Return to Sender - 3. Chapter 3 - Adam

CHAPTER 3 - Adam

After sending off the letter last week, I spent some time really looking at the rooms upstairs, trying to determine which one had been Kai’s, and settled on my own room because I remembered there had been one piece of furniture there when I looked around the place with the realtor: a desk placed in front of the windows (it’d been removed when I moved in) and as I recalled, it had been an old desk, possibly antique. It made me think of him, writing letters. I could easily imagine a man sitting there, writing by the light of a candle or a warm, yellow desk lamp. Nothing harsh or bright, writing in a wonderful copperplate and a cigarette forgotten in an ashtray. This had been one of the rooms where the painters had told me someone had smoked.

‘Yes, this had to have been his room,’ I mused, looking around. Entirely possible too that, before that, this room might have been his parents’ but I just knew this had also been his room at some point. It fitted my image of him. It was the only room with its own bathroom upstairs, hence my reason for taking it myself. Well, that and the massive walk-in closet.

The other rooms had to share the bigger bathroom down the hall.

The reason I thought this had become his room at some point was because the study downstairs had been a bedroom, before I'd had it converted. Perhaps it was me stereotyping again, though I was quite certain, but often people advanced in age develop issues going up the stairs and moved to a room on the ground floor.

I was in no rush to redecorate any of the other rooms. Eventually, I planned to refurbish every one of them for guests, in my head giving the rooms designations. I’d have the Lake Room (this room, with the view on the lake. The smaller one, across the hall, would be the Apple Room, because of the tree in front. The one next to that would become the Garden Room, looking out in front of the house where I already imagined beds of roses. It faced east, so waking up and looking out the window, a guest would see those in bloom. Then there would be the Forest Room, the one facing north and the one at the other end of the hall would be the Pine Room, looking towards a small stand of those close by. Oh, I couldn’t wait to have it all done and guests coming to stay. Which reminded me; I’d need to contact a landscaper.

A car approached and I looked out the window. Mailman. He dropped off a stack of mail. Each day he’d come by, my heartrate kicked up a notch. For some reason, I expected a reply to my letter. I don’t know why - it was a silly notion. Why would the Commander write back to me? He didn’t know me. He had no reason to.

I’d looked for information about him. At first, I deluded myself into thinking I was just trying to find his family to return the letter. Nuh-uh. Lies. I was looking for him. I was curious what he looked like, who he was. Interestingly, there was very little information and only one photo I could find from highschool.
And I had absolutely no intention of ever handing that letter over to anyone. It was in my safe in the study. I’d had it installed when I moved in to keep my scripts there. And now the letter. Well... once every so many days it wasn’t: I took it out to read, over and over, and at the end of such a day, I took it with me upstairs. It felt like I was taking him with me upstairs. And reading it in bed made it feel intimate. It was easy to imagine he’d be right here next to me in my doubter bed. I like my cozy bed. I like lying close to someone, every naked bit of me touching him and basking in his naked body heat, big bulging muscle arms holding me close, his hot breath in my neck and his hard flesh pulsing inside. I don’t like big beds - they’re cold. I don’t like duvets either. Give me sheets and blankets and quilts, freshly washed, the fibers of the sheets hard from drying outside in the sun, smelling clean. Then, make them dirty with our sweat and other evidence of lovemaking.

Sighing wistfully, I left the room and went down to collect the mail.

**********

He’d sent a reply.

I recognized his handwriting immediately when I shuffled the mail on my way back to the house. I stopped in my tracks right there in the middle of the footpath, frozen. Commander Kai wrote to me.
Excitement rushed through me.

The same copperplate handwriting. Different paper. Different pen.

After mailing my letter, I felt silly. Silly for going through all that trouble, making the quill from a crowfeather I found in the woods. Going into town and splurging on the paper, getting the ink and making that envelope. The wax was an afterthought: making your own envelope and then not having something to stick it closed left me with two choices - glue, or go oldschool. But when I’d sent it off, the thought occurred to me that it might come across as a romantic gesture. I worried then: what he would think of it?

I made myself wait again for darkness to fall. Oh, that was hard. I became nervous. The heavy velvet drapes were closed, fire in the hearth, candles lit, incense burning, glass of wine this time, and me, sitting in the Chesterfield, my heart thumping wildly. I used the silver letter opener again. His letter was put in a regular envelope but the paper he had used to write back was similar to what I’d used for his. Not linen, but heavy and thick, good quality. It gave the letter weight, especially because there were four pages. Unfolding it, something slipped out from between the pages to the floor. I stared at it.

A picture.

My hand shook slightly as I bent deep to pick it up. I almost dared not turn it around as it had fallen face down. Taking a deep breath, I closed my eyes and then turned it. I kept my eyes shut a moment longer, just to delay.

Then, I opened and looked at the slightly smiling face of one Commander Kai McIntyre. Absolutely not what I expected, as my eyes eagerly drank in details. He was in his hospital bed, wearing a white v-necked T-shirt and black sweatpants, sitting on top of the covers, legs crossed at the ankles.
His eyes were warm, light brown, and he had a healthy tan, bronze skinned. I had to amend my thought of Caucasian to more exotic locations for heritage. Southern European? Possibly middle east? Not Asian - he didn’t have the typical look though he could be.

