The Power of the Pen
by Steven Burt

They had always been close, this brother and sister. But then, too, they’d always been competitive, and for the most part in their growing-up years she had bested him. Now they were in their thirties and each living comfortably on the inheritance from their deceased parents.

She continued to live in their hometown of Salem, Massachusetts, writing her poetry and venturing out only occasionally for church or to attend a meeting of the Board of Directors for Salem’s Witch Museum. He, on the other hand, had moved away to a small town near Lancaster, Pennsylvania, in Amish Country. He hadn’t joined the Amish, but he did appreciate their simple lifestyle. So, although they had gone in different directions, this brother and sister still had some similarities, preferring the simple, reclusive lifestyle.

They had not seen each other in a number of years. Was it four? Or five? But they kept in touch by letter several times a week. Time and distance had helped them forget some of their differences, and in an odd way, not seeing each other regularly had perhaps deepened their relationship.

Thursday, September 2

Dearest sister,

My job at the library goes well, even if only part time. I enjoy being amongst the books and find that I love the relative quiet of the place. The interaction I have with patrons is pleasant. There is of course the usual small talk as they bring in books or check them out. And because I’m only there 16 hours a week, this being a small-town library, I find the demands of the job not too taxing. The obvious bonus is, I become familiar with more books than I would if I were only a patron of the library. My only regret must be that my life will surely end before I can read all the books I’d like to read. For the first time in a long time, I feel happy, almost content (and perhaps that too will come).

I appreciated the last poem you sent. It was an excellent piece of work and conveyed much deep feeling. If I were to critique any part of it, it would be the last line, the sense of which may be a bit unclear to the reader. That occurs, I think, because of the forced rhyme on the last word. I know you are sensitive about your poems, but I trust this comment will help your work to be even finer than it already is.

I hope your work with the board at the Witch Museum continues to be fulfilling.

Your loving brother,

Robert

Wednesday, September 8

My dear little brother,

I am happy to hear that your new job at the library suits you. While it may be a basic clerk’s position, there is no shame in that. If anyone were to ask me, I would assure them that our parents’ fortune provides you with more than adequate income, and that the library position is more a public service on your part, much the same as my agreeing to sit on the Board of Directors at the Witch Museum.

I will take your critique of my poem’s last line under consideration.

Yesterday several of us from the Board of Directors attended a lecture and demonstration given by a modern witch at the Museum. The woman looked to be a hundred years old and claimed she was closer to two hundred. She cast a few spells. There was quite a large group from the public in attendance and the spells were a hit.

My only regret is that I sat in the front row. The room was warm, so we had the overhead fans on. During one particular spell the fan above me blew some of the powder in my direction, causing me to sneeze seven times. I have never sneezed seven times in succession in my entire life, and when I sneezed the seventh time, the witch gave me the strangest look and said, “Seven. Seven only. Seven.” I have no idea what she meant, and when I pressed her about it afterward, she refused to explain further.

The sneezing episode brought to mind how sick you were from the influenza that winter you were eight and I was nine. Oh, how I worried about you then. That same year, you’ll recall, in the summer and fall, we played croquet with Mom and Dad almost every afternoon. After what must have been five hundred games, you finally beat me for once. You played well, though I recall that you won by a lucky shot, your ball striking a rock that diverted it into the final post. Then you crowed mercilessly about your victory the entire rest of the day.

I will send another of my poems, but not with this letter, perhaps with the next. I have a little tweaking to do on it first.

Your loving sister,

Elizabeth

Monday, September 13

Dearest sister,

So strange, you sneezing exactly seven times. (I’ve been sneezing a lot lately, too, and may have a touch of the flu.) Obviously the witch’s powder was an irritant to your mucous membranes. You don’t think it was in any way toxic, do you? Has it continued? Have you manifested other symptoms? Perhaps you should consult Dr. Mather, just to be certain there are no long-term effects. I hate to be a worrywart about your health, but you know I’ve always been a bit of a hypochondriac myself. Please take care of yourself.

Me? I’m healthy as a horse, finally. I’m trying to learn to be more social, but it’s not easy. At my boss’s suggestion I tried out for a bit part in a small skit we’re doing as a fundraiser here at the library. Guess what? I got the part. It’s only two lines, but all the same I’m excited about it. Imagine, your brother, the thespian!

I look forward to receiving another of your poems.

Your loving brother,

Robert

Saturday, September 18

My dear little brother,

No need to worry, the sneezes stopped at seven. Thank you for your concern.

Good luck with the little play. I’m surprised you tried out for a part (and more surprised you got it). Until now the only acting I’d ever seen you do was acting innocent, like the time Mom accused me of stealing her pie from the windowsill. You let her punish me instead. Good luck with the acting. As they say in the theater, break a leg.

I’ve enclosed the new poem I promised you. I like it quite well myself.

Your loving sister,

Elizabeth

Friday, September 24

Dearest sister,

Sorry to be so long answering your letter, but the day I received it I actually broke my leg. I tripped over a footstool during rehearsal and tumbled off the stage. It was a nasty compound fracture, the shinbone protruding through a bloody mass of flesh. But the doctors set it and it’s in a cast. After a couple of days in the hospital, now I’m laid up in my apartment. Luckily, friends from the library look in on me daily and bring in meals. They’ve gotten another fellow to take my part in the play. Such a brief career on stage, eh? Oh well. The upside of it is, I’m learning what community is really about.

