The Renaissance of Id

He had not been expecting a letter. Junk mail, a credit card offer, bills, perhaps; but not a letter. A man like him didn't get letters. Yet there it was, his name, MARTIN LEE QUINLAND, written across the envelope.

Who could have sent it? His childhood held no family or friends, only years as a small, nameless, faceless ward of the state, shuffled from one foster home to another. He spent his adolescence quietly, unremarkably, leaving no indelible impression on anyone. As an adult, he had managed to get through college and become a quiet, unremarkable accountant. He worked from his apartment, a small, nameless, faceless CPA to clients who looked right through him.

Quinland rarely got excited. As he sat at his desk, fingering the envelope, his mind raced, trying to recall anyone who would write to him. For a letter it was, as surely as there was no return address. The envelope was a pale blue linen, and he knew the stationary would match. He imagined the writing inside would match that on the outside. He was certain it was the penmanship of a man; big, bold, strong lines slashing across the paper.

He wondered if it was from a client. He couldn't recollect having any kind of connection with any of them, and certainly none of them had ever corresponded with him in such a manner. It wasn't tax season, and quarterly's had just been filed. No, it couldn't be a client.

Someone from his childhood? No, Quinland thought, he'd never bonded with any of his foster parents, or the other children he'd met over the years. In fact, he remembered one woman who had called him Marcus the entire nine months he lived with her.

A secret admirer? Not the kind he wanted, he thought wanly. No, he'd already established the writing was a man's, and if it was a love letter, he didn't really want that kind of attention.

Long lost family, then? Quinland supposed it was possible, but not likely. Abandoned in a hospital waiting room as a baby, social workers had searched for family, but found none. The only clue to his identity was the hurried note that had been found with him. The writer said his name was Martin Lee Quinland, and that they "couldn't take care of him anymore." Although many birth records had been searched, no file containing his name was ever found. The possibility of family writing the letter seemed remote.

Who, then? Quinland realized that his hand was trembling slightly, and chided himself silently.

He knew who he was. A lifetime of being alone had made him immune to strong emotions, and he had long since given up on feeling close to anyone.

He didn't feel sorry for himself, though, not Martin Quinland. Life was life, and you kept on living it. He simply went on, slow and steady, religious in his routine.

On Monday nights he had canned soup and a sandwich (usually vegetable beef and turkey with swiss) for dinner, played solitaire and watched sitcoms. He rarely laughed.

Tuesday was dinner at Denny's, pot roast and a milk shake, or sometimes a chef salad. Afterward, he would walk through the park, people-watching.

Wednesdays, he cooked tacos, and read whatever novel had made it to #1 on the Bestseller's list.

Thursdays, he ordered Chinese and watched Matlock.

Friday nights he went to see a movie. He always had a small popcorn and a diet soda. He usually picked a comedy; he rarely laughed.

Saturday was cleaning day, which didn't take long in his sparsely furnished apartment. Dinner was leftovers, and then he would read.

Sunday's dinner was canned spaghetti and a salad. He went to bed early.

Yes, Quinland was a creature of habit, and so he shook off the spark of excitment and steadied his shaking hand.

Just get it over with, he thought. Rip it open, prove it doesn't mean anything, then get back to the reality of living.

With a resigned sigh, he ripped open the envelope and removed a single sheet of pale blue linen stationary. Unfolding it, his heart began to pound. There, centered across the top of the paper, were the words:

From the Desk of Andrew Quinland

Glancing down, he read the beginning of the letter, again in those bold, masculine letters.

DEAR MARTIN,
I'VE SEARCHED FOR YOU FOR MANY YEARS NOW....

And Martin Lee Quinland, for the first time in his quiet, unremarkable life, felt a surge of emotion so strong he felt faint. As hot tears hit his cheek, he realized what it was.

It was hope.