The Last Handful of Clover - Book 3: The Stone in the Stream

3.00h Prologue - Howard Gunderson

June 16, 2:35 pm —
In the Well

Dear Richard:

I write to you this morning from my new apartment, looking out over the lights of the Las Vegas Strip. Summer is much hotter here than in Salt Lake, so I have the windows closed, and my air conditioner humming, as I watch the shimmering waves of heat rise over the casinos. I've always wanted to live in Vegas, and the city is teeming and vibrant and exciting, just like I dreamed it would be.

But I'm lonely, and I can't stop thinking about that summer when we met...

No, that's not right. Let me start again.

Dear Richard: Greetings from the South of France! My plane arrived last night, and the first thing I wanted to do was drop you a postcard from the beach. You'd love it here, especially all the hot young guys hanging out on their beach blankets in their Speedos...

Fuck.

Bonjour Richard, from Montreal! As you can see, I'm trying to learn French. I sure wish I knew a good language professor (LOL)...

No, sorry. I mean— Hola, from Mexico City!

Best wishes from the desert of the Sudan.

Namaste the mountains of Tibet. G'day from Down Under. From Greenland. From Antarctica! Greetings, Richard, from the fucking moon! How are you doing, my friend? How have things been? What's new with you? Seen any good movies lately? Are you dating anyone? Why won't you answer my letters? Maybe because you're dead, right?

Yeah, it's so easy to forget that.

Can I tell you that I miss you?

No, sorry. Scratch that out. I don't want to make this letter maudlin. You know me: always smiling Howard Gunderson! Never wanting anybody to be mad at me, never wanting anybody to be uncomfortable. Did you know my mom and dad used to call me "Saint Howie?" Did I ever tell you that? I always hated it when my mother called me that, because she believed it. And I hated it even more when my dad called me that, because he didn't.

I miss them, too. My mom and dad. I assume they're both dead, but I don't know. I may never know. I guess it all depends on what's coming. I mean, what I'm about to find out. I'm actually pretty curious—what's next from here?

Maybe it's Heaven. Or the "Void" you talked about. Maybe it's something worse. Who knows? And I guess it doesn't really matter.

But I don't want to think about that.

I miss you, Richard. So weird to say that, considering I barely knew you. "You knew me well enough to kill me," I can hear you saying. Ha ha. Yeah, funny guy. I don't know if I've been here an hour, or a year, but I know that in the time I've had, I can't think of much else but you.

And how I betrayed you.

I should have opened the letter with that, I suppose. Let me start over.

Dear Richard: I'm sorry.

I'm sorry I killed you, and I'm sorry I betrayed you, that last afternoon we had together, standing in the street in front of your house. I'm sorry I didn't stick around after... Well, you know. After I did what I did. I should have. I could have tried to explain. But I didn't really understand what I was doing then, and I still don't understand it now. How could I have explained it? Better, I guess, to just leave you lying there, on the pavement in the middle of J Street.

I wonder if J Street still exists. I wonder if your house is still there. If it is, I'd like to visit it some day.

But I know I won't.

It's funny that I haven't talked about Justin at all in this letter, have I? He's still up there, as far as I know. If he wasn't, I wouldn't still be down here, right? Isn't that how it works?

Let me start again.

Dear Richard: I write you from the bottom of my well, where the stones are still weeping brackish water, and the world I knew is far above, where I'll never be able reach it again.

Damn. I guess I shouldn't have written that. Now the fantasy is gone. There is no Las Vegas, and there is no South of France. There isn't even a pen or paper. There is just me, in the well, trying to work up my nerve by pretending to write you a letter. Trying to work myself up to doing what I know I must.

I won't explain what I'm going to do. I know if I tried, you'd just materialize here in this fantasy to try and talk me out of it. And even if you were just the part of me that still doubts, seeing your face and knowing I was about to betray you again would be more than I could bear.

I can hear Justin's voice, and he's talking to an old friend of yours. I brought him here because... Well, I guess I don't really know why. Because she sounded important to you and Billy. I thought maybe she'd know what to do.

But I don't need her to tell me. I know. I think I've known it all along. But Richard, I'm afraid. I can't stop thinking about all that life I would have had. I've never been to the South of France, or Montreal, or the fucking moon, for that matter. I've never been out of the country, and not even any further east than Kansas City, where I visited my Aunt Cecilia when I was ten.

There's so much of this world I haven't seen. If only I'd had more time. If only...

I know you thought the same thing. Billy told me a little, during those few hours we had together, about your life, and I know how much you feared... this.

Okay, I hear her calling. She sounds like Master Splinter from the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, and her voice makes me laugh. I guess it's time to sign and send this letter. Let me imagine a mailbox on the side of the stone well. I'll fold this letter and drop it in on my way up. The last letter I'll ever write.

Richard, I hope you're happy. I hope you find peace, whatever happens.

I'll tell Tuilla you said hello.

Much love,

Howard.