The Wrong Pen Pal

Summary: Can the one he didn't want help him find Miss Right?

Author's Note:

In the days prior to the internet, email, and instant messaging, it was fairly common for young people to have a pen pal, a distant friend one often knew only through the letters they swapped by mail, sometimes with weeks, months, or even years passing between exchanges. This story is a complete work of fiction but was ever-so-loosely inspired by memories of friendships with some of my own pen pals in those long-ago days of yesteryear.

_________________________________________

Years ago...

"Hey, Brian! Wanna' join the Spanish Club?"

I looked at Dave like he was crazy. "Dude! We're in eighth grade, remember? You've got to be at least a freshman to join that club."

"Nah, I saw the sign on the clubs bulletin board earlier today when I was looking for the date for the 4-H contest. Spanish Club's opened up to 8th graders this year if ya' plan to take the class next year. My sister confirmed it; something about them not having enough members so they opened it up to us, too."

"Say, I think it's mostly girls, right?"

Dave was grinning as he slowly nodded. "Not girls, Brian. High school girls."

We signed up the very next morning.

***

Middleton is aptly named, being pretty much in the middle of nowhere. Like those in many small rural communities of the time, our school was for Kindergarten through 12th graders.

There wasn't a lot for kids to do in Middleton, so sports, Scouts, and school clubs like the Future Farmers, Future Homemakers (now called Family, Career and Community Leaders of America), and 4-H were pretty important to keep the kids engaged with their peers. The Spanish Club, being quite small, had its own unique way of doing it.

Señora Ramirez, the Spanish teacher and our club advisor, would assign recipes and everyone would bring part of an authentic Mexican meal at our monthly meeting. Members would eat dinner and share letters they'd received from their Spanish-language pen pals since the last meeting. Having a pen pal was the only other club requirement, so la maestra, the teacher, handed out the pen pal request forms when new members joined.

After filling out the little form and enclosing a dollar, I sent my envelope off and waited.

A few weeks later, I received a response from the pen pal organization with the name and address of Renato, a young man about my age who lived in Valparaíso, Chile. Being so excited, I wrote a letter introducing myself, including a small part in Spanish that Señora Ramirez "helped" me to write. I checked with the lady at the post office on how much postage to apply and sent my letter on the way. Then, I waited.

And waited.

And waited.

"Señora Ramirez, it's been three whole weeks and I haven't heard back from him."

She patted my hand as she shook her head. "Brian, many parts of the world don't operate at the same breakneck speed as we norteamericanos tend to do. The postal service there may take longer, or he may just be busy. Give it some time, okay?"

I still hadn't received anything by our second club meeting and most of the other members had at least one letter to share. Even Dave had a letter, and his sister, Carla, had three, though she was a senior and had been friends with her pen pal in Spain for several years.

After the meeting was over, I approached Señora Ramirez. "Maestra, I don't know why I still haven't gotten a letter. Do you still think it's gotten lost, or maybe the guy just doesn't like me?"

She gave me a sympathetic look and shook her head. "Brian, it's possible your first letter was lost en route. Why don't you try again, send another one, and mention the possibility that the first was lost. That way you don't embarrass him if he received it and just hasn't gotten around to replying."

Again, I waited, but as the last meeting of the semester approached, I was getting more and more concerned that I wouldn't have anything to share. Señora Ramirez would probably kick me out of the club or maybe make me send in another dollar for another name, which was even worse.

Every day I came from school and checked the mailbox to see if my letter had arrived. Imagine my surprise on the day when the fancy airmail letter finally arrived. The lettering was a lot different than the American way we'd been taught in elementary school, but I made out my name as the addressee, so I tore into the house like a banshee.

"Mom! Mom! It came! My letter came!"

I slit the envelope carefully with a letter opener to keep from ripping anything and pulled out the letter. More of the weird writing was visible, as was a photograph that fell out on the table.

"Let's see what your young man looks like..."

Mom trailed off as she looked at the photo she'd picked up. Turning it around toward me, I realized something was wrong. I glanced back at the envelope and groaned as my big brother, Alex, started laughing out loud.

