The Correspondence
He was probably five or six years older than I was (I was three when we moved there), but the age difference didn't seem to bother him. He still came over to play two or three afternoons a week, and in retrospect, he seemed perfectly happy to play on a level with someone my age. He was a tall, wide-eyed, square-headed kid who always dressed very well. His voice was both high-pitched and phlegmy, and he had a pronounced lisp.
We never did all that much?played simple board games, ran around the backyard. He was the first one to point out to me how funny farts could be. And every couple of days, there he'd be on the front porch, shading his eyes with both hands, his nose pressed up against the screen door, looking to see who was inside. He never called first, and rarely received an invitation?he'd just show up. If I was gone for some reason, he'd sit and talk to my mom for a few hours. He always seemed happy, and he loved hot dogs drenched in ketchup.
It was only as the years passed and I grew older that I slowly came to realize that Pat still seemed to be operating on the level he was when we first met. He still wanted to play the same games or talk about the same things, or make the same jokes. It was almost as if I had passed him up somehow.
It's not that I was ignoring the fact that Pat was retarded?I simply never noticed. There was nothing about his manner or physical appearance that announced it. He looked like anyone else and could carry on a perfectly normal conversation. He might have seemed a little effeminate, but that was all. It was something that took time to notice. You had to put all the pieces together?like the fact that things needed to be explained to him very slowly and carefully, and that he usually repeated himself an awful lot.
By the time I reached high school, he had long since stopped dropping by a couple times a week. Instead, he called at least once a day. And now he was calling to talk to my dad, not me. It was around that time that I heard my folks talking about his condition very matter-of-factly, as if it were something we'd always known. I hadn't, but I played along.
He was now living in an assisted care facility on the west side of town, had a social worker who made sure he didn't get into too much trouble (he tended to steal people's mail) and had a job.
This sort of thing happened with a lot of the kids I grew up with. I'd play with them for years and have a fine time. Sometimes I'd think that maybe they were a little slow, but it was never really an issue?it's not like we were discussing Kant or anything. Only years later would my parents let me know that these kids had been more than a little slow.
Thinking about it now, I wonder if the fact that I played with so many retarded kids had anything to do with why I thought I was so damned smart as a youngster.
These days when I'm able to get back to Green Bay, Pat will always try and stop by for a visit. If he can't do that, he'll call four or five times. He still calls my folks at least once a day. He still sounds the same as he always has, and still looks the same, and still has the same gestures and mannerisms. Still likes hot dogs, too. But here's the weird thing?both when he visits and when he calls, he'll speak of me in the third person, speak around me, communicate with me through my dad, as if an interpreter were needed.
If he calls, my dad will hand the phone to me, Pat will say "hi," then immediately ask to speak with my dad again. Then he'll ask my dad all the questions he wanted to ask me. If he stops by the house, he may glance at me every now and then, but he'll still direct everything at my dad.
"How long is he staying?" he'll ask, while I'm sitting right next to him, or "Does he like New York?"
It's very odd.
Thing about him, though, is that he has a frighteningly sharp memory. He can recall incidents, names, addresses, conversations from 30 years ago as if they'd happened yesterday. Sometimes he'll just start talking about something that happened 30 years ago as if it did happen yesterday, which can be very confusing for a bit.
The last time I was there, Pat stopped by a few times. Shortly before I left, he asked my dad if it would be okay for him to write me a letter. I told my dad to tell Pat that of course it would be fine, and that he could get the address from them.
Then I forgot about it. I thought it was one of those phony "yeah, we'll keep in touch" gestures. But I'd forgotten who I was dealing with.
A week ago, my folks called to let me know that I should be looking for a letter in the mail sometime soon.
"He called to check on the address," my dad told me. "Then he asked, 'Do you think he'll write back?' And I said, 'Well, he's very busy, but I'm sure that when he finds the time he will.'"
"Really?" Pat asked, "He will?"
"Sure."
"Do you suppose that?that if I were to write him a letter every day??"
"No," my dad cut him off. "Then he won't write back."
I thanked him for that.
When I was telling Morgan about all this, she asked me what I'd estimate his mental age to be.
"Oh, I don't know," I said, thinking about it. "Eleven or 12 maybe?" But when the letter arrived a few days later, I realized how off I was. The address was written in huge, shaky, uneven block letters, some of which ran off the edges of the envelope (though considering my own handwriting these days, perhaps I shouldn't make too much out of that). The letter itself, in similar handwriting, read:
Dear, Jim
How are you Doing.
I am Doing just fine.
My work is Doing just fine.
We are having bad WEATHer,
We are having snow today.
My Dad said HI to you.
I have a new staff.
I miss you very much.
Love and Prayers,
Beneath that, he printed his full name, and on the back of the letter, he wrote "Write Back Soon." I did.
Dear Pat,
Thank you for writing. I am glad to hear things are going well. I am fine here, too. I'm very busy at the newspaper and working on a new book. It has been a very cold winter, but today wasn't so bad. Please say hi to your dad for me, and I hope your new staff is a good one.
(I left that bit about the staff vague because, as Morgan pointed out, it's unclear whether he has some new people working for him, or he just got a big stick.)
Before dropping the envelope in the mailbox the next morning, I paused a moment, wondering if this is how the Miller-Durrell correspondence got started.