Eleanor's Biographer goes to the mailbox. There is a large envelope. He takes the envelope inside, puts it on the dining room table, has a cup of coffee, reads the newspaper, turns on the television but watches only for 15 minutes, perhaps even less, before he grows tired of the people on the screen complaining about this or that. The people on TV are inconsequential.
Enough, he thinks, and he picks up the envelope and goes to The Little Room. There is a photograph inside the envelope -- a partial view of a headstone -- with the words "Eleanor Died."
Now, this photograph causes Eleanor's Biographer no small amount of distress. In fact, distress is too small of a description. It is more of a devastation. And when he searches for Eleanor, he cannot find her. He calls out for her. He tries to imagine her, but can't. He goes to The Spirit House and asks her to show herself, but is met by silence. There has clearly been a mistake. Clearly, someone has played a practical joke by sending this photograph, and what a horrible joke it is. Eleanor has not died. He -- her Biographer -- has written no such words. To the contrary, he has made Eleanor very much alive.
He sits again and feels a sense of utter agony. This, he thinks, this -- this is not happening. This, he thinks, is absurd. He clutches his head with his hands, his fingers, and covers his eyes, and his thoughts are repeating themselves and exaggerating themselves and multiplying too, like a boom-boom-boom of firecrackers, or even a clickety-clack of a typewriter -- his words but not his words -- his words being written for him by some cruel prankster.
*
Eleanor says: This is your fault.
Her Biographer says: I didn't do anything.
E: Look around you, at all of the blank pages, and for what? I've told you more than you could ever fit on these pages.
B: You are alive. This is just a photograph.
E: You -- screwed -- up. You stopped writing and somebody noticed and now all you have is -- well, what exactly do you have?
B: This is another Eleanor.
E: When one of us goes, we all go. All of the Eleanors are dead. Your fault.
B: Here -- look -- see this piece of paper, see this pen in my hand, see how I'm ready to begin writing?
E: No! (she cried out) No!
B: I need more chances.
E: You've had plenty of opportunity. You're hysterical. You make me laugh at you. I am a ghost for real now, see, and you make me laugh. This is how I'll haunt you, and for the rest of your life, too. I'll be every laugh you hear. If you walk down the street and someone laughs, that'll be me. If someone tells you a joke and you laugh, it won't be you laughing but me laughing.
B: I need more chances.
E: No! (she cried out) No!
B: I've neglected you, yes, but I promise -- I promise this won't happen again. We will finish. I have the words in my head you've told me and I just need to get them down in the proper order and we can start a new session.
E: No! (she cried out) No!
B: You humble me. If this was your intention, you've succeeded.
E: I don't want to die.
B: This photograph is not you.
E: I don't want to die.
B: You will live beyond me. You will live long after I am gone.
E: But will I be good? Tell me -- will I be good, or good enough?
B: I'll write you so people will care. People will read you, and read you again, and again and again and again. You will be so filled with life. You will remind people of something inside of themselves. You will inspire people. You will make people cry, yes, and you will make people smile.
E: How can you decide what people will do. I'm saying this. I'm not asking this. How can you decide. You don't know.
B: You're right, I don't know.
E: This is all a terrible risk we're taking. You want to put me in places we can't even imagine. I'll feel naked. I'll be alone.
B: You might feel alone, yes. That's part of the bargain.
E: I don't want to be alone.
B: I will try to write you so you're not alone, but I can't promise you won't be.
*
Eleanor's Biographer lets go of the photograph. It lands at his feet, face up. He stares at the words, and inside his head, Eleanor is still crying out, "No!" -- and the word echoes and bounces and, well, it hurts. So he drowns Eleanor's voice until it is so distant, he can barely make out her whisper. From that whisper, he can bring her voice back, ever so slowly. It is necessary to regain control. He can change what she is saying.
He writes: The present will always overwrite the past.
What one does first is forget, ignore, disavow, destroy.
What one does next is make a new beginning. You cross out "Eleanor Died." You don't believe in photographs anyway, not really. You believe in the words. The words are the real photographs. You create the world you want to exist. It's your version of course. What people read -- it becomes their version. What people see inside their heads, coming from these words -- well, this is way more vivid than any photograph could ever be, if you write as though each one of them -- each letter within each word in fact -- is your last breath.
*