The stamp and postmark were from France and the photo was of a girl.

"Brian's got a girl pen pal!" shouted my idiot brother with glee. He laughed hysterically as my eyes widened, not believing my luck. I was supposed to have my male friend from Chile, not some girl from France. This was wrong!

"Shit!" I said, leading my mother to give me the foulest of looks.

"Brian Pierce! You know you're not to use that kind of language in this house."

Alex was making a face at me, since he regularly got away with that and a lot worse, though usually at school or on the high school football practice field. He laughed even harder when Mom made me sweep off the back patio and driveway.

***

I saw Señora Ramirez at school the next day.

"Maestra, I have a problem; I got the wrong pen pal. A girl sent me a letter." I handed it to her.

"I've seen it happen before, Brian. The pen pal company gets requests from all over the world, so they send you your first request and then put your name in their file. When someone from, say, France, says they're looking for an American male as a pen pal, if you're the right age, they may assign you to the French boy or girl."

"But Señora, I don't know any French, and I don't want to write a girl," I said, almost wailing. "If my brother tells the guys on the football team, I'll never live it down when I'm on the team next year."

She smiled at me. "Brian, maybe she's not the wrong one. Maybe that young lady wants a pen friend just like you did. What would happen if you don't respond to her? How do you think she'd feel?"

I was looking down at my feet. "Probably a lot like how I feel about Renato, my Chilean guy, not writing to me."

"Right. At least send one letter to be polite and let her know you received her letter. Don't leave her hanging, okay?"

"I guess," I replied, my sense of duty getting the best of me.

"Good. I suspect that you'll be writing more though, particularly after she writes you back. You may find that you like having a pretty French pen pal and that she's not the wrong one after all."

"Until Alex tells the other guys."

"I don't know about that, Brian. It's said that French women are some of the prettiest, sexiest women in the world. Do you know where French women come from?"

"Ahem...France?"

She laughed. "Yes, but more importantly, French girls grow up to be French women. When other guys find out that you're communicating with a young French woman, they may be more envious than you might imagine."

"That would be good," I agreed, thinking of the possibilities of shoving my big brother's nose in the mud for a change rather than being on the receiving end of his pranks and derision as was the usual case.

She looked at the letter again. "It looks like your young Yvette--she's a beautiful young lady, by the way--writes very well in English, so your lack of French shouldn't be a hindrance in communicating with her. Send her a letter, introduce yourself--don't forget to include a picture--and see if she's interested in writing back. You might have your pen pal after all."

"But I'm supposed to have a Spanish-speaking pen pal."

"That's preferred," she agreed, " but the Spanish Club rule is that you must have a pen pal, not necessarily one that speaks Spanish. The situation in which you find yourself has occurred before, though, if I remember correctly, that student's substitute pen pal wasn't nearly as cute as your Yvette."

***

Over the next few years, Yvette and I corresponded regularly and, to my surprise, became good friends despite my initial concerns about her being the wrong pen pal for me. She taught me a little French while I was occasionally able to help her with something in English. We also helped each other learn more about our respective countries, though she never quite got American football or why I would play it even as I grew and filled out my frame.

More importantly, we served as each other's sounding board in dealing with the opposite sex on our side of the Atlantic as we tried to find Mister or Miss Right. She frequently spoke of André, her Mr. Right, and, beginning sometime in my junior year, I started mentioning a young lady to her.

I'd been a member of the local club since 4th grade, had been attending county contests periodically from the start, and then began attending the monthly meetings of the county senior high club as soon as I got my driver's license when I was a sophomore. That made me eligible to attend more of the state events and go on better trips to get away from Alex and Middleton for a while. Over time, I even picked up a few 4-H pen pals through my travels.

Staci Evers, my Miss Right, wasn't a pen pal though; she was from Lundsboro, our county seat, and was a member of our county 4-H club. I'd met her years earlier and even been to 4-H summer camp with her a few times, but we never really became friends until the start of my junior year. She was a brunette and it was only then that I realized how gorgeous she was. Having relatively little luck with the girls in Middleton, I developed a big crush on her and eventually worked up the courage to call her.

