WHEN THE LETTER CAME

by Matthew Acheson

WHEN THE LETTER CAME

by Matthew Acheson

I was in a very curious emotional state on the day the letter finally arrived. I had gone to check the post office box religiously, every Friday afternoon, and each time I had returned empty handed, until now. There it was at last, in my trembling hand, shining like a bolt of cleansing fire out of the heavens - the letter. I tore the envelope open and read the letter to myself aloud: Dear Mr. Browne, Ive been following your ad in the paper for some years now. I must admit that due to the apparent lack of a solution to your cryptogram, and the sensational nature of your claims, part of me assumed your advertisement was a practical joke, or perhaps a clever hoax. Still, your puzzle was an intriguing one, and I must confess that the clipping has been posted to the wall beside my desk for some time. Im sure your time is as dear to you as mine is to me, so I will get straight to the heart of the matter. I have found a solution to your puzzle! I was hoping it would be possible for us to meet, so we can go over the particulars in person. Mailing the solution to you simply will not do, Im sure you understand. I shall patiently await your response, although I do hope this letter finds you well and that we shall not have to wait too long to meet. This is a jolly bit of excitement dont you think? The letter was signed: Aidaen McCallister, professor of mathematics at the University of Maine in Orono. I wrote back immediately, moving the pen in slow, deliberate strokes, so as to still my shaking hand. I chose the Sunday of the following weekend as the date of our meeting, to allow time for the professor to mail his response and make travel arrangements. Its ironic that after five years of waiting and hoping, those final eleven days seemed to last for an eternity. Thoughts of Him hounded me day and night. Sleep came with great difficulty, when it came at all, and I 2

found that my appetite was greatly diminished. When the day finally came, I found myself blurry eyed and bone weary. We met at the train station, in the village of Waterboro, a few miles away from the farmhouse in which I grew up, for I dared not reveal our ultimate destination in writing. The professor had a foreign accent, British by the sound of it, and was and dressed in a mustard colored suit. He was short and plump with a receding hairline and a fuzzy grayish-brown beard. He seemed a jolly enough fellow, and so the two of us rode together in my motor car to my old family homestead. I drove with my head tilted half-way out the window so I could taste the cool spring breeze. Meanwhile, the professor told me all about how the means of solving the cryptogram had come to him in the middle of a lecture on polyphonic substitution, and how hed dismissed the class early so he could go back to his office and work out the solution. When the professor had finished relating the tale of his triumph, he read the decrypted text aloud. At first there was only confusion, but as the words swirled and danced like a maelstrom in my mind, their meaning became perfectly clear. I understood exactly where He meant for us to go. Its such a clever puzzle, the professor said, where the devil did you come across it? It was in a letter my father left for me, hidden away in a little tin, before he passed. By Jove isnt that odd. Its so very clever, do you think he thought it up all on his own? Oh yes, I said. Father was very clever. He was an intelligence officer in the war, and spent years in England, decoding the German radio transmissions. Of course he did! the professor exclaimed. Of course, that explains everything. Did you know my dear boy, that there were five different levels of encryption in that message, each encoded inside the other? The professor chuckled aloud. I daresay your father never wanted you to read that message. Of course my father didnt want me to decode the message, of course he didnt. All he wanted to do was remind me just a little reminder that I wasnt good enough; that I wasnt as clever as he was.

When we arrived we opened the trunk and unloaded the gear I had brought along, a pickaxe and shovels, some blankets, a thermos and a picnic basket overstuffed with food. Despite the rumbling in my stomach, I felt no imperative to eat. Not yet, but perhaps after god willing yes! To eat in peace again, without all the noise, to taste the food and relish every bite, the thought of it all was almost too good to be true. At first I had packed some of my best crockery in the basket, to celebrate when it was all over, you understand. Nothing fancy mind you, just a couple of tea cups and plates that my dear mother had given me as a boy, before she died of tuberculosis. But then I remembered the old rhyme I used to sing to myself when I was alone in the garden, and I packed them neatly away back in the cupboard. When mothers crockery little Danny breaks, seven licks from fathers belt he shall take. The professor and I took up all the equipment and walked around behind the farmhouse, and through the hayfields, down past the brook and up the hill until we reached a solitary willow tree at the top. Beautiful country, the professor said. All of this belonged to your father did it? The church owns it now, I told him. He left it all, the property, his businesses, and every plumb nickel he ever had to the church. Everything except what he left for me, in the secret place. So thats what you meant in your letter, when you said the cryptogram was the key to finding the inheritance that had been left to you. When we reached the top of the hill I took careful notice of a particular deformity on one side of the old willow, and then paced out four steps to the north and seven to the east. The professor and I went to work, and after half an hour of sweat and toil we had a pile of dirt that came all the way up to our midriffs. When my shovel finally hit something solid, I brushed away the dirt and there it was, the box. I climbed up out of the pit and dusted myself off. Well my boy, arent you going to open it? the professor asked excitedly. Id thought about this moment a great deal over the years, and what Id do if it ever came to pass. Everything became real noisy just then like the roar of waves breaking - and all sorts of confusing thoughts swirled around in my mind. Father wanted me to open the box, of course he did, thats why he left the note. But if I opened it, would the noises go away or get worse? And what would I find inside? Would there be a token, something, anything that expressed his 4

love for me? Or would there be something cruel, a reminder that I wasnt good enough to be his son? My head ached, and there was a metallic ringing in my ears. You cant be my son, the voice said. You couldnt even solve the puzzle without help. Youre mother was nothing but a whore, a damned whore, and you arent my boy, never were. Thats why I cut you out of my will, thats why I left it all to the church! I remember getting sort of faint and weak in the knees. The world began to spin, but still the noise wouldnt stop. I fell to my knees and Professor McCallister put his arm around me and helped me get my bearings again. When I was back on my feet and the dizziness had gone away, I took up my shovel and hit the old man over the head with it, again and again, until he stopped moving. Dont judge me! Who are you to understand? I had to do it. He wouldve opened the Box. I doused his body with the gasoline Id brought in the thermos, and rolled it down into the pit with the Box my father had left for me. Before I burned them both up, I cut his ears off with a pair of garden shears so he wouldnt have to spend eternity listening to the noise that had driven me to madness and beyond for so many years. I laid out the blanket and enjoyed a very nice picnic in the sun. When the crackling of the flames died down, the first thing I noticed, beyond how delicious the tea cakes were, was that it was absolutely silent. After all those years of calling out to me, the noises from the Box had finally stopped.