Palmer Method Porn

By David Daniel

It is in the fifth carton Franny’s husband trundles up from the basement. She and Tod are downsizing. It’s a good day for it, snowy outside. So far, they’ve filled six plastic trash bags and have set aside other belongings in piles. Items the kids can use. Stuff for Goodwill. Things worth a second look. “A glance, see what it is, then pitch it.” This last is Tod’s practical mantra, and Franny knows he’s right. If they start second guessing, this’ll take forever. Over thirty years of marriage, stuff accrues. But she can’t resist a peek.

And that is how she discovers the packet of old letters.

They are on lined yellow pages, folded in thirds. She unfolds the first and sees it is handwritten. They all are. No envelopes. A squinty look tells her they are love letters—to or from whom is not immediately clear because they bear no salutation beyond “Hey” or “Darling”—and one, “Kid.” The writing is cursive. She hesitates then fishes reading glasses from the pocket of her sweatshirt. Written words, after all, represent an act of faith on the part of writer and reader, a labor of time and intention.

As she begins to read, memory floods in.

She reads a second letter, then a third. The words are tender, amazingly full of desire and, despite having spent decades in the dark and dust of this carton, still potent with a power to stir.

“An old lover?” Tod has paused in boxing up books for donation to the Friends of the Library. Is he a touch jealous?

“Before I met you.”

“Love makes the world go round. Is there a story? Must be a story.”

Franny expands. She’d been eighteen, just graduated from high school and unsure about a future. She took a seasonal job as a counselor at a kids’ summer camp in Maine. She had been “over the moon” (this in finger quotes) with a guy there several years older. He was from down South.

“And? What happened? What became of him?”

“No idea.”

“Seriously?”

“I thought we’re supposed to be working, Mister.”

But he’s interested. She shrugs. “Ships passing in the night.”

“A sultry summer night, it sounds like.”

“I mean literally. He was in the Coast Guard. He volunteered to teach boating and water safety at the camp.”

“Was he good at mouth-to-mouth?”

Franny’s cheeks warm with old sentiments and a touch of embarrassment. “Maybe he was a kind of life preserver that summer,” she says. “We both were.” Becoming industrious again—or defensive?—she slips the elastic band back around the packet but the rubber is so old it breaks. She’s ready to toss the lot.

“Read one,” Tod invites.

“I just did.”

“Aloud.”

“‘Dear Crazy Girl. . .’ Wait, really?”

“I’m interested.”

So, she reads. The letter is one sheet, front and back. Tod’s expression is rapt. “He wrote that?”

Franny hands over the letter and Tod reads in silence to the end. “Signed ‘R.’ He sounds smitten.”

“I’m sure I told you. Almost sure.”

“I think I would’ve remembered. He’s pretty graphic, though poetic too.” Tod slides over to sit beside her on the floor, shoulders touching, their backs against the couch. “His handwriting is as flowing as his words.” He traces a finger in the air.

“It’s Palmer Method, I think. They used to teach it in school.”

He hands back the letter. “Not in my school.”

“Mine either. He went to private school . . . in Savannah, Georgia. Col. So-and-so’s Military Academy.”

“I thought you didn’t remember much.”

“It’s coming back.”

“He have a name?”

“Raymond.”

“The Coast Guardsman. Maybe you did tell me and I’ve blocked it out. I’m practical that way.”

“One of your enduring charms.”

“Read another one.”

She does. The illusion is fading. The words are florid with youthful emotion. They take a break and pour a glass of wine. “You sure you’re okay with this?” Franny asks.

“The letters?”

“Well, that—and taking a break. Sure we’re not featherbedding, Boss Man?”

“Read me another. Handwriting is different from typing. Like the difference between playing guitar and playing piano”—both of which Tod does— “plucking a string is a direct expression of something. Hitting a key is removed. I’m not saying it well. When you play guitar, you’re touching the source of the sound. A piano is a machine, it distances you from the sound. Typing a letter is the same motion for an A as for a Z . . . but writing words, the feeling flows directly into the movement of the hand.” He slips his arm around her. “Read another.”

She reads several. Getting into it.

“I think an old pal just showed up,” Tod announces. “D’we have any weed?”

“God, it’s been ages.”

He smiles. “In more ways than one. Can you look?”

“Me?”

“There might be a little in my sock drawer. Go see.”

Franny tosses the packet of letters into a trash bag and rises.

“You go on up,” says Tod. “I want to get some candles.”

Removing her reading glasses, she gives him a look. “Listen to you.”

“Take the wine and the goblets. Crazy Girl. I’ll be up.”

Franny climbs the stairs. Behind her, as she heads for the bedroom, she hears rustling. Something being taken out of the plastic trash bag. She smiles. Mr. Practical.

~*~

David Daniel’s new book, Beach Town, will launch at Lala Books in Lowell on Saturday April 15, at 2-4 p.m. It is available at www.loompress.com; lalabooks.lowell@gmail.com ; and Amazon.