First Place, Nightwriters 500-word short story competition, 1996
This annual competition strictly limits authors to 500 words and requires that every entrant begin with the same sentence. In 1996, the opening line was “The envelope arrived this morning.”
The envelope arrived this morning. First cool paper slapped my cheek; then someone accidentally jabbed a finger up my nostril.
“Mommy! A letter!” my seven-year-old daughter said.
I squinted at the clock: 6:30 am.
“Go away,” I mumbled, closing my eyes.
Meg shoved the letter between my lips and disappeared.
Resigning myself to the new morning, I removed the envelope from my mouth.
I’d been receiving a lot of mail recently. Since Meg had learned to write she’d been delivering notes in homemade envelopes secured with half a roll of tape. Jeff, my four-year-old, used the remaining tape to send me his scribbled pictures. And their father had been writing continually since the separation—initially begging me to try couples counseling, now just arranging visits with the kids. Writing seemed easier than talking these days.
I slashed through today’s jungle of tape to reach the note.
“Dear Mom and Dad,” it began. Meg disregarded John’s absence.
“You gise are my favrit perints in the whirld. Have a good day. Love, Meg. PS: Dont git mad, I broke your puzzl.”
“Damn it, Meg!” I hollered, “It was almost finished.”
My outburst ricocheted back through silence, and I realized the damage I’d done. But I was angry. Since the separation I’d calmed myself with the monstrous puzzle, piecing it together nights until I could sleep.
Finally Meg answered.
“It’s not my fault. Jeff made me bump into it.”
“Don’t blame him. You weren’t careful.”
“It’s not fair! When Jeff does something bad you say to understand because he’s little.”
I heard her closet door slam.
Meg has her father’s ability to weave rationalization and logic into overwhelming argument. In contrast, Jeff and I abandon logic and withdraw when attacked. In my marriage, compromising felt like capitulation; separation symbolized survival. I found no middle ground.
Meg was right; it wasn’t fair. It wasn’t her fault that I’d somehow confused the busted puzzle with my fractured marriage. I sat down by her closet and knocked.
Jeff sank uninvited into my lap. He nestled in, sucking his left thumb and clenching something in his right hand. I wasn’t surprised; he typically gravitates toward yet denies any turmoil.
Me, Jeff on my lap, Meg behind the door, John—all interlocked. Jeff has his father’s build, his square head, his baffling self-confidence. Meg has her father’s blue eyes, his annoying stubbornness. I wondered why John exasperated me but the children didn’t.
“Meggie, come out. How can I apologize when you won’t talk to me?”
From the closet her written response arrived.
“How can Daddy?” I read aloud.
“Daddy,” Jeff echoed, opening his fist and offering me bent puzzle pieces. A wave of pain crashed over me, but I stayed put. As the wave receded I found myself still sitting, still surviving, in the bedroom with my children. Are they my middle ground?
I scribbled a note and guided it firmly back into the closet: “OK. I’ll call him.”
How the Ball Bounced, by Nancy Nerenberg 