The Late Letter--Gordon

The Late Letter

One week after attending the funeral of a close friend, you receive a postcard in your letter box with the words, "I'm not dead. Meet me Friday at Guido's Pizzeria. Tell no one."

I ran to the mailbox in a great hurry. It was a cold and freezing day so I grabbed the letters, and as always seems to happen, dropped one. Bending down to pick it up it was covered in mud. It was late and I needed to prepare dinner so put the letters on the side table. It had been a difficult week, and we both felt tired and exhausted. Mike was in a reflective mood, and said, I can’t believe that Mark is dead. My thoughts raced back to the funeral, I had not been to many funerals. It was an unnerving experience feeling emotions out of control. I cried, and left in a state of disbelief. I was not complete, even though the funeral was a week ago.

Dinner was over, and Mike said: “What was in the mail?” So we sat and opened the mail. I looked at the muddy letter and thought I recognized the writing–it was from Mark. Tears came to my eyes again, as I thought of Mark, he was so alive, and such good fun. He was only 43 and seemed to have much in his future.

I opened the letter and inside was a postcard, and scrawled across the back of it was “I’m not dead. Meet me Friday at Guido’s Pizzeria. Tell no one.” I could not believe what I was reading. My thoughts raced. Do I tell Mike? I thought quickly: I can’t tell Mike. Holding the card away from me, I rapidly made up a story. “Mike, before he died, he sent me a letter, saying why don’t we meet for lunch.” In a laconic tone Mike said: “Better than the dead letter box.” That was a close escape I thought to myself, putting the card in my handbag.

I don’t like pizza, but I was early arriving at Guido’s just as it opened. In the back corner of the restaurant was a table with two chairs. Ideal for a clandestine meeting, so I sat down at the table and waited. Soon the waiter came and asked “Would you like a cup of coffee?” Slowly, I drank my coffee and every few minutes looked out to the street to see if I could see Mark coming. Deep down, I knew Mark was dead, yet there was always a glimmer of hope that he still may be alive. I waited, and I waited. “Another coffee, please”, I asked.

It was two hours and four coffees, so I got up and walked away from the table. In that moment, Mark walked through the door. I ran and hugged him–very tightly. “Mark, I thought you were dead.” He said: “Sssh, don’t say anything.” Lets go over to the park where we can talk. We walked silently.

Secluded by trees we sat on a park bench and Mark explained. “I was kidnapped but escaped two days ago. I must be very careful. I need your help. You see, I owed a million to Featherstone Associates. They kidnapped me and were going to send me to Nigeria to work as a slave till I had paid the money back. They paid the undertaker to set up a funeral and told you and Mark and a few others I was dead. They are looking for me and I need to go underground.” “Mark”, I said, “this is really risky, let’s go to the police.” “No, I think the local copper was in on the deal” he said. I stood up to think and turned around. Suddenly, a shot rang out. Mark was slumped on the bench.


Gordon MacAulay
1 August 2009