by Ellen Thibault
Photo: © Depositphotos.com/mimagephotos
My dear boy:
It’s good to see you looking so well—so truly positive—despite your recent incarceration. There are up sides to having free time while living in a warm clime, and I see you’re wisely spending some of yours outdoors. It would appear that the sum that I sent the warden has, at least in part, found its way to you. Though it does pain me to see you in in off-brand eyewear, I am pleased that you’ve upgraded from that unfortunate jump suit documented in your last photo.
To update you on the goings-on at home, we’re still getting visits from agent you-know-who, and despite being dumber than a bag of nine irons, he’s managed to uncover some rather dispiriting you-know-whats. There is word of another search warrant. Your younger brother has wisely fled to you-no-doubt-know-where. Or is officer you-know-who not keeping up with his part of the bargain? I’ve set up funding for all of his miserable offspring to attend college, marry, reproduce obscenely, and live comfortably. He needs to perform his duties, or I will be forced to dabble with his retirement and other accounts.
Son, your mother and I met with the executive committee, well, the shell that remains of it, and consulted with our attorney, and I’m afraid we have some rather regrettable news. While our legal counselor has been a godsend—as you know, he worked tirelessly to negotiate a reduced sentence for you—he has, of late, instilled into our minds a few troubling scenarios. Further, he uses the word “fraud” with alarming regularity. It’s a most unpleasant term and it upsets your mother so. While he’s earned his keep, working on a deal with judge you-know-who, he has lately and rather rudely stopped taking my calls. What this all comes down to, son, is this: It’s time for your mother and I to retreat with the what’s left of our still-formidable dignity, physical health, and financial assets. It’s not just the legal mess; it’s the investors. Threats of a most distressing nature have been made. Who knew that a band of gimpy, toothless, red-state retirees could turn so vicious? And don’t get me started on the media. You’d think they’d never heard of capitalism before.
We have transferred and dispersed our accounts in various ways and booked radical plastic surgery. By the time you read this, your mother and I will have been entirely transformed by Dr. you-know. As to where we will go, well, given choices among main land China, Iran, Morocco, Nicaragua, and the smattering of manmade and unmapped islands in which we’ve invested, I think you can figure out where your mother will be most comfortable.
Son, I want you to know that we are all so grateful for what you’ve done for the family. And while I cannot guarantee further contact, there will be funds available to you, upon your release. I trust you know where. Think of it this way: Even after nine years in the pokey, you’ll still have your whole life ahead of you. And I know that, by then, the youngest daughter of you-know-who will be available for marriage. They’re a good family, son, and so far, thank the gods, have not been indicted. Call them when you get out, or better yet, strike up a correspondence now. It can’t hurt. Connections, my boy.
Your mother sends kisses. She did also insist that I warn you about eating too many of those starchy, carbo-loaded prison noodles, and begs that you take advantage of any fresh fruits, vegetables (especially dark leafy greens), or Greek yogurt that may be at your disposal. (I told her how the Commissary works, but she refuses to listen.) She is also grateful for your sacrifice.
I know I don’t need to say this, but I want to remind you of our little promise. I would never hurt you, son, but there are some things that need to remain between us. Be well. And once you have read this letter, please shred and destroy it in the manner we’ve discussed. Your mother says to swallow just tiny pieces, one at a time. Doing so will save you from choking and provide some much needed fiber to your diet.
Your father,
You-know-who, the III
Ellen Thibault is a writer, editor, music enthusiast, and animal lover who lives in Somerville, MA.