felt it turn. Flinging the minutes away like chicken feed. It was hard to focus his mind, hard to think.
But he had to. They would be there soon. His wife and daughter. It was nearing eleven now and they would come at one. He had to do this, he had to get it done before they arrived. He put the pen’s tip to the paper—not for the first time that morning. And not for the first time, he held it there motionless. He had written this letter over and over in his mind a hundred times, for six years he had been composing it. But it was not so easy to set it down now in ink. It mattered too much to him. No real words could do what he wanted them to do. In his mind, the phrases were eloquent, even wise. They were charged with his desperate feeling. On the page, they were ashes. He might just as well have burned the paper and left that to his little girl.
He raised his eyes, his stomach clutching, his mind seizing with panic at the passing time. Benson glanced up at him hopefully. The guard, Frank knew, had been disappointed that he would not watch a video on the cell TV as mostcondemned prisoners did. But the movies made things worse for Frank. The actors pretending to be in trouble or in love. He was too aware of the camera watching them. No matter what they said or did, he was too conscious that they were only pretending, doing their job really, the work they enjoyed, waiting to go home to their wives or their husbands, their houses and their lawns. It made him feel ill. It made him remember that other camera, the one that was watching him—the eye of God. When he watched movies, he could see himself through that other eye, lying on his cot, gazing at the TV while the seconds were flung away.
Frank lowered his gaze to the page again. Finally, he began writing.
Dear Gail
, he wrote,
This is kind of hard for me, because I’m not writing to the little girl I know—I’m writing to a young woman I’m never going to get to know. I’ve been trying for a long time to think of what to say to her—to you—because I wanted to give you some of the things I’m not going to get to give you over the years. I was thinking you might be able to turn to this letter when you’re older and you can understand it, and feel you’ve got some idea of who your father was and how much he loved you. But now I know I can’t do that
.
That’s why it’s so hard to get started. I had this idea that I would write down all this advice, and all these words of wisdom I might have had a chance to say to you while you were growing up in my house with me around you—things to watch out for, things I’ve seen and been through that might help you through the things that you have to see and go through. I guess I always figured that was part of what a father did—I always had
to figure that out for myself because I didn’t have a father who taught me how to do them. But I did want to do them right, kid. I hope you know that, even though I’m not there anymore. I wanted like anything to do them right because I loved you so much. But the thing is, what I’m thinking now as I write this, is that it wasn’t about any of the things I would’ve said anyway. Not the words, you know. A guy wants his experiences and the things that he thinks about and believes to be important to somebody, to his kid most of all, but I don’t know now if they really are. What’s important really is who you are, the whole thing of you, even the way you smell and laugh and stuff, and that you’re there, whatever the breaks are, that you’re there standing up for the people around you, and that’s exactly what I won’t be able to give you. You gotta know that it’s killing me that I won’t be able to give you that and that I really wanted to. Don’t ever think, not for even a single second, that I didn’t want to be there, every day, all the time. It was just the way things turned out for us, but I wanted to. So that’s one thing I want you to know right there
.
I
But he had to. They would be there soon. His wife and daughter. It was nearing eleven now and they would come at one. He had to do this, he had to get it done before they arrived. He put the pen’s tip to the paper—not for the first time that morning. And not for the first time, he held it there motionless. He had written this letter over and over in his mind a hundred times, for six years he had been composing it. But it was not so easy to set it down now in ink. It mattered too much to him. No real words could do what he wanted them to do. In his mind, the phrases were eloquent, even wise. They were charged with his desperate feeling. On the page, they were ashes. He might just as well have burned the paper and left that to his little girl.
He raised his eyes, his stomach clutching, his mind seizing with panic at the passing time. Benson glanced up at him hopefully. The guard, Frank knew, had been disappointed that he would not watch a video on the cell TV as mostcondemned prisoners did. But the movies made things worse for Frank. The actors pretending to be in trouble or in love. He was too aware of the camera watching them. No matter what they said or did, he was too conscious that they were only pretending, doing their job really, the work they enjoyed, waiting to go home to their wives or their husbands, their houses and their lawns. It made him feel ill. It made him remember that other camera, the one that was watching him—the eye of God. When he watched movies, he could see himself through that other eye, lying on his cot, gazing at the TV while the seconds were flung away.
Frank lowered his gaze to the page again. Finally, he began writing.
Dear Gail
, he wrote,
This is kind of hard for me, because I’m not writing to the little girl I know—I’m writing to a young woman I’m never going to get to know. I’ve been trying for a long time to think of what to say to her—to you—because I wanted to give you some of the things I’m not going to get to give you over the years. I was thinking you might be able to turn to this letter when you’re older and you can understand it, and feel you’ve got some idea of who your father was and how much he loved you. But now I know I can’t do that
.
That’s why it’s so hard to get started. I had this idea that I would write down all this advice, and all these words of wisdom I might have had a chance to say to you while you were growing up in my house with me around you—things to watch out for, things I’ve seen and been through that might help you through the things that you have to see and go through. I guess I always figured that was part of what a father did—I always had
to figure that out for myself because I didn’t have a father who taught me how to do them. But I did want to do them right, kid. I hope you know that, even though I’m not there anymore. I wanted like anything to do them right because I loved you so much. But the thing is, what I’m thinking now as I write this, is that it wasn’t about any of the things I would’ve said anyway. Not the words, you know. A guy wants his experiences and the things that he thinks about and believes to be important to somebody, to his kid most of all, but I don’t know now if they really are. What’s important really is who you are, the whole thing of you, even the way you smell and laugh and stuff, and that you’re there, whatever the breaks are, that you’re there standing up for the people around you, and that’s exactly what I won’t be able to give you. You gotta know that it’s killing me that I won’t be able to give you that and that I really wanted to. Don’t ever think, not for even a single second, that I didn’t want to be there, every day, all the time. It was just the way things turned out for us, but I wanted to. So that’s one thing I want you to know right there
.
I
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