Memoir

I wish you would relax. I keep trying to tell you there’s no danger of me ever publishing a memoir, with or without you in it, because none of my memories are true. Never mind the little black notebook, please. Just ignore it. It’s not for publication because nothing in it ever happened.

If you can maybe calm yourself down a little, I’ll give you a couple of examples, just so you get the idea. One memory I’ve told you before is this really distinct recollection I have of walking with you into a cathedral one time, hand in hand. It was a beautiful sunny Sunday morning, and people were streaming in from every direction, and it all comes back to me as a perfect day for a wedding. But that never happened, did it? Of course it didn’t. You’re not Catholic, and you never went to church with me, and anyway, we never held hands ever. We’re not even married. I know. You’ve told me so yourself at least a dozen times that it could not have happened. So even though I remember it vividly there’s no point in putting it in a memoir. It’s just in this little notebook that no one will ever read. I publish fiction, not memoirs.

Memoirs are for memories, and I’m afraid most of my memories are of events that never happened. Or haven’t happened yet maybe. I can’t always tell. Like this beautiful recollection I have of being with you at a cabin by a lake in Bolivia. Or Minnesota maybe. I’m not exactly sure all of a sudden. But that’s why I write things down, you see? That way I can always look things up whenever I want. Tomorrow or yesterday or whenever. Sometime. In fact I might not have written that one down yet. Sometimes I can’t tell if I’m remembering the past or the future, it seems. Anyway, in my memory you and I were swimming in a lake with our dog, Jasmine. With Mom. Mom was there with us, and the three of us were all swimming together in this beautiful little lake. Or river. One of the two. But I know I know I know. You don’t have to tell me. We never had a dog named Jasmine. I know we didn’t. And we’ve never even been out of the country. Or the state, I guess. So it would be crazy to publish something like that in a memoir, wouldn’t it?

Still. I have to tell you these memories feel as real as this table here between us. By tomorrow at this time this table might not feel real anymore, or this cup, or this gun, or this stack of money, or anything else on it, but my memories will. They always feel real. And they are mine. So, true or not true, I write them down. You see?

If you like I’ll tell you another memory that I don’t think I’ve ever shared. It’s my earliest recollection, actually. I’m sitting here at the kitchen table and my mother is singing to me a song about people turning into animals and animals turning into people, and as she was singing she was changing into a tiger, then changing back again. Have I told you this story before? I must have been about three or four, and I remember it like it was yesterday. You might think that such a thing would have scared me witless, but the truth is I treasure that memory. That’s why I wrote it down. I have quite a few memories like that, if you want to know the truth, of my mother turning into different animals, some even from when I was quite a bit older. I remember one time when I was in high school, and she transformed into a tiger again. I think it must have been her favorite animal. I came home from school one day and found her in the backyard stretched out under a tree, just dozing in the shade like any happy giant jungle creature might, only a bit out of context. At that age, of course, I wasn’t going to be bothered, so I just said Hi, Mom, and went on up to my room, but the point is it’s a very distinct memory, so why shouldn’t I write it down?

But I wouldn’t put memories like that into a memoir, of course. How could I? No one would believe it, obviously, so it’s not worth the bother. You know as well as I do that all the critics would be calling me out on day one, accusing me of making things up, and I’m too old to have to argue with people about what is real and what isn’t anymore. I must be thirty or fifty years old by now, right? Too old to argue. Anyway, I have too many memories. I’m just not going to start defending them. I mean, what’s the point? But I can write them down in this little book, can’t I? Even the doctor said there’s no harm in that.

Like this morning I was writing a memory about the time you and Mom found a paper bag full of money under the tree in the back yard. It couldn’t have happened, I know – we don’t even have a tree in the back yard – but it’s a good memory, and I wrote it down. You found this money and brought it inside and dumped it out on the kitchen table, then we stacked it up and I helped you count it. The next day we took it to the bank and deposited it. Or did we take a trip? I don’t remember. But I do remember you and Mom walking into the kitchen with that bag and arguing about what you were going to do with it all. I don’t see any harm in writing that down, even though it never happened.

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Yessir. Well, Rollie and I were on the scene at three-ten, four-minutes-twenty after the alarm was received, and were told the perps made off on foot. Two women, apparently, with masks, wild animal masks on their heads. The teller, a Miss Ames, still had the note which no one had touched, so we thought it worthwhile to get the K-9 unit involved. Sam and Teddy arrived at three-twenty-nine with Scarface, and they got him on the scent right away. He led us down Carpenter on past the Get-Go and straight up into the woods. The woods where that author lives, yessir. Schizophrenia, I think they call it, sir. Right. They live there with his mom, apparently. So we thought we were on to something and we were looking sharp. Well, we were within about thirty yards, I would say, when we saw the big cat. Rollie says Bengal and Teddy says Siberian, but I’m sure I don’t know. I don’t think it matters, does it, sir? For the report I mean? The main thing is it didn’t seem to see us, so Sam called off the dog at that point and we just hunkered down to wait.

No sir, we couldn’t shoot it. They’d have our badges before you could say next Tuesday, wouldn’t they? So all we could do was wait it out. It was under a tree in the back yard, and there was no getting near the house until it decided to move. We tried circling around but couldn’t get to the door without disturbing the animal, so we just had to wait. At four-twenty-one though it finally wandered off and the decision was taken to approach the house.

Unfortunately however it appears we were too late. They had already scarpered. Yessir, very unfortunate. We found the gun and the paper bag we believe to be the items in question, along with a small black notebook on the kitchen table, but that’s all. No sign of him or his wife, his mother or the twenty-grand, sir.