You know it was she who wrote those letters. It had to be. As you stand there alone waiting to speak, smoothing down the skirt of your new dark gray woolen suit, your mind reruns over the events of the last few months. When the letters came pouring into your mailbox last spring, week after week, you just knew it had to be Louanne. You wondered then why she did it. Why did she feel it necessary to fill sheet after sheet of that pale blue paper with all those ugly accusations. The first one had read, “I SAW YOU TAKE THE MONEY.” It was printed in the center in a very large font that filled the whole page. The words stared up at you, and you remember feeling surprise, shock, and then anger at whoever had the nerve to do this to you. You had examined the postmark and then the stamp for any clues as to who might have sent it. Mailed from the downtown Post Office and sent on its way with a regular first class stamp, the sender might have been anyone. But you knew it had to be Louanne. A week later the second one came, this time it read, “YOU HAVE TO REPLACE THE MONEY.” Throughout March, April and into the first week of May, the letters came, always with the same postmark, always mailed at the downtown Post Office and always printed on the same pale blue paper. Each letter accused you of stealing money.
You had seen the very same printer paper at the local Hallmark store just a few days after the third letter had arrived. Curious and suddenly feeling very vulnerable, you had picked up a box and wondered to yourself what had been going through Louanne’s mind when she had chosen this particular brand of paper. You were looking hard at the box, noting the quantity of 25 sheets marked on gold foil on the outside label when a voice behind you made you jump. “Can I help you with anything Miss?”
“Oh no,” you had said and then quickly asked if she could remember anyone buying this particular brand of paper recently.
“That’s a very popular line, we sell lots of those, all the time.” Silly really, you thought to yourself, as if the assistant would remember Louanne coming into the store a few weeks back to buy a box of printer paper. Who would remember Louanne? You recall her mousy blonde hair always coifed up in front like some beacon transmitting brain waves or something and those clothes, where did she get her clothes, you always thought she must have shopped at Goodwill or somewhere. And that voice, that pathetic little voice, always whining and moaning about something, yet snippy in a martyr like way. Louanne was so negative. If being positive was an attribute of somebody who had the edge on life, always upbeat, optimistic and bright, then Louanne was definitely negative. You just knew it had to be Louanne who was writing the letters. A few weeks after seeing the paper in Hallmark, the letters suddenly stopped. You remember the last one had read, “IF YOU DON’T REPLACE THE MONEY I’LL HAVE TO TELL.”
Here you are now, with your accuser behind you. You stand at the dais with your prepared speech in front of you. Feeling nervous you adjust the collar of your silk shirt, examine your nails and reach up to make sure your hair is still in place. You wait for people to settle down. It is cold in the room and everyone’s faces look chilly and pinched as they wait expectantly for you to begin. You try to clear your throat but somehow the lump won’t budge and you have to lean forward to gratefully accept an opened bottle of cold water someone is holding out to you. You then pick up the papers of your speech and hit the edges twice more on the hard polished top of the dais and wonder how on earth will you manage to get through this. You suppose you must speak at this time. It is your obligation, and you must speak first. As the only surviving relative of the person behind you, it is your duty to speak now.
It is a closed casket. The body was almost unrecognizable as a result of the fire that occurred that night when Louanne’s car crashed and burned. As if trying to gather the strength to begin, you slowly scan the faces of your fellow mourners who have gathered today to help you say goodbye to your sister. You look down at the pale blue paper on which you have chosen to write Louanne’s eulogy. A nice touch, you think. Just before you begin to speak, a nagging thought that has been tapping at the far recesses of your mind suddenly slips through to you: “How did Louanne know?”