger, quick to fight. I never saw a hint of their father in sweet, gentle Daniel. Until now.

Perhaps it is better if you do not visit us after all. I fear seeing Daniel in this distressed state will only add to your melancholy. 

All My Love,

Myrtle

April 17, 1938

Dear Constance,

My heart is broken. 

The detective found Tom in the south and my worst fears are confirmed. The detective reports that he is a drunkard, dirty and degraded, and living with tramps. Furthermore, he wants nothing to do with me. I have failed him.

Determined to save Daniel, who has not seen a sober day since his wife and child passed, I told him as much of the truth as I could, hoping that he would see the light through his pain. I said I adopted him and Tom when his mother, a good friend of mine, died. His thoughts went to his own wife, and he asked what happened. As gently as possible, I explained that his father had killed her, that the man’s mind was troubled by drink and he didn’t understand what he was doing. I told Daniel that drinking did terrible things to people and begged him to stop. I should’ve ended there. But I foolishly told him about Tom’s sorry state. All together, it was too much for poor Daniel. He rushed from the house and I haven’t seen him for the past week.

I must make another confession, dear Constance, and I fear this one will anger you, but having lost everyone I love to secrets, I will not hide the truth anymore.

The past several months, your letters, their strange ramblings and maudlin declarations, have had me very concerned. I asked the private detective to check on you. Do you remember a stranger who knocked on your door, looking for his Aunt Ida? That was the detective. I am sorry for the subterfuge, but how else could I know if you were well since you refused to visit me?

Most unhappily, the detective reported that you were not in a sound state, mussed and mumbling about hauntings, and that the house was in great need of repair. He also learned that people in town thought you to be abandoned by your family. God forgive me, Constance. I should never have left you alone, but I was only thinking of the boys. If I had stayed close by, we could have carried the guilt together and I would have eased your burden. I failed you, too. I failed you all.

I must stay here for Daniel now, but I will come to you soon and make things right. I promise.

All My Love,

Myrtle

May 29, 1938

Dear Constance,

I’ve not had a letter from you in some time and I know you must be either angry with me or ashamed or both. I do not judge you, Constance. I love and admire you. And I owe you my life.

It was me who brought the monster to the door on that awful night. You’d tried to warn me, had made abundantly clear the risks of helping women find their way to our friends near the border. But I thought it was worth it. I did not want any child to live like we did, to lie in bed and pray for their father’s death. I was young and idealistic, and I convinced myself that you were the same, though now I realize you were just trying to protect me. 

I still don’t know how he tracked her to us. Even in that moment, scrambling to hide, my mind filled with terror, I was in awe of your courage as you stepped outside to speak to him. If it wasn’t for Daniel crying, I’m sure you would have convinced him to leave, too. But once he heard those cries, there was no stopping him. He went insane, tearing through the house like a tornado, ripping it apart, until he found us hiding in the cupboard. 

I saw you try to stop him, heard the sickening thud when he threw you across the room, the sound of her screams as he dragged her out of the cupboard by her hair. I didn’t know what to do. My mind was racing, but I couldn’t make my body move. Then, the gunshot, and I saw her fall. I retreated further into the cupboard and curled my body around those babies. He was going to kill us, would have shot his own children right through me, if it weren’t for you. Whatever else you remember of that night, you must remember this—you did what you had to do to save us.

Later, after we’d buried the knife and the bodies in the yard, you saved us again with the idea for me to take those babies as my own and pretend to be a war widow. It was you who sent us money until I found work. It was you who stayed behind and guarded our secrets, and told everyone the family with the boys a few farms over had moved on. You saved us over and over, dear sister, and I am thankful every day for your courage and strength. 

When Daniel finally came home, I told him all of this. He has stopped drinking, and he agrees we must go to you now.

We are leaving tomorrow. We may even arrive before this letter. It’s time to let us help you, Constance. Together, we’ll pack up that house full of ghosts and lies and set you free. You and I and Daniel, we’re going to take care of each other. We’ll send word to Tom, to let him know wherever we end up, he can join us.

But the first thing I’m going to do upon arrival, is bake you a pie. Mother always said, a good slice of pie with the people who love you is the best feeling in the world. We love you, Constance, and we’ll be together soon.

Your Loving Sister,

Myrtle

About the author

Madeleine Pelletier lives in an old farmhouse near Montreal, with three cats, six goats and one grumpy old man. Her short fiction has appeared in The Arcanist, Janus Literary, and Sundial Magazine. Follow her on Twitter @mad_pelletier. 

About the artist

Sandra Eckert is a doodler, a dabbler, and a messy and restless individual. An avid naturopath and off-the-road walker, she finds inspiration in the unscenic vistas and hidden places. While her interests currently lie in the world of art, she has been known to tend goats, whitewater kayak, fish for piranha, and teach teenaged humans. She is fascinated by the lessons of the natural world, both seen and unseen. Sandra holds a BFA with certification, and has continued her education both formally and informally, though she is too distracted to gather up her credits. She lives in Allentown with her husband, Peter, and her dogs, Jack and Tobi.  Additional works are available here.