The Water-Method Man

Dear Dr Trumper:

Fred's letters to you have, I think, been what you'd call 'hints'. I am not going to hint around. My mother and father give us what they can so that Fred can finish his goddamn Ph.D., and I think that you should give us at least what you were planning to give Fred for his education before I came pregnantly along and upset your plans for him. I also think that your wife would agree with me, but you bully her.

Biggie

918 Iowa Ave.

Iowa City, Iowa

Nov. 3, 1969

Dr Edmund Trumper

2 Beach Lane

Great Boar's Head, New Hampshire

Dear Dr Trumper:

You are a prick. Please forgive my language, but that's what you are. A prick for making your own son suffer and casting aspersions on his manner of marrying me and having Colm and all. Just because he wasn't a doctor when he did it. Even so, your Fred has done quite well for Colm and me. It's just that this last year, with all the pressures on him to finish his thesis and look for a job, he is getting very depressed. And you haven't helped him any - with all you've got, too. My own parents haven't half your luxury, but they contribute something. Did you even know, for example, that your Fred has sold football pennants and borrowed no small sums from his friend Couth, who obviously cares more for us than you do? You prick with your principles, you. A fine fucking father you are, is all I can say.

Your daughter-in-law,

(Like it or not!)

Biggie

That muddy November afternoon, I sat in my window watching Fitch, the grim raker, standing soldierly on his immaculately dying lawn. Fitch was on guard, his rake at the ready; he scanned the mess of leaves on all his neighbor's lawns, waiting f

or one to stray his way. In the rain gutters of his house, leaves lurked above him, waiting for him to turn his head; then they would swoop down. But I sat there with intolerant thoughts toward the harmless old fool. May your entire yard cave in, Fitch.

In my lap were the carbons of Biggie's three letters, and she sulked over my shoulder. 'Which is the best one?' she asked. 'I couldn't decide.'

'Oh, my God, Big ...'

'Well, it's high time somebody told him how it is,' she said. 'And I didn't notice that you had anything to say.'

'Biggie ... oh, Christ,' I went on. 'A prick, Biggie? Oh, my God ...'

'Well, he is a prick, Bogus. You know very well ...'

'Of course he is,' I said to her. 'But what is the effect of telling him?'

'What's been the effect of not telling him, Bogus?'

'"You prick with your principles, you,"' I read in horror. 'That's two pricks, Big. That's twice you've said it ...'

'Well, do you like the other letters better?' she asked. 'What do you think of the reasonable one, or the short one?'

'God, Biggie, which one did you send?'

'I told you, Bogus,' she said, 'I couldn't make up my mind--'

'Oh, thank God!' I groaned.

'So I sent all three of them,' Biggie said. 'Let the prick take his pick.'

And I felt the wind blow down Fitch, sweep him light as a leaf down the block and cram him under a parked car!