The phone felt heavy in my hand like it was the dead weight of a cat or a small dog. It shook as I clutched it so hard as to not allow my frustration to creep into the conversation. I tried to control it but the more I tried the more it shook. To show my frustration would surely end the discussion and leave me waiting by the mailbox, anxious. I am always anxious.

'Why can't you just tell me what's in it?'�

'Not right now,'� she said. 'It'll be there soon enough.'�

'It'd be faster just to tell me and you'd save on postage,'� I said, half jokingly to try to lighten the mood. 'We're talking right now, so why don't you just tell me?'�

'Are we going to spend the whole of this conversation talking about the damned letter or can we move on to something else now? 'You'll find out soon enough,'� she said. 'You just need to be patient.'�

'I don't understand. Just give me a clue so I know what to expect.'�

'Why don't you just give me a goddamn break.'�

'Why are you being so elusive?'�

'I'm sorry but I need to be a little elusive right now. Just relax. The letter should be there by Friday.'�

'Please tell me what's going on.'�

'I already told you that it will be in the letter now stop asking about it, okay?'�

'Okay. Fine. Whatever'�

My mother has always kept to herself but she's never so secretive. While she wouldn't willingly discuss things very often on her own accord, she never refused to comment on a subject should you bring up the point. She sort of expects you to know things through attrition ' to know the answers to questions you didn't know you were supposed to ask just because you're having a conversation. She reminds me of car mechanics and insurance salesmen and as my mind drifted in and out of the conversation I remembered a discussion I had a few years back when my prized guitar: an ebony Stratocaster, was stolen from my bedroom. I told my agent that I needed to file a theft claim and she said that it was not covered in my insurance policy. But when I called to make the claim I found out that my guitar fell outside the normal coverage limits of my policy and so it wouldn't be covered. I didn't know that I needed to have special coverage but the insurance company assumed that I did. They deal with these things every day and so they know. I've never had to deal with filing a claim, so I don't. You make assumptions. Unfortunately our assumptions are often incorrect.

This is what it's like with my mother. You need to be informed when you speak to her. Get all of your facts straight and then engage the conversation. You have to know the answer so that you can ask the appropriate questions and then she'll provide the answers. It's ridiculous sometimes and this time it had me edgy and flushed. Had I known with great specificity what the letter may or may not contain then I'm nearly sure that she would have relented and told me over the phone.

This conversation was different than the others I've had with her over the years because she seemed so serious about the damned thing and has never, ever, except for birthdays and holiday cards, given me a card with much more than 'Love Mom/Carole/Nuna,'� inscribed within its folds. And she has never, in the past 13 years since I moved away, sent me a letter. I shifted my questions to more mundane things, asking her about the weather and how work was going; how was the dog; was her car working; did she get the box of candy we sent her?

I started picking at the skin around my fingernails.

I was doing everything I could to try to lengthen out the phone call. I told her that my therapy sessions seemed to be working well for now; that the medications seemed to be working well right now; that Sophie got good marks on her report card; and that I told her that everything was just fine. The word fine is a funny one for my family. We use it to respond to every single question we ask in an effort to round out our conversation. Silence is always awkward.

'How's the dog?

'Fine.'�

'How are the kids doing in school?'�

'Fine.'�

'How's the weather?'�

'Fine.'�

'How was the car accident?'�

'Fine.'�

'Did court make you nervous?'�

'It was fine.'�

'How do you feel about the 90-day sentence and year of community service you been ordered?'�

'Fine.'�

Everything in my family is always fine. Just the facts ma'am and then you move onto the next subject that is also fine. Fine, fine, fine. It's tiresome and dull.

I finally asked my Mom, because of her indifference and unwillingness to talk to me, if someone had died and I received nothing but silence. This is a question that years of television has told me to ask as a last resort and was the only thing left in my conversational arsenal.

'That's not funny. Are you trying to be funny?'�

'No,'� I said. 'I'm just trying to figure out what's going on.'�

My mind drifted away because I sensed that I touched a nerve and I searched my mind rapidly for the answer to the question I shouldn't have asked. I thought about death and fire and floods and illness and could not imagine where the problem stemmed from. I felt for certain that there must have been a death in the family, but running through the list of familiar aunts, uncles, cousins and family friends I couldn't get a sense of the answer.

'Are you alright,'� I asked nonchalantly, thinking that she maybe just had a cold and was irritable.

'I'm fine,'� she said. 'I can't talk anymore. You should get the letter on Friday,'� she repeated.

Fine. I drifted again momentarily out of the conversation and felt like I missed something in the discussion. I was considering the letter's contents.

