DEAR RUSS
Dear Russ:
Sometimes I have these long conversations with you in my head, as if you could actually hear me. Unlike many people, I don’t believe that dead folks hang around to converse with the living. They have better things to do. If anything, they probably feel sorry for us.
Still, it’s soothing to imagine that I’m describing my activities as a sort of travelogue. Occasionally, I pretend that you’re a tourist, visiting from outer space, and I’m showing you around my neighborhood. The habit is a bit silly, since we used to live here together, but somehow it makes me feel better.
I drive around the copper pit, Bisbee’s answer to the Grand Canyon. Instead of being created by a supernatural force on a capricious whim, the pit was forged by corporate greed. Phelps-Dodge company miners took a huge ice cream scoop to the earth to extract its jewels. Instead of dessert, the treasure was copper—enough of the reddish-brown ore to create millions of bracelets, pennies, and church doorways.
Phelps-Dodge bulldozed houses in the Lowell district to make the pit even wider. Most of the businesses died. Some of the buildings were moved to other neighborhoods, plopped down near roadsides, shoved against copper pilings, surrounded by enormous mounds of discarded earth. Many of the homes wound up in our neighborhood—Bakerville, once referred to as “Tweakerville” by a famous local comedian. It’s fun to ridicule the poor when you’re a wealthy alcoholic.
Many locals don’t even know where Bakerville is, including folks who work or live here. Some of them erroneously refer to the area as “Bakersville” or “Bakerview.” Others lump it in with the nearby Warren neighborhood, like that somehow makes us classier.Warren is where the mining executives used to live. Some of their descendants reside there now, in 10,000 square foot mansions. Ten times as large as our little Bakerville house. Their stately windows look out on dusty pilings. Servants clean the panes, sponging away streaks of grime. They’re fighting a losing battle, but the rich owners pay them to keep struggling.
You didn’t spend much time in Bakerville. Arriving in town at the onset of the pandemic, we had few entertainment options. Besides, you were ill and didn’t have much energy. We did manage to stagger over to Lowell on numerous occasions. Once there, we spent hours staring at the abandoned buildings and ancient cars.
On Halloween, I took a photo of you on the steps of Lowell’s empty police station. You dressed as Death, opening your cape wide as you leered at the camera. It’s my favorite photo of you. Especially since you were always scared of trivial things—spider webs, large waves at the seashore, flying in airplanes, driving at night. Whenever you walked through the bushes from our doorstep to the sidewalk, you waved a broom around to deter spiders. Yet, there you were, thumbing your nose at Death. Such audacity!
Death came for you anyway, but you weren’t ready. You wanted to keep thumbing your nose at that asshole for as long as possible. People like to pretend that Death isn’t scary, but they’re bluffing. I like to imagine that dying is kind of like falling into the copper pit, except that you never know when you’re hitting the bottom. There’s the sudden moment of impact, then complete stillness.
You were quite sure I’d be in a relationship with Gerry soon after your death, and you were right. I couldn’t help it, really. You know how much I hate to be alone. Sometimes, when I walk to Lowell with Gerry and we pass the police station, I wonder what you would think. Then I remember that you’re in a place that exists beyond the desperate constraints of ego. When you no longer have a body, you don’t have attachments to fill.
Occasionally, I forget what movies I’ve watched with you, and which ones I’ve seen with Gerry. I hate that, and I am sure you would, as well. At least, the living version of you would be pissed off and jealous. Your spirit version would most likely be amused, if it bothered to pay attention.
Our next-door neighbors moved away a couple of years ago. You always liked them. When you could no longer walk, Alvin came over to read to you and play his sitar. During the last month of your life, he asked to borrow a book from one of the shelves.
“Of course,” you replied. “But make sure you bring it back. I’m not done reading it yet.”
I don’t remember what book it was. You sure had a lot of them. But I am glad that you finally have plenty of time to read, wherever you are.
Love,
Leah
Leah Mueller, 65, Bisbee, Arizona - USA ✯ IG: @msleahsnapdragon & www.leahmueller.org
“Leah Mueller's work appears in Rattle, NonBinary Review, Brilliant Flash Fiction, Citron Review, The Spectacle, New Flash Fiction Review, Atticus Review, Your Impossible Voice, etc. She has been nominated for Pushcart and Best of the Net. Leah's flash piece, "Land of Eternal Thirst" appears in the 2022 edition of Best Small Fictions. Her two newest books are "The Failure of Photography" (Garden Party Press, 2023) and "Widow's Fire" (Alien Buddha Press, 2023).”