All that is well and good. But I still have not found what I have come to find: M.’s journal. I search the entire house and still I cannot find it. Oh, despair! And oh, how quickly the cry of despair can turn into the cry of surrender! I am prepared to do exactly that when I remember one place I have not searched: the window seat. I assumed that the window seat contained only what M. has told me it contains: copies of A Fan’s Notes. But it now occurs to me that the window seat might contain more than what I know it contains. It is like the juvenile mind in this way.
I hurry downstairs. There is a lamp on the desk; I turn it on, then open the window seat. As expected, there is a jumble of books, both hard- and softcover. I push them to the side until I reach the bottom. At the bottom I see a notebook and also several loose pieces of paper stacked and folded in two. I reach down, extract them, and place them on the desk so that I might have a closer look. First, the pieces of paper: they are all lessons M. has learned from his father, who learned them, apparently, from Exley. I read them quickly, then return them to the window seat. Then I open the notebook. It is the journal in which I suggested M. keep his thoughts. What a good kid he is, I think, doing what I suggested he do. What a bad man I am, I think, reading the journal uninvited, especially given that I promised M. I’d read his journal only upon invitation. But then I forget what a bad man I am once I begin reading — which is, I suppose, one of the reasons why people read — and instead scour the journal to see if I’m mentioned in it — which is, I suppose, one of the other reasons why people read.
In this, I am disappointed: I’m barely “in” the notebook at all. I appear at the beginning — first as the “first doctor” and then as Dr. Pahnee — and then not at all until I am mentioned, briefly, in M.’s retrospective account of the day his father left them. It is an account much revised from when I first heard it in my office, and in it I find part of what I’m looking for: the moment when M. first becomes aware of K.: he overhears his parents discussing (arguing about?) her, and when confronted by M., M.’s father tells him she is his student, which causes M.’s mother to laugh (bitterly?) and then cry. It seems more certain than ever that my suspicions are correct: M.’s father has had an affair with this K., and this is the cause of his departure. As for M. and K., it also seems certain that their relationship is merely “in his head”: M.’s journal asserts that he and K. were in the classroom together earlier today, but I saw for myself that this was not so. Perhaps, then, when M.’s eyes were closed, he was thinking of her in one of those many stone houses. And perhaps this is why M. has put her in one of those stone houses: not because she really does reside in one, but because there are so many of them on the way to the college, and he associates her with the college and his father. As for why M. needs to conduct this imaginary relationship with K., perhaps M. thinks that by consorting with K., he is continuing his father’s legacy. More likely, M. thinks that by having a relationship with K., he is preventing his father from doing the same, thus saving M.’s parents’ marriage. What is not any clearer is why his father says, just prior to his departure, “Maybe I should go to Iraq, too.” But I trust this, too, will become clear with time and with further detection — both mental and actual — on my behalf.
In any case, that is the extent of my presence in M.’s journal. He does not even mention our conversation today at JCCC; as far as the journal would have one believe, there were students in his classroom and he taught them, in his fashion, including this K., with whom M. had an at first heartening and then disheartening conversation after class. This fantasy itself is most disturbing. The reality is also disturbing — in the journal, M. writes that he shot a dog, twice, in his so far unsuccessful quest for Exley — but the fantasy is even more disturbing: it shows M. is using the journal not only as it’s intended — to make things clearer in his mind — but also to make his fantasy textual and not only mental. Likewise, M., according to his journal, did not kick the man in front of the Crystal in the face, which is true; but he does not admit that he did kick the man in the ribs. I confess this is an unforeseen — unforeseen and, indeed, I did not foresee it—by-product of journaling: in writing down the facts of one’s feelings, one might leave out facts, and one might also try to convince oneself that one’s fantasy is, in fact, one’s fact, or at least a fact among other facts, other facts that are, in fact, facts, making it most difficult to tell the fact from the fantasy. I tremble to think what will happen to M.’s mental health if he succeeds in confusing fact and fantasy. I trust these notes accurately depict the severity of that tremble.
I put the journal back at the bottom of the window seat, and then I hear a noise coming from outside. I slide to the floor, close the window seat, crawl out from under the desk, slink to the window, and peek out. There, I see M., standing in the snow-covered driveway, staring at his house. I do not know if he’s seen me, nor do I think it wise to wait and find out. He is standing in the driveway, thus making it impossible for me to exit the way I entered. So I open the front door, close it quickly and, one hopes, silently behind me — the pounding of my heart in my ears prevents my hearing anything except said pounding — and run to my bicycle. I mount it and pedal through the snow, thanking my tires’ deep grooves for each time I do not slip. My heart’s pounding does not relent when I get home, though: for when I’m home, I reach into my coat pocket and withdraw the newspaper clipping I took from M.’s mother’s dresser, and also the manila envelope. I assumed the envelope was empty, that the article either had been its sole content or would be, but when I open the envelope and look inside, I find three pieces of paper. I say “pieces of paper,” but I discover when I unfold them that they are not merely that: they are letters to M. from M.’s father.
Letter 1