'I've got to go. I'm rather busy right now.'�

Wait,'� I said, but there was only silence. I dialed her right back, wanting to know more, nervous at the abruptness of the call's end and got a busy signal. I let it go thinking that she must have thought that my moment of perplexed silence meant that the conversation was over. I dialed again only to receive the busy signal again. My mother's quick finish to the conversation meant that she was done talking to me and I understood that whatever she needed indeed ultimately to say would be said in the letter.

I sat at the table just staring at the phone, thinking about how silent things were and feeling lost and separated from myself. The news couldn't possibly be good for the conversation to have gone the way it did so I tried to busy my mind with other things like what I should do tomorrow. The lawn needed mowing. There were errands I would need to run. I should wash the dogs. I could go exercise and maybe go for a ride. Maybe hike with the dogs at the Arboretum. I searched out mundane things that I had hoped would defer my attention from the phone call. It wasn't working and I felt lost with not knowing what to do.

Then in a moment of reserved clarity I decided to call my estranged younger brother. Maybe he would have an answer for me.

He and I had, for many years been very close and friendly but the last few years our lives began traveling to opposite poles, taking us from confidants to cordial acquaintances to indifferent strangers. We had, sadly, grown irreparably apart. It had been so long since I had phoned him in fact that I had to look up his phone using the internet, having discarded his number long ago.

The conversation with him was uncomfortable. I started picking at my fingers again. I had hoped that because it had been so long since we had spoken that there at least might have been a cordial friendliness in his tone but there was nothing but irritation in his voice. I tried small talk in earnest and found dead ends. I asked about his family and got nothing. I asked about work. It was fine. Fine. The conversation was an endless stream of frustration and irritation and, quite frankly, mutual detest and, since we were getting nowhere so I shifted gears and got to the point.

'Tell me what's going on,'� I asked.

'There's nothing I can tell you about. It's between you and Mom right now.'�

'So you know what's in the letter?'�

'Yes.'�

While I half expected for this to be the answer I was stunned nonetheless. My brother knew what was in my letter. I sat there for a moment, a silent void separating my brother and me reminding me of the reality of our relationship. I held the phone cradled in my neck and fidgeting with my hands, picking at the skin on my fingers. I guess that I called him thinking that he would be as clueless as I was and finding that he wasn't made me feel like I was so far outside a secret. 'So you're not going to give me even a clue about what's going on?

'No. I promised Mom I wouldn't.'�

He didn't just say 'I promised Mom I wouldn't,'� and let it go at that. Rather the words slithered out of his mouth contemptuously and arrogantly.

'Just let me know if someone died, okay? I'm having a lot of anxiety right now trying to figure this out,'� I said.

'You're just going to have to wait,'� he said. There wasn't even a tremble in his voice for me to pick up on. He sounded business like as if this discussion was all old, regular news to him. There was nothing sympathetic about him ' he was like air.

'Don't you think that this is all a little unfair?'� I picked my right thumb so far down that it bled. It's what I do when I'm nervous. I pick.

'It's what Mom wants. It's her decision.'�

'Yeah, but what about me? This is killing me.'�

'It's not about you, Matthew, it's about Mom and you're just going to have to deal with it. Don't you think she might have had a reason for sending you a letter rather than tell you over the phone? You're selfish, you know that?'�

'Why are you getting so irritated? I'm just asking questions. Do you have a problem with that?

'I have a problem with you right now'�

'Fine,'� I said and crushed the phone into the receiver.

I considered for a moment about calling him back and even picked up the phone to start dialing. I pounded out the first three digits of his phone number but changed my mind and slammed the phone down once more. 'Prick.'� My hands were shaking like a beggar's cup and my insides rattled and cramped like I was on a rollercoaster, ready to vomit. I ran to the bathroom and did. I don't know what about these two phone calls got me so wound up but they did and made me feel terminally ill. I wiped my mouth with some toilet paper, flushed and then shifted to the sink to soak my face with cold water to see if it would shock away my sudden illness. As I ran my hands over my face it was hard to tell where the sweat ended and the cold water began. Wiping my face I looked into the mirror. My face was bloated and red and my eyes had a bloody glaze to them like I had just been punched or beaten with a board. My head throbbed and my hands were shaking again and I rolled them up into tight fists and punched a hole into the wall next to the medicine chest.

'God damn it!'� I said as I shoved my right hand through the wall.

When I'm in a defensive position I usually always lash out in anger. I hit walls. I yell at my kid. I call my wife unkind names. I punch and cut myself. I lose control. I see this and I know that it's wrong but when I'm caught in moments like these I can't stop myself. I want to but I can't. And now Valerie would be home in a couple of hours and I would have to excuse myself for such behavior and rationalize the act. I looked at myself again in the mirror and was curious with myself and, once I calmed down, thought about the letter.

I opened the medicine chest, pulled out several bandages, covered the cuts from putting my hand through the wall and wrapped both of my thumbs that were bleeding from being picked so far down.

c. Matthew Marquis

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