A-Z Blues by Dan Luby
An unassuming envelope, no return address, so he opened it.
“Bernie, I’m pregnant,” the letter read.
“Could be yours, Bernie, I’m not 100%.
Do you know, I’m actually eating again?
Even cut out the whiskey, I can’t anymore, because of the baby.
Four months along now and they can hear his heartbeat with a stethoscope.
Guess you heard about Tim, the accident and all, and I’m so sorry.
He’s got some stuff here I could send you, pictures and things.
I’ll send them to you, but I can’t give you my address, you know why.
Just know that I don’t hate you, Bernie.”
Keeping his hands still was difficult, small tremors shook the pages.
Later he would regret it, but he bent the pages toward his nose, searching for her scent.
“My thought is, if he is yours, we should talk.
Now is bad, though, Bernie, I’ve met someone.
Oliver says he’ll raise him up like he’s his own son.
Pay what you can, when you can… he’s definitely not Oliver’s, if you’re wondering.”
Quiet indignation, and a cold, blank stare.
“Really, we need the money, and I know you’re good for it.
So, here’s the P.O. Box number:”
The number was as cold and impersonal as a number could be.
“Until things are settled and I get the money, Bernie, that’s it.
Very little else to say.
When we talk it should be civil.
X-Rays have showed that I’ve healed well, and I do forgive you.”
You can’t do this. You can’t.
Zero fight or will left, he reached for his wallet, a black and shiny invitation to the blues.
***
image by mystiscool.