I loved the poem you sent, though I found it hard to focus at first (because of my leg pain mostly, not because of any problem with the poem). I wonder if it wouldn’t be stronger if you switched the second and fourth lines of the fifth stanza? It would keep the rhyme scheme the same, but it would clarify the point about the barns. I read it aloud to one of the women who stopped by with a meal, and she agreed.

The leg is starting to ache again, so I’ll sign off for now.

Your loving brother,

Robert

Wednesday, September 29

My dear little brother,

Thank you for the suggestion you and your woman friend made regarding my poem. In the future, please don’t show my work to anyone else.

A broken leg? You should have had someone notify me when it happened. When you’re out and about and have a little time, please file some papers regarding next-of-kin and all that, just in case something happens. I have already done it on my end. And I have had Mr. Higgins, Mom and Dad’s lawyer, draw up a will for me.

Do you remember Mrs. Merritt’s husband Lester who lived two streets behind us. Three weeks ago he took a fall in the barnyard and broke his leg, too, a compound fracture, just like yours. He had been recuperating at home but gangrene set in (the wet, not the dry, so there was not only infection but fear of blood poisoning). They took him to the hospital to treat him. But so much of his lower leg was dead flesh they had to amputate it at the knee.

I’m glad you’re becoming more sociable, though I’m sorry it took a broken leg for you to get to know your neighbors.

Your loving sister,

Elizabeth

Friday, October 8

Dearest sister,

I’ve developed gangrene and am writing this as I wait for an ambulance to come and transport me to the hospital. They’re going to try massive doses of some drug on me, but the doctor has confided that there’s a good chance they’ll have to amputate my leg at the knee. I’m devastated at the thought but also thankful they can do the surgery here (if needed) on short notice. I’m keeping my fingers crossed that the drugs will work. But if I must choose between my leg and my life, let them take the leg.

This will be my last letter from the apartment for a while. I’ll have someone pick up my mail and will send you the hospital address soon. Telephone me there after you get my letter. I don’t know the number.

Your loving brother,

Robert

Wednesday, October 13

My dear little brother,

I telephoned you at the hospital last night, but the nurse on duty said you were sedated so you could sleep. (Better than being in a coma.) She said you’d had the surgery for amputation at the knee, and that it was a success. But she said you’d be experiencing a lot of pain during recovery (which reminded me of you laughing cruelly when my throat was so sore after the tonsillectomy). This is all so hard to take. Gangrene. Losing part of a leg. It’s very upsetting to me. I’ll mention you during our prayer meeting at church tonight.

The nurse suggested I try phoning you today at noon, that you might be awake at lunchtime. I’ll take her advice and will try. In the meantime, I’ll keep doing what I know best, writing. At least I can keep up my end of the correspondence.

The postman is due any time, and I want to get this in the mail. I’ve enclosed a new poem. I’d appreciate your comments.

Your loving sister,

Elizabeth

Wednesday, October 13

My dear little brother,

My second letter today. I’m worried. When I telephoned a few minutes ago, the nurse put your doctor on and he said you had slipped into a coma. He said a coma is the brain’s way of protecting the body while it heals. I asked the doctor if I should come and be by your bedside; he said to give it another day first. He promised to phone me tomorrow.

In the meantime I’m a wreck. I feel like I did when we had that picnic on the Charles River, when Mom made me watch over you. You disappeared and I called out for you again and again until I was hoarse. I begged you to stop hiding, to stop being so mean to me, but you wouldn’t come out. When you finally did, you were laughing, you were horrible. I know this is a coma and it’s serious, but you’d better not be toying with me again. Sometimes you make me so angry.

I’m off to town for groceries, so I’ll mail this at the Post Office.

Your loving sister,

Elizabeth

P.S. Poor Mr. Merritt died a couple of days ago. His funeral was yesterday.

Thursday, October 14

My dear brother,

I can’t go anywhere for fear I’ll miss a call from your doctor. I’m too worked up to read a book or work on a poem. There’s not much to do while waiting except to write another letter. I tried knitting, but as I knit I find myself counting to seven over and over. It only serves to remind me of the seven sneezes. I’ve been trying to remember how many letters I’ve written you since the sneezes. If you were awake, you could tell me.

As I promised, I lifted up your name at prayer meeting last night. Afterward, Rev. Decker asked if I’d like a pastoral visit. He had been planning to see Mrs. Merritt this morning anyway and said he could swing by. He just now telephoned from the Merritts’ to say he’s on his way here now. I’ve got to put on the tea kettle, so I’ll close this letter and put it out for the postman.

Your loving sister,

Elizabeth

Friday, October 15

My dear brother,

When the doctor called yesterday morning to say you had died, I couldn’t believe it. My mind refused to grasp it. I felt a wave of guilt. Did I somehow contribute to your accident, your infection, your coma? Your death? I never even said goodbye.

Since then I’ve dwelt upon the witch’s words. Seven, she said, seven. And so, this letter (I believe) being my seventh since the spell was cast, and having no other hope, I offer you the words Rev. Decker shared from scripture this morning.

He rose from the dead.

Love,

Elizabeth

She sealed the letter and carried it to the front porch for the postman to take. Then she went inside and waited for the phone to ring, for the doctor to call and babble on about a miraculous recovery.

Instead, she heard heavy footsteps on the porch. Her skin broke into goosebumps as a terrifying image flashed across her mind. Her heart fluttered errantly for a moment and she put a hand to her chest. The other hand she placed on the deadbolt and unlocked the door. She could picture the letter where she had hung by a clothespin from the mailbox. Could she still snatch it and tear it up? Would it make a difference? She turned the knob and tried to prepare herself for what she might see, praying to God it was only the postman, an hour early.