4
It was the middle of the night after Hank’s death, and Norbert Oates could not sleep. For an old building, his apartment was spacious – there were three bedrooms. Two of them were empty.
He didn’t feel much like doing a load of laundry. He’d already rinsed off his dinner plate and put the silverware in a cup of soapy water – his practical approach to keeping a clean kitchen.
He figured a hit of caffeine would not prevent him from the sleep he wasn’t getting. So, he made a cup of instant coffee, sat down at the kitchen table, and wrote this letter:
Dear Lucille,
I know you’d expect me to call, but there’s never a good time. Besides, I’ll do better writing on this note paper. If I make a fool of myself, I can always wad it up, and you’ll never see it. On the phone you can never take b
