Ian

[1] Editor’s note: The following text is presented with the author’s own footnotes left intact.

[2] This seems like the very least the old man could do for her, given that she visited him every day as he lay dying in the hospital. I regard it as scant compensation for the amount of petrol I expended in driving her back and forth though. In any case, Susanna had always been his favourite grandchild, despite his paternal disapproval of her taste in men.

[3] My only indulgence is tobacco. I roll my own cigarettes and smoke them as I write, a habit which earned the scorn of Susanna’s grandfather when he was still alive. This always struck me as somewhat hypocritical, since he had been battling lung cancer for the better part of a decade, thanks to the pipes he had been smoking for most of his life. Susanna does not smoke and she has tried to get me to quit on numerous occasions. I tell her I write better when I do, and she believes me. Most of the time. I have not showed her my papers yet.

[4] I say modest, but what I really mean to say is that their home looks like a fire hazard waiting to fall apart. Susanna thinks it possesses a quaint charm that her grandfather’s manor obviously lacks. I tell her that my realtor friend would be happy to disabuse her of this notion by quoting the market values of the two properties. She looks blankly at me and asks if I want to sell the manor. As if the thought ever crossed my mind.

[5] I like to think that Susanna is happy with me, even if the reverse is seldom true. Of course, there is nothing wrong with Susanna. The problem lies with me. It always does.

[6] As was the sex, although that may just have been the arugula salad and dark chocolates at dessert. We did not buy the latter though. They were a birthday gift from my editor that I had been saving for when the book was finished. Naturally, I did not tell Susanna this. How could she have known?

[7] Susanna likes Arnold Palmer. I prefer John Daly.

[8] My parents grew up during the Depression. That is all I know because they refuse to talk about it, although they never allowed me to forget the importance of money as I was growing up. My mother was particularly devastated by my decision to leave the hospital. She still ends our conversations (when I remember to call) with a neutral inquiry as to my financial health and whether I would not be happier back in the ward. Susanna has learnt to avoid speaking to me immediately after I have hung up on my mother.

[9] The cucumber escaped unscathed, except for the most recent slice on the chopping board. It tasted of iron.

[10] I would have driven her there, except the expense of time (and petrol) seemed unnecessarily extravagant.

[11] Father used to do the same to me when he wanted to teach me a lesson. I would not be let out until I begged for forgiveness, on my knees and slamming my head on the door. We knew how to bring children up in those days.

[12] This will undoubtedly please Susanna, once she comes to her senses and realises how much of a help she is being to me. I wish there were some other way to accomplish this, but as far as I can tell, nothing else can suffice to help me move forward. I am beginning to feel our relationship has come to a natural end.

[13] Editor’s note: Here the manuscript breaks off in mid-sentence. The only sign that an attempt was made to continue are several bloody smears on subsequent pages.