One Word

I never formally agreed to your no-talking experiment, “the Great Word Embargo,” as I think you would call it, were you still speaking to me.

Marion,

I know what you think about letters. I know you don’t believe in “the power of words,” but I just couldn’t mime this out for you. It’s too important.

The things that you do affect me. The decisions you make for us— I have to live with those too. I never formally agreed to your no-talking experiment, “the Great Word Embargo,” as I think you would call it, were you still speaking to me.

And you must be speaking at work, dear. That’s not an accusation, but an observation. You have half a dozen subordinates. You’re constantly checking your voicemail. Surely, at some point, you’ve called someone back.

I know what you would say, if you weren’t refusing all verbal communication— Oh it’s easy for you to say. You work at home and don’t have to talk to anybody. But, as I’ve tried and failed to silently enact for you, it’s not so much that I don’t have to talk to anybody as I don’t get to. No one calls me. I write one email a day, usually to myself, and rarely get a response. Lord knows Buster can’t talk. All day I sit in silence and then you come home, gesticulating half-heartedly like Buster Keaton on Xanax. I try to understand. I try to explain. I try, I try, I try. All day I contrive new ways to visually express my thoughts to you, but you’re so exhausted after work that you will barely keep your eyes open.

I had a dream that my father was still alive last night. This is something you probably failed to decode from this morning’s round of charades. The dream went on all night. I was working at his factory again. The factory was much bigger and was on an island. It smelled like sawdust instead of the pungent, sour sting of metal that I remember so well. But it was the same factory otherwise. Buster was there.

Dad was giving a small group of people a tour of the facilities while I tagged along. At one point on the tour he got to a huge double door. He had me open the door and there was my childhood bedroom. All of my toys were laid out, there was dirty underwear on the floor, and all of those embarrassing posters I used to love so much plastered the walls. Dad said, “And this is my son’s room, where he wets the bed and masturbates.” Everyone on the tour looked at me. My dad approached, laid a hand on my shoulder and said, “Everyone grows up, son. It’s time to stop fucking that Kelly girl.” And even though he said Kelly, I knew in the dream that he meant you.

Now I don’t have a clue what to make of that dream, and frankly I don’t care. You were always more interested in that sort of thing than me. But when I woke up, I wanted so badly just to tell you about it. To share it with you. I miss talking to you. I miss telling you things and listening to your reactions. I miss the way your tongue dances in the middle of your mouth when you’re paused, mid-sentence, searching for exactly the right word.

Words! You used to love words. What happened? When did words become the enemy? You told me, in that first desperate pantomime after the curtain of silence fell, that you felt words were becoming a barrier to true intimacy. But this doesn’t feel more intimate. It feels like we’re stuck, in that last argument, with my question still hanging in the air, unanswered:

Are you cheating on me?

Is that why you stopped talking, Marion? Is that it? Did I ask a question you were unwilling to answer?

If we were speaking, you would say I was being paranoid. And I am. Sitting in total silence for 24 hours a day makes me feel very, very paranoid.

I got a call from Brendan yesterday. I wanted nothing more than to answer the phone and talk to him, talk to someone, anyone. But our romance is too dear to me. If this “silence” experiment is as important to you as you’re making it out to be, I’ll be the first to sew my lips shut and keep quiet until such a time that you’re ready. Ready  for words again. Ready to laugh again. Ready to cry again. Oh God, Marion, when will it end?

You probably resent me for this written breach of our unspoken agreement. But you get upset even when I make urgent, nondescript sounds, like last night when I choked on that pretzel. What’s happening to us, and is there any hope? If there was one word you could say to me, just one word, what would it be? I know what mine would be…

I love you, Marion, and I hope to talk to you soon.

Always Yours,
Norman