The Miracle Letters of T. Rimberg Read Online Free Page B

town there and pulled between parked sports cars to this ice cream shop and parked the yellow bike and bought a strawberry cheesecake ice cream on a waffle cone. Christ, was that good ice cream. Makes my mouth water thinking about it . . . There were so many opulent automobiles running slow down the central street of the little town: Beemers, Mercedes, Jags. Holy Christ. I have no idea what we were doing in Martha's Vineyard, except you had Kennedy fantasies, loved John F. Kennedy, who is also dead, by the way, and was then. And I felt like such a chump in all that wealth, us camping out at the crappy campground, driving cross-country in a Chevrolet Chevette (with which we pulled a camper? How?). Then I saw you drive down the town's main strip, your face white and blotched. You looked like an antelope with lions circling, just so scared, apparently for my sake. And when you drove past the other direction, I called out, “Mom.” And you slammed on the brakes so some Richie Rich had to skid on his scooter not to hit you. And you jumped out of the Chevy in the middle of that busy street with all those Beemers and Mercedes honking at you and ran to me and hugged me, and Mom, I felt mortified and in love to see you and so rich to be cared about like that. I know you tried your best.
    So, don't worry about it, you know? Don't blame yourself for this, if you're even cognizant. I existed because of you, and the good parts of my existence were because of you. I'm dead for other reasons. Be well. I love you. Charlie, Kara, and Sylvie love you, too.
    Your son,

    T.

Day Three:
Transcript 2
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    Tick tock. Getting to ten. What do you want to know, Barry?

    What?

    I couldn't be with my kids. That's a different story.

    No. No kids and I had money so I didn't have to go to work. Why not just die?

    No family. No work. Should I watch cartoons and drink beer? Have some more nightmares so I'm awake for three a.m. infomercials about exercise equipment? That's a lonely—that's a lonely place . . . Should I think about Chelsea's long . . . her smile, her eyes . . . all gone? Why not cash it in?

    I had the affair with Chelsea.

    I told you I couldn't see the kids.

    I really don't want to talk about it.

    Mary wouldn't let me see the kids without her being there. Okay? Just . . . because.

    Fine. Early in August Mary stopped by to drop off the kids—their Saturday with Dad! And I was completely wasted . . . It was ten a.m. I wanted to have one drink . . . to relax so I could enjoy being with them. I had maybe a hundred beers and Mary was extremely furious . . . about me being . . . and she worked with the lawyer . . . So, no kids. No more kids.

    Listen. I know it's not . . . I think I have to . . . I'm going to grab a cup of . . . I have to run. You go to your meeting, Barry.

    Things changed, yes. In the next day or so. Everything.

Letter 8
August 26, 2004
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    Dear Mary,
    Listen. There's going to be a lot of talk. Who did what to whom, etc. Just to set the record straight, Mary (Mary . . . Mary . . . Do you know I love your name? I do. It is so solid. It is to be counted on. I love you.): I did it to you. I was the cause.
    There is nothing you could've done to save us. Not paid me more attention. Not given me wider range to explore. You are the good one. I am the bad. And, you were right to kick me out. And . . . AND, you are not the cause of my death (though my inability to be a good husband and good father are parts of the calculation).
    Feel free to photocopy this and send it to anybody who knows us.
    Today, on the twenty-sixth day of August, in the year two thousand and four, I, T. Rimberg, say to you all, heareth this: My Sweet Wife Mary (divorced so not widowed) Has No Blame In My Death, Which Was Done Unto Me By Mine Own Hand, Thank You.
    Yours truly,

    T. Rimberg

Letter 9
August 26, 2004
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    Dear Mary,
    I'm not bitter. If you ever get my other letter, I want you to know I am not bitter even though I said that Divorced So Not