"Hi, Staci, this is Brian Pierce from 4-H. How are you?"

"Oh, hi, Brian. I'm doing well. And you?"

"Good, good, thanks. How's your Communications project work coming along? Have you been working on your record book?"

Members work on one or more projects and keep record books for each that document their progress. Having a better record book increases one's chance of winning the district competition and going to state. I'd seen Staci speak at one of our county meetings about her project the month before, so it seemed like a good ice breaker.

It wasn't. It was painfully obvious that I didn't know much about her subject and I could barely respond to what she was telling me. Finally, reaching about as much embarrassment as I could stand, I said, "Hey, I was wondering if you'd like to go out with me next weekend? There's a new--"

"I'm sorry, Brian, but I have plans next weekend," she said. "Maybe some other time, okay? Oh, my mom's calling me. I've got to run. Take care."

She clicked off and I stood looking at the phone as I listened to the tone. She'd turned me down, but she'd given me a shred of hope. "Some other time, okay?" A guy can go a long way on such a statement from such a pretty girl.

However, such hope is pretty much quashed after receiving the third or fourth "I have other plans" excuse. Yvette suggested that I leave it more open ended; instead of asking her to a specific event on a specific day or weekend, I should try something generic and leave the weekend up to her. That gave me a little more hope, at least until I tried it.

"I'm so sorry, Brian. I have a boyfriend now. I can't go out with you. We can still be friends, okay?"

"Yeah, that's, ah, that's great, Staci. We'll be friends. Yeah. See you around."

Yvette tried to cheer me up when I discovered that Staci wasn't my Miss Right after all, but it didn't work too well. After all, she'd finally hooked her André (and then her Louis and then more) and I'd failed to even get a nibble. She was really sweet about encouraging me, and I was honest with her about my frustration. Still, with Yvette's help, I eventually put Staci Evers behind me, though Staci and I remained friends in 4-H.

During my senior year, I made some good plays on the gridiron as a defensive back, caught a few balls and even scored a touchdown when filling in as wide receiver. There were no football scholarships waiting for me, but I was good enough to attract the attention of a couple of the junior girls. I went on a few dates with each, though neither relationship ever went anywhere.

Therefore, as I graduated from high school, I looked forward to starting college at State, where there would be more girls and the potential for more adventure.

***

Mid April 2020

A cold, blowing rain cast a bitter pall over the event. The facemasks and the social distancing due to the COVID-19 virus that had taken my dear wife made it even worse.

There were only nine of us at the private graveside service. While our state hadn't shut things down completely, the funeral home was generally going with the Centers for Disease Control recommendations and limiting the number of people at funerals, even when hundreds or perhaps thousands loved the person. In the case of Dr. Staci Evers-Pierce, she'd helped at least that many people over the years, but now, when the virus had overcome her, the outpouring had been calls and cards, texts and hastily-left casseroles, instead of hugs and tears in person. It hurt to tell everyone that there would be no public service for her.

Our pastor, Reverend Hendricks, speaking through his mask, quickly realized the futility of trying to keep his Bible dry while reading a passage so he closed the book and tucked it into his coat. Lowering his mask, he rather hurriedly recited the 23rd Psalm from memory before saying a few lovely words about Staci and then closing with prayer. The two workers from the funeral home were lowering the casket into the grave as soon as he said "Amen."

Our boys, one on each side of me, watched as the box went down. At 22 and 19, they understood but were still as shocked and upset as I was.

Reverend Hendricks approached but hung back well beyond the obligatory 6-feet.

"Blessings to you, Brian, Kyle, Kevin. Staci was a good...no, a wonderful woman, so caring about everyone, and she'll be missed by all. Let me know if I can do anything to help," he said to us, starting to extend his hand before jerking it back reflexively when he realized what he was doing. "Damn COVID," he muttered, leading me to nod, the boys, despite their grief, to try to hide their grins at hearing a man of the cloth saying such a thing, and an embarrassed Reverend Hendricks to scamper away.

