Hello Kiki,
The last straw was orange. That, clever sister, is how I knew you were signaling to me that the authorities were on their way. Of course you had to resort to code once you recognized—as I had that afternoon—that the apartment was bugged. Orange, I thought, when you handed me the water glass with that bright warning straw. What does orange mean? Florida. We need to go to Florida. We are going to Florida. Why? Our dead tabby cat. Other pets, live pets, are in danger. What can I do about that? I have no means to save these endangered pets. Beware of someone with an artificial tan. The artificially tanned seem innocuously superficial but present a danger. No. No one needs a secret straw code to tell them that. Then I got it. Orange. Prisoners. Prison. They are coming to take me to prison.
Don’t worry that this letter has been intercepted by the authorities. Even alleged terrorists like me still get a lawyer. If they are citizens. Mine has promised to deliver my letters to you by claiming attorney-client privilege over their contents as he leaves the prison. I know. Who trusts a lawyer, you’ll think. But this one seems worthy: he’s so confident in my case that we rarely discuss it anymore. He mostly wants to talk about Mom. Weird man.
Before working out this letter arrangement with the lawyer, he was the only person I could communicate with. I’ve told him everything, that he needs to know. I was writing fiction! Yes, there were spy characters. And there were necessary pep writings I directed at myself to keep going. But this was not a diary. I wrote with paper and pen because I feared the remote access to my computer.
The lawyer’s time is limited though. And I can’t talk to anyone else here for obvious reasons. It’s not that I’m in solitary. You would think that’s what they would do, but no. They are craftier than that. The authorities want us to talk to one another. They dole out privileges for those of us who agree to sit in a circle revealing our motivations. Extra TV time for the tearful. I say nothing. But it is odd to hear what these (actual?) terrorists have to say.
I couldn’t stand myself any longer. I couldn’t get off the couch and I couldn’t stand that I was someone who couldn’t get off the couch.
Reluctant hacker.
He’ll tell me whether to go to work, which route to take, what I should say to the guy sitting at the bus stop. I have to do what he says.
Remorseful underling.
A little blood erases the pain for a little while. More blood, less pain. There’s only one endgame.
True believer?
I haven’t figured out much yet. Tell Mom not to worry.
Lima,
Jules
~ ~ ~
Kiki,
That lawyer is totally out of line. That’s right, if you’re reading this, Sullivan, which I’m sure you are, you sneak, you are out of your ivy-educated mind if you think I’ll ever agree to your deranged defense strategy. Kiki, I’ll represent myself before I’ll let this it’s-the-parents’-fault defense go forward. How did that work out for the Menendez brothers?
At least there it had something to do with the crime. What do Mom and Dad, and specifically Mom — Sullivan salivates at the mention of her — have to do with my alleged terrorism? It’s a sympathy ploy based on some sort of genetic determinism that’s confused by its reliance on poor upbringing. I don't understand the relevance. And even good ‘ol Sullivan seems to admit there is none unless I admit my guilt. Which I will never do.
I may have taken one mere undergraduate course in legal writing, but I cannot understand why our focus should not be on the illegal search. Yes, John had a habit of smoking a forest of illegal substances in that courtyard-alley-rat assembly that led to our apartment. But that was such an obvious pretext for the authorities to search my papers. Don't let him think I blame him. I blame him for many things, but not for this.
When they first arrived, despite the orange straw, I thought for a moment that the authorities were actors. You had been avoiding me, floating quietly out of the room, murmuring into your phone. Even though it was my 30th, I barely remembered seeing you since you got in that morning. Still, you pick up on things quickly, clever sister. And you could tell that they’d all done a poor job of planning to celebrate me on my third decade of existence. That I know because you kept ordering them all around, interrogating them about what they’d been doing with me. And you kicked John out of his own apartment. So for a small second, a glittery flash second, I thought you had the absurd idea of ordering me strippers.
Then I remembered the orange straw right when the sirens began. Here are some things I had written that may have been taken out of context by the non-strippers who confiscated my notebooks.
How you learn: communication, combat, communication, combat, communication, combat. . .
I will create, by force if necessary, the freedom to discover meaning.
I can go to dark, dark places. And I can come out.
Sometimes Mom was happy. Sometimes Mom was sad. With an upbringing like that, set her free, they’ll say. It makes no sense. And you wanting me to play along in the terrorist circle of Kumbaya doesn’t make sense either. I understand you want the visiting privileges that would come with it. I do too. But I can’t risk giving my firing squad ammunition. Everyone is an informant.
Tell Mom not to speak to Sullivan.
Lima,
Jules
~ ~ ~
Kiki,
You were afraid. I’ve been afraid, too. I was afraid when they took all my clothes right off of me. Even my shoe laces they removed for separate confiscation, placing them in their own bag while eying me for signs of provocation. I was afraid when they led another prisoner, screaming, to a room with a one-way-mirror. They strapped him to the table, not slowed by his struggling. One of the authorities stabbed a needle in his arm. They saw me watching. The lights dimmed. The prisoner did not scream again. I was afraid when I woke up in a strange bed with a strange woman sleeping in another strange bed beside me.
My cellmate. She was a cooperator, too. Who knows what she told them. Probably pledged allegiance to their favorite dictum.
All thoughts shape the brain. All brains shape the world.
Is that what made you so afraid, Kiki? Was my brain-shaping world-shaping too deviant for you?
I remember when we were small, you the smaller. Restless in the bottom bunk, you asked why the time would change while we slept, falling back an hour. Witches. Without hesitation I said, witches. I explained to you that time was not real. It was subject to the whim of witches. Witches would fly around that very night manually changing all the clocks themselves. So you had better go to sleep. Witches hated snoopy little girls interfering with their time manipulation.
I am sorry that the witches came for you, Kiki. If only I’d known at age seven. Time was manipulated by man. To save fuel for war. Would that have let you sleep at ease?
I’ll be sleeping easier soon. I’ve figured the way out. I just have to tell the authorities a type of password, or rather, passphrase. It’s important that I say the passphrase as if it’s a real thought that I have in my brain. As if I mean it. I’ve been practicing in my cell like an actor, repeating once and once more and once more with feeling: orange means nothing.
Charlie Uniform soon,
Jules
~ ~ ~
Dear Ms. Katherine Manning,
This letter is to inform you that I can no longer recommend continuation of the correspondence therapy begun upon your commitment of Julie Manning to our hospital. As you have surely seen from the contents of her letters, the patient has incorporated the correspondence — and much else — into her aberrant thought patterns. Transcribing of such thoughts to paper in this manner will only prolong the time required for her treatment. Accordingly, all writing materials will be prohibited for her use until further notice.
Sincerely,
Dr. Harold Sullivan
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This article appears in Feb 23 – Mar 2, 2017.