Dear Harper Lee,
I hate to be the one to tell you this. But your childhood home has been replaced by one Mel’s Dairy Dream, a rundown white shack with cones of soft-serve ice cream painted on the sides and a big garbage can right next to the food-serving window. There are several flies in the area, big buzzers, which seems appropriate in a way. Mel’s Dairy Dream is like some poorly-made tomb exuding the rot of spoiled, discarded history. Who is this Mel? I’d like to talk to him. I’d like to explain some things about honor and history, the wonders of a nice paint job and the emptying of garbage cans, the fixing of refrigerators. At least getting rid of that smell.
Let me know if you know him,
Jessica Hollander
Dear Harper Lee,
I was thinking about Truman Capote. I saw the ruins of his house right next to the Dairy Dream: overgrown grass and this sad hunk of charred brick wall, but at least something remains. There’s even a plaque explaining how the house burned down, etc, etc. To be honest I couldn’t even read the whole thing. I was so mad. What I did was, I fell to the ground and ripped up the grass so violently, dirt sprayed all over my mother-in-law. My husband tried to grab my arms, tried to whisper something meditative, but I shook him off and went back for the grass. My mother-in-law understood. What she did was, she ran over to the blackened brick wall and kicked it. So. Take that Capote.
In loving defense of your existence,
Jessica Hollander
Dear Harper Lee,
There’s something bothering me about this whole Mel/Capote situation. It’s the bottom line of the whole thing, the commonality. They are both men. In fact, there were men all over the place in Monroeville, the streets were crawling with them. The only Monroevillian woman I saw was in a garden, watering some flowers, wearing one of those hats with the huge brims. I couldn’t even see her eyes. I couldn’t see them.
Yours in showing her eyes as often as humanly possible,
Jessica Hollander
Dear Harper Lee,
I’ve been thinking a lot about my trip to Monroeville, trying to piece it all together. I spent some time in the wasp-ridden courthouse, where they have some information about you, although not nearly as much information as they have about Truman Capote. My mother-in-law pointed out that in addition to your home in New York, you still have a home there. In Monroeville. We stared at this information for awhile, unsure what to make of it, and finally shrugged and headed over to David’s Catfish House, where apparently you have lunch sometimes. You didn’t have lunch that day. I did notice, however, that David is a man’s name.
Are you a man lover?
Jessica Hollander
Dear Harper Lee,
I don’t know what to say to you. I’ve concluded, after several anxious nights, throwing toothbrushes and sock balls and finally a metal soup pot at my husband, that you’re playing dumb. You must know about all this. You must have seen Mel’s Dairy Dream, the plaque to Capote, the sign that says David’s Catfish House. You let this happen. You let yourself be knocked around and pushed aside, trampled down, by men. This will never happen to me. I’ve decided to get a divorce. My mother-in-law approves.
Hoping one day Monroeville gets blown off the map,
Jessica Hollander