Erica, Staci's little sister, and her husband Ross, came up as the workers lowered the vault over the casket. With Staci and Erica having lost their mother nearly twenty years before and having no other family, Erica had been crying practically nonstop since I'd relayed the news of Staci's passing. Due to the lockdowns, the folks at the hospital hadn't let either of us inside to be with her. I knew I would regret that until the day I died, but I could only think of how Erica must feel and how hurt and distraught that Staci, trapped on the ventilator and fighting for her life, must have been when we couldn't be there with her.

Erica gave me a hug as Ross stood by her. "Brian, Staci loved you and the boys with all her heart. She cherished her time with you, with you all. She...she..."

Her tears were flowing again and I patted her back and kissed the side of her head through my mask before nodding to Ross. I could see how cold and wet she was--with the wind blowing so hard, none of us had been able to use umbrellas--so I hoped he'd get her home and warm before she got sick, too.

Ross and I had been like brothers for years, much closer than I was with Alex, my biological brother, who lived several hours away. Ross gave me a fist bump that said more than words and gave the boys a compassionate nod each before he peeled Erica away from me and led her away as the men started to backfill the grave.

Finally, my eyes focused on the last man, the one I didn't know, the one I hadn't invited.

Unlike the others, he stood off to the side watching the graveyard workers doing their duty. Wrapped in a long overcoat with a black facemask and a dark gray fedora, I couldn't tell much about him but he looked on intently as they completed their efforts, casting an occasional glance in my direction. It was only after the workers finished and gave me their final condolences that he approached, stopping about the prescribed distance away.

"Mr. Pierce, my name is Hiram Wicklow. My condolences, sir."

I couldn't place his name so I nodded in reply. "Thank you, Mr. Wicklow, and thank you for coming. Staci would have appreciated that, particularly since you braved this crazy weather to do it."

"As well I know. Your wife and I were friends in college and have been professional associates since then."

"I'm sorry, sir. Your name doesn't ring a bell with me. You're with her doctor's group?"

"Not surprising, and no. In fact, she instructed me to speak with you only in the event of her passing. Unfortunately...well, since I was her attorney and financial advisor as well as her friend, I respected her wishes, of course."

"Her attorney? Financial advisor?" I questioned, a bit confused. I handled the family finances, so I would have known anything like that.

"Corporate attorney, through her practice," he said. "I know this is difficult, but we need to speak regarding her financial affairs. Please give me a call at your earliest convenience."

With an outstretched and gloved hand, he handed me a business card which I took in like manner.

"Again, my condolences, Mr. Pierce. Please call me."

He nodded to me and then to each of my sons before turning and walking toward a dark sedan parked some distance away.

"What was that all about, Dad?" asked Kyle, my older boy. Having turned 22 some months earlier, he should have been at school enjoying the last of his senior year before starting medical school in the fall, but the bug had forced the university to go to distance learning a few weeks earlier and now he was home trying to deal with the loss of his mother, too.

"I don't know, son, but we'll find out soon enough."

I turned and looked at the grave to bid my wife a silent goodbye before putting my arms around the boys and making our way toward our car.

***

The house was cold and silent when we returned, interrupted only by Gryf's greeting as we entered. He looked at each of us in turn, probably wondering if Staci would be coming in behind us.

"Sorry, boy, Mommy's gone and won't be coming back anymore," I said softly, wishing he understood as I knelt down on one knee to hug him. With the garage door closed, he at least understood that she wouldn't be coming in right then, so he returned to the front window to keep watch for her approach that would never come, just as he'd been doing every day since she'd taken ill.

Cold and a little wet despite my overcoat and hat, a hot shower practically called my name, but I told the boys to go first so we wouldn't run out of hot water with three steaming showers going at once. I made hot chocolate and then sipped it, trying to warm myself without burning my tongue, as I waited for the boys.

Kevin, almost twenty and a college sophomore, came down first. Like Kyle, he was trying to study from home, but Staci's illness and passing had been too much for him. She'd passed to him her compassionate streak and her great love of pets, so Kevin planned to become a veterinarian, assuming he could keep his grades up. He was carrying Miss Snickers in his arms, rubbing the cat's belly as she purred, accepting the homage due her royalness.