“Tough to explain,” he said.

“I’ll get the letters.”

When Lynette came back into the room she had a cardboard box half full of letter envelopes. She tilted it so Andy could see. A hundred, he guessed. She set it on the floor at her feet and sat back down.

“You should have told Nick about these,” he said.

“I don’t dig pigs.”

“Nick’s not a pig. He helped Janelle way back when the trouble started.”

She stared at him. Andy felt sized up. “I’m showing them to you,” she said. “If there’s something important, you tell him.”

Andy watched the oil pumper for a second. Heard the far-off hiss of cars out on Coast Highway. Then Hendrix on the radio.

“I never wrote back to my sister,” she said. She looked down at the box. Guided a strand of lank black hair behind her ear. “Maybe that’s why she wrote so much. It was kind of like she wrote and told me things because she knew I wouldn’t judge. Like she was writing only for herself. But I did love her. She knew that, before the end.”

“When did she write the first one?”

“Early sixty-one. After Mom killed herself and I hooked up with Preach. She-my sister-was eleven. She knew what I’d done. Said in the letter she wanted us to come get her.”

My sister.

“Her brothers were molesting her by then.”

“Just starting. They’d done it to me, too. That was one of the reasons I split.”

“You were afraid to tell?”

Lynette turned her face from Andy. Looked out at the oil pump or the moon. “Lenny’d hit you. Then Dad would hit Lenny. A week later, the same thing all over again with Casey. It was scary. You blocked it out. Ethan was okay.”

Andy moved and sat on the couch with Lynette. He looked down into the box and picked up an envelope.

“That’s an old one,” said Lynette. “From her birthday in sixty-two.”

It was pale green and square. Andy ran his finger over the four-cent stamp with a rose on it. Lynette’s name on the front but no address. He worked out a greeting card with a picture of a misty forest and the words Love Speaks in Moments of Silence.

He read out loud:

June 1, 1962

Dear Lynette,

Hey, sister, I turned thirteen today and graduate from seventh grade in two weeks! I’m still popular. I asked for makeup and a horse but don’t think I’ll get either. Dad still doesn’t work much. Everything is crummy but the new Elvis album is really good. Over a year since you’ve been gone and I haven’t got a note or phone call from you. That doesn’t matter as long as you’re okay. I love you anyway and I can visit you in my brain anytime I want!

Love,

J.

“My sister was optimistic then,” said Lynette.

Andy put the card in the envelope and the envelope back in the box. “Can I see a more recent one?”

Lynette leaned forward. Held her hair back with one hand and worked the other through the letters. She handed him a white legal-size envelope. It had Lynette’s name and a five-cent stamp with Madonna and child, but that was all.

“Did she always put a stamp on?” asked Andy.

“Every one. For six years,” she said quietly. “And always wrote the day’s date, even though she never mailed one. Eighty-six letters and cards. She spent three dollars and ninety-eight cents on postage. Imagine what that would cost today.”

Andy nodded and looked into Lynette Vonn’s earnest brown eyes.

He opened the letter, which was handwritten in black ink on a standard sheet of typing paper, and read out loud again:

August 11, 1967

Dear Sis,

They’re taking my Miss Tustin title away because I got a cover on Playboy! Can you believe that? I showed less skin to Playboy than I did in the swimsuit competition! What hypocrites. Screw them. I’ve had enough.

I’m leaving Tustin. Think I’ll go to Laguna Beach where it’s beautiful and I don’t know hardly anyone. I’ve got some financial backing and the Beetle from Roger to get me started. Maybe do more modeling because it pays well but you have to drive to L.A. and wait around for hours. Pretty much kicked the drugs and alky-hol but still like a little tequila now and then. You sip it, you don’t slam it with lime and salt like those dumb college boys. Everybody’s talking about LSD, how it makes you see things in a different way. They also say it’s really strong. There’s this guy in Laguna, Timothy Leary, and they say if you can experience LSD with him he’ll get you into the right groove.

Jesse got an early tape of some new Hendrix music and duped one for me. There’s this song called “Little Wing” that speaks right into my heart. Really pretty words and guitar and Jimi’s got a good voice. No Elvis, but you know what I mean. The guitar solo will totally blow your mind. $2.99 is a lot to pay for an album but it’s worth the extra fifty cents for stereo instead of monaural. ’Course, you can’t play a record when you’re riding on the back of a hog!

I always think about you. You’re like a myth to me now, this sister I had until she disappeared five lives ago. I mean years. I been through a lot and you’ve probably got some stories, too. Dad’s pathetic but the boys are long gone so that’s good. When I think of all the shit they put us through I’m surprised we didn’t just shoot them one night in their sleep. Woulda been doing them a favor, not to mention us.

Anyway, I love you in my mind,

J.

“Roger Stoltz, the congressman?”

“Yeah.”

“I knew he helped her out when I wrote that article,” said Andy, “but I didn’t know he gave her money and a car.”

Lynette nodded. “In one of the letters she said he went nuts for her.”

“Nuts for her,” said Andy. Felt a tingle in his fingertips.

“I can find the letter pretty easy.”

“Do that.”

Andy watched Lynette take a handful of envelopes, fan through them and then set them aside. She stopped midway through the second batch and handed him another legal-size white envelope.

“You’ve read them a lot,” he said.

“I didn’t get them till late last year. Had some catching up to do. I can tell by the envelopes what’s inside. The way she wrote my name, the kind of ink, the kind of envelope and stamp.”

“How many times have you read them?”

“Fifty, maybe.”

Andy opened the envelope. Lynette leaned over and read out loud with Andy:

November 19, 1965

Hello Invisible Sis,

How are ya? Had to write about this unbelievable deal that’s happening to me.

Did I tell you about Roger Stoltz? He’s this businessman and political guy who let me use his apartment in Newport Beach for a while and says he’s going to get me a car next week. He’s nuts for me and he’s got the money. Married and old, don’t know if you remember him or not. Marie his wife is really nice but has bad headaches. Roger is a real good guy and he’s not bullshitting me, you know, he says he’s going to do something, he does it. Had his dentist fix my cavities for free. Gave me five hundred bucks for some clothes and nice things. Says he’ll give me a job when I’m eighteen. He invented a cleaner called Orange Sunshine that’s mainly for driveways and streets. Roger doesn’t want anything in return. It’s just because he likes me. I don’t believe that for one second, but hell, he wants to help.

Did you see the Beatles on Sullivan in September? I just love them so much. Saw Elvis too and still love him but I think he’s getting sick of his own act. He’s mostly sneering rather than smiling but I don’t believe it. A guy that good-looking’s got no reason to sneer.

Love,

J.

“Stoltz,” said Andy. He thought of the telegram Stoltz had sent from Washington when his first article about Janelle and the Wolfman had come out. He’d always thought there was something odd about it. No mention of Janelle, really. No acknowledgment of her death and what it might mean to Andy or anyone else. Even himself. Something brief and military, like: Commendable article. Well done.