Kai had black hair in a side part, windswept-style look, trimmed on the side, and his pearly white teeth popped even more due to a closely-cropped, short black stubble. And man, was he hairy! His arms were dusted liberally and there was a tuft of black peeping up right in the V of that T-shirt. I chuckled as a thought popped into my head: I would bet his legs would rival a monkey.

I was drawn to his face - open, friendly and relaxed, with crows’ feet around the eyes and laugh lines around his generous mouth. I could easily imagine him sitting in the other Chesterfield, opposite me, and talking with him, deep into the night. Would he like wine? I liked wine. Maybe he preferred liquor? He appeared to me like he might. Scotch? On the rocks? No, not on the rocks. Straight.

Ah, wouldn’t that be something short of perfection - enjoying good conversation, endless evenings while it was cold outside, just the two of us. I’d prepare some good finger food while maybe reading notes. Perhaps he could read them, and discuss them for hours and hours.

Putting the picture under my thumb, I began to read, liking that I could keep him with me that way.

Adam.

Not ‘Dear Adam’, ‘Hello Adam’ or ‘Hi Adam’; just Adam. This letter was written three days ago. My, my - mail sure went through quickly for the armed forces! Much quicker than for us regular folks. Which made me frown: why, then, had his original letter arrived so late?

He opened with a compliment; he’d enjoyed receiving my letter and appreciated the effort I’d put into it, especially the wax seal, thinking it such a wonderful touch and guessing correctly that I hadn’t wanted to use modern glue. Next he thanked me for my inquiries about his health, and he told me he was doing well, reiterating that he’d been very lucky.

I must say I was surprised at receiving your letter. Pleasantly, I’ll admit, and I am curious as to why you chose to respond. You could have just returned the letter. Why didn’t you, if I may ask?

Why hadn’t I? Well...because I liked his letter - the love that spoke from it. I glanced at his picture and the warmth in his eyes. I’d always thought men in the military were hardened and tough, a little dangerous to be around. Me, stereotyping once again. A bad character flaw. I do the same with butchers, thinking them hard and unfeeling. Emotionless. Silly, of course. But the way he’d written and conveyed his feelings, easily and sincere, spoke of someone kind and caring and quite extraordinary.

Maybe it was because I didn't meet many people. I certainly don’t date - haven’t been with someone for the last two years. Had that been behind it? Loneliness? Then, as soon as I met a fellow gay man, I’d gravitate toward him? I thought about that for a while, glancing at his picture while sipping my wine.

No.

The fact that he was gay might have been a deciding factor, but not the reason to reply. The reason had been quite simple; I couldn’t not reply. I had to.

Maybe it was the romantic in me: the written word always held more appeal to me. It’s slower. You can really think about an answer to a question. You can construct a question exactly the way you want it as well, and make the other person think thoughtfully about their response. And when that person is a military man, somewhere overseas, alone, looking forward to communication from the homeland? Yes, that had definitely been the romantic in me. Thoughts of trenches and connonfire, horses. Alright, fine - the first world war era this wasn’t. But the feeling of it somehow came forward. And I liked that.

Silly, perhaps, but I had seen it as my chance to live in a slower era, no phones yet, no cars. No internet and fast life. Slow down. Squint at paper by soft candle light. Dream.

Fantasize.

I just knew a connection when I saw one. And when I had read his letter, I’d felt one. His responding told me he felt it too.

Getting my notepad, I scribbled certain talking points as I read through his letter, points I definitely wanted to answer.

He spoke of a lone tree he could see from his window, which made him miss home. My heart ached for him and I scribbled down that I should send some pictures along of the woods and lake; give him something to hold on to, something that he knew so he could touch it.

And I’d include a picture of myself. He asked for it.

Perhaps this is too forward of me, in which case I apologize, but would you mind sending me a picture of yourself? In my head, I have a live version of the doodles you so thoughtfully drew; they made me laugh but also curious. Who are you? Who is this man who felt urged to respond to a letter not addressed to him? I wonder about that. I realize, though, that such a request might feel strange, so I’ve included a picture of me. You’ll have to excuse my appearance. I don’t do disheveled very well, but hey, at least I trimmed the beard! You should have seen me before; I almost tripped over it.

But seriously; tell me about yourself. I find I’d like to know.

Kind regards,

Kai.

P.S. Yes, I do smoke! Arturo Fuente cigars. I haven’t for a long time now; it is frowned upon in a medical facility.

I smiled at that. Actually, he pulled off disheveled better than I would. I’d make those pictures tomorrow together with some pictures from around the house, to show him the changes. As I had told him, I hadn’t changed much. Certainly no extensive renovation as the realtor suggested. I’d bought the house because I liked it as it was. The roof had needed renewing, a fresh coat of paint and an insulation job, replacing windows to current standards and a complete locks overhaul. Oh, and a new front door. And the boarding on the back porch. And converting the bedroom downstairs into a study. Alright, a bit more, but no walls had been taken down.

Hmm…if I went into town to have those pictures developed, I could also pick up more of that paper. And those cigars. I wanted to smell them. Perhaps two boxes. I could send him one.