A Letter to Inform You

He had not been expecting a letter. It slid through the mail slot with a hiss and plopped softly to the wooden floor. Easing himself to his feet, he paused to collect his breath before shuffling toward the door to retrieve the envelope.

The insignia of the City of Wesslawn on the envelope commanded his attention. He grunted with the dull pain in his back as he bent to pick it up. Straightening, a spasm of coughing bent him double again.

He fumbled in his jeans pocket for the red bandanna he always carried. Covering his mouth and clutching the letter, he staggered to his armchair and collapsed into it. Wracking coughs convulsed his body as he spat the bloody phlegm from his hacking efforts into the cloth.

As the coughing subsided, he lay his head back for a moment and closed his eyes.

How much can one body endure?

As he rested, he remembered the envelope in his hand and frowned.

It isn't the right time of the month for the utility bill.

He sighed. Not that there was any more money to pay it than the last month or the month before that. When you had outstanding medical bills and relied on a Social Security check each month, there was little left. He turned the envelope over and opened it.

The letter began "Dear Resident". He grimaced. Of course, no one in the city billing department would know his name or circumstances. He was just one more person who had stopped paying for whatever reason and the city required its pound of flesh.

The letter continued.

This letter is to inform you the City has received complaints regarding refuse in the yard of 245 West Fairlawn Avenue.

In addition, the grass on said property has grown to a height not permitted by City Ordinance 340-9103. Please see the enclosed copy of the City Ordinances governing storage of refuse and height of grass.

If, within ten days of receipt of this letter, said conditions are not properly amended, the City shall levy a fine of $100 a month until said conditions are met.

The letter dropped from his fingers to the floor. Panic clenched his heart in its hand and squeezed. His chest pounded with fear.

"What am I going to do?" He hadn't meant to say it aloud. The sound of his own rasping voice startled him.

The last time he heard a human voice was in the hospice two or three days ago. He shuddered at the remembrance.

He remembered sneaking one filterless cigarette and a lighter from the pack hidden among his clothes in the room closet. Opening the window enough to allow the smoke to drift out, he lit the cigarette and inhaled as deeply as his cancer-ravaged lungs would allow. A series of uncontrollable coughs erupted from his mouth along with belching smoke.

Before he could take another draw, a large brown hand snatched the cigarette from his fingers.

He raised sheepish eyes toward the sink where Nurse Sargent was running tap water over the remains. This time he had not heard her, she of the whispering crepe-soled shoes and the brusque tongue.

She raised one accusing dark finger in the air to point at him. "You know the rules, Samuel Cornelius. These are bad for your health."

Not long after, the oncologist informed him his Medicare would not cover another night's stay and the hospital would have to release him. They would, of course, readmit him should his condition worsen. Nurse Sargent was giddy with joy that her rebellious charge was going home.

She shoved a bottle into his hand before he left. "For pain," she informed him, eyes narrowed. "Just follow the instructions on the bottle. Don't take too many." She cocked one eyebrow. "Understood?"

So he came home to the empty house, to the unpaid bills in the three-inch pile on his kitchen table, to the orderly row of generic chicken noodle soup cans in his cupboard.

And now this. Samuel directed his attention back to the white letter on the floor, reached for it, then gave up. Somewhere in the neighborhood, a lawn mower droned.

He never felt so alone.

Nurse's words "Don't take too many" echoed again and again in his head. He wondered what it would be like to drift into painless eternal sleep. He hesitated, then shuffled to the kitchen table. The pill bottle and the pile of bills welcomed him, one promising release, the other mocking him. His unfinished cup of weak cold tea was still there from the morning.

He sat in the spindly wooden chair, drew a yellow legal pad and pencil stub in front of him, and began to write:

If you are reading this, then you will know . . .