Book of Souls by Jack Ketchum

Author:Jack Ketchum
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Tags: Literary Criticism & Collections
Publisher: Crossroad Press & Macabre Ink Digital
Published: 2011-02-14T00:00:00+00:00

AFTERWORD

In one way at least, Kenneth beat the rap.

Shortly after Bruatrian published this piece I learned that some brand-new chemical cocktail had drummed his disease into full retreat. So he was not going to die after all. At least not imminently. And it occurred to me that he might have been amused to know that his departure had already been announced. But as of this writing I don't believe he does. I sure didn't tell him. I have, I think, good reasons why.

~ * ~

In May of this year, three months ago, I received my first letter from Kenneth in a very long time. It was addressed to me, to both my real name and Jack Kersey (sic), to the woman I live with, to her sister, and to a mutual friend fromour college years who lives a few blocks away. The sister's and friend's names were also misspelled though Kenneteh knew both of them quite well. From the letter I learned that he now held stock in Citibank, Bell Atlantic and AT&T and that he was living with a woman. "She is beautiful," he said, "she is exquisite. She is not blunt and coarse." The woman would inherit all his earthly goods eventually. Not his son. "The parlor game of Colin and Helene is finished," he said.

He went on to tell me that he'd received his transcripts from our high school just that day.

"In my senior year," he said, "all my grades were censored. The blackmail from you, Kevin, Jack and Maryann explodes in my official transcript. I am censored at seventeen.

"Pennsylvania did its very best to do me in, however Pennsylvania ran into:

"American Express

"CHRISTIES

"MOMA

"Nabisco

"The Newark Museum

"The Missionaries of Charity, Calcutta, Bronx, Newark

"The Reformed Buddhist Church of TIBET "Tsuru Gallery

"Japan Gallery

"Ronin Gallery."

I have no idea what kind of blackmail he might have been thinking of and my guess is that the other three people he mentions, all high school classmates, wouldn't either. The letter ends with one-line references to his garden, his house being warm and dry, his plans to go back to school and then teach, spring weather and various other bits of business. But he's not quite done with me yet.

"Your paperback books are so tired. All the clichés of the macho flake."

Ouch.

"I have to get a White Pine now. Too hip gotta go."

~ * ~

Then in June another letter. Stranger still, especially as it refers to me.

"It seems to me that your little world rests on Colin...you have no son to work over. You have the shallow side of life. Sit and type and then go to a bar. Computers. I have Bears, Deer, cars to drive and I know every Policeman in the U.S.A...your answering machine plays police sirens. But I have police touch me to feel the flesh...you and Colin are connected. But you have no son.

"My looks are coming back."

My name is scrawled across the page along with that of William Jefferson Clinton, yet another old high school friend and Elvis Costello.

I don't think I've had a real talk with Colin in my life.

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