The Mourning Mail (FINAL)

Chapter 3

Dad knew me well—knew that my journalistic instincts would ensure I'd follow up on his efforts. That he had kept those letters and made that recording suggested the possibility of a decent human-interest story somewhere in them. That he was worried about a potential homicide suggested it might be darker. But certainly, something.

It was time to dig into the other contents of that legal file folder. The second through fifth set of pouches contained the original letters Dad had retrieved. They were in order by date. Dad had placed the pages of each letter together in a manila folder along with its corresponding envelope. Most of the writing was on lined, white letter-sized paper. But sprinkled among them was the occasional card commemorating a birthday or holiday. These were most often blank except for their invisible ink contents.

The sixth through tenth pouches contained printed photos of the letters captured under black light—those explained the light fixture in the box. Also ordered by date, Dad had paper-clipped the page images of each letter together. In the margins were sporadic notes, some lengthy, in Dad's handwriting.

I didn't want to risk spoiling the originals until I knew what I was dealing with. I began by printing Dad's black-light photos of the letters. The prints would become my working copies. The author addressed each letter, "Dear Sis," followed by the month and date, nothing more. "I miss and love you—Bubba," or similar sentiments, signed off every letter. The handwriting was distinctive. It randomly but regularly switched from readable cursive to block lettering and back. Pronounced shifts in style often happened when the writer tried to make a point or express an emotion. Several apologies started off the series:

"I'm so sorry I screwed up Sis. My landlord was hassling me for the rent. The grab was sposed to be a quick in and out but I ran into that Ring home security thing with drones and stuff. I alwys thought I was safe from alarms or someone being home long as I cut the phoneline. Guess the new systems don't need a telephone wire, they use the internets.

"Its always something. Maybe that's a message. I should have listened. I'm trying to learn to make better choices. Thats how they talk about it in the sessions at the half-way house. So they want me to admit my B&E's were wrong even if I didn't get caught. I still don't know what I was sposed to do to make the rent."

I supposed Bubba deserved some credit for paying homage to the conditions of his parole. But he seemed a little lacking in the sincerity department. He still thought the option they took away from him was the best one for discharging his debts. Still, he'd endured his fair share of bad news:

"Thanks for coming to the trial and everything. I know it was hard for you to travel with the new baby.

"Hearing about your accident made me cry. I hoped youd come out of the coma ok. Or at least the docters wouldn't pull the plug until the court released me. They wouldn't let me spend time at the hospital with you. I couldn't get a pass in time to be at the funerel but Letti sent me some picktures. She says her and Joe are taking care of Mikey now. Thats good. She's a great mom. The funerel pictures looked nice. Lots of flowers and people crying that you wouldn't be here any more. All your friends were there that made me feel a little better.

"But its sad to think I won't ever see you again. When I got out, it didn't seem real, and I kept looking for you to pop up in different places in the naberhood. Sometimes I can't help it. I wake up at night bawling my eyes out when I have a dream about you."

His mistakes and poor judgment drove many of his problems. His environment and associates caused others. The letters often referred to a hard-knock existence. One of his earlier letters read:

"I dont know why I ever beleived Sheila was anything but a ballbuster. You tried to tell me. I thought I was proving something by taking her away from George-io. But later I found out she was bleeding him dry. She ran up $20,000 in credit card debt. The word on the street was that her leaving George-io was the best thing that could have happened to him. I saw him at a rave and was sure he would punch me out. Instead, he just nodded and said GOOD LUCK. And I think he ment it. Like he knew I would need all the help I could get. She wont let me see Casey because Ime too far behind in the child support. I told her she coudn't do that. But she said she'd take me to court. She'd tell them I'm a bad influince because I keep getting arrested.

"Like she does anything to help me do better by Casey. She didn't even bother to show up at my last trial. Come on Get Real. If I didn't have the money for a decent lawyer, how woud I have enuff to catch up on my child support? Money is all that bitch cares about."

Other letters described his employment situation:

"I tried to find a decent job Sis. I havent been screwing around. The only things out there I can get are in the back of restaurant's. Maybe day labor in construction. I can make money unloading trucks and taking temp jobs at the Home Depot parking lot. But my parole officer says it has to be a perminent full time position. He doesn't care if its shoveling shit all day.

"Please don't get mad at me, but when I need money, I deal some drugs. Mostly weed, but sometimes speed when I can get it fronted to me. But usualy, I have to break into houses. The last time they locked me up I was in with a guy named Stitch. He's a lejend doing 459s—that's what they call hitting up fokeses homes. They busted him for the stollen car he was driving. But they never get him for the burglaries. This guy is slick and knows all the tricks. He even uses drones for casing houses—flies them right up to the windows and looks inside. Can you beleive that shit?!? He taught me some things. He gave me the names of some High End fence's, so I'll be ok. I promise I'll keep trying to find a better job. Maybe one that pays enough to go straight."

I got the impression of a small-time criminal who wasn't all bad. Bubba showed some intelligence and had moments of earnest introspection. He'd gotten off to an inauspicious start in life and made some abysmal choices. His emotional range seemed on par with most people's. Bubba wrote about bonding with a dog he'd cared for after someone accidentally hit it with a car. He flashed genuine anger when he described his landlord threatening to evict him if he didn't get rid of the pooch. His empathy extended beyond animals to include other people, especially his sister.

But Bubba exhibited mental health issues, too. There was his extreme dependency on his sister, of course. His writing style and use of invisible ink reinforced signs of a developmental disorder. It was almost as though he clung to a phase of childhood. I could see how hiding the writing might have given him more confidence to share his private thoughts. But as Dad said, relying on invisible ink to protect a secret seems juvenile. Grownups would know it's too easy to make visible.

And Bubba likely suffered from some form of social maladjustment. Snippets of his correspondence suggested he had genuine problems forming relationships, including friendships. Bubba kept referencing both the physical reality of being alone and the emotional feeling of loneliness. Perhaps those amplified his neediness and reliance on his sibling. It wouldn't have surprised me to learn he tended toward depression.

But something else was off. Most of Bubba's writing was readable, rational, and occasionally insightful. But his logic had severe lapses. For example, at one point, he wrote, "I am glad to see you are getting my letters." He'd kept returning to the gravesite and finding the previous week's letter missing. Until I read that comment, I'd assumed he was writing for therapeutic reasons, like someone might keep a diary or a journal.

Did he truly really believe at some level that there was a mail delivery service from the earthly plane to Heaven?