May 12: OCEAN
Dearest Patricia,
I am writing to say thank you, again, for taking care of the kids in my absence. It will be a rough two years, my Patricia, as I courageously tunnel through Earth’s crust and mantle and core in search of hypothesized matter. Fossils. Traces of life hundreds of miles under our feet. But you know this already. Do I always repeat myself?
My new home, The Earthworm®, NASA’s 40-ton drill affixed to a silicone tube, dove into the Atlantic only three days ago. But it already feels like a decade since our most recent embrace. I miss you, Patricia. I love you, Patricia. Don’t ever forget that.
With unlimited kisses,
Your Gerard
June 7: OCEAN
Dearest Patricia,
My colleague, Catherine, who lives with me inside The Earthworm®, was appalled to hear you’re at home with the kids. She insists that this is an important era for women. She tells me not to be surprised when you take a lover. Forgive me my jealousy, but has this crossed your mind, Patricia?
Less than a month into our study, Catherine has proven difficult to cohabitate with. And I cannot get away from her. The Polyflextech Tube, despite its name, cannot flex wider than 34.7 inches in diameter. We work face-to-face, cheek against cheek, arms wrapped around the other’s waist with our hands dipped into reinforced polymer gloves that reach out the tube into the bowels of the ocean, allowing us to grasp at the watery darkness. I write these letters with my arms draped over her shoulders, the pineapple scent of her shampoo turning my stomach. Writing you is the only thing keeping me happy.
With unlimited kisses,
Your Gerard
August 4: OCEAN FLOOR
Dearest Patricia,
Had you known, twelve years ago, when we met at a lecture on the Ethics of Cryptozoology, that world supporting our love would somebody partition it, would you still have gotten a drink with me? I was a man of intractable oneirism, and your handshake introduced a lady of seditious virginity, and over buckets of pink margaritas I detailed the single-celled creatures teeming at the depths of the ocean—this is when you decided you loved me, correct?
But how wrong I was! Single-celled? My god no. Yesterday I discovered an eel, 8 meters long, the color of melted lime sherbet. This afternoon I captured what resembles a starfish, but furry. Noodle-like antennae wiggle from the tips of each arm. It glows in the dark when it’s hungry. Catherine named him Lukas. He lives in a tank outside the tube. I cannot wait to show him to you.
With unlimited kisses,
Your Gerard
August 17: ENTERING MANTLE
Dearest Patricia,
Lukas has been boiled alive in his tank. I suspect that Catherine knew this would happen. Her suggestion to eat poor Lukas came not five minutes after we found his steamed little corpse. Despite her (alleged) dubious intentions, the result was delicious—tender, rather salty, but not fishy at all. We plan to harvest more on the ascent.
With unlimited kisses,
Your Gerard
September 13: MANTLE
Dearest Patricia,
The mantle is not as orange as schoolbooks insist. Catherine blames the famine of light—she is, I admit, a brilliant scientist. I’m lucky to work with her. But what the mantle lacks in color it makes up for in wrath. Interminably clobbering the braided skin of The Earthworm®. The drill’s constant drone disturbs our sleep, but insomnia is a tolerable consequence of beginning our days two miles deeper.
With this letter comes a rock sample, for Mathew and Hannah. Tell them it’s magma.
With unlimited kisses,
Your Gerard
October 30: MANTLE
Patricia,
How can I say this?
Catherine has taken me as her lover. It was, at first, an accident of proximity. Love-making is an occupational hazard of life in the tube. We eat here, we sleep here, we dress and undress here—could we really have thought that our parts wouldn’t touch? Sex is, ipso facto, a tubular act. I told you this. And you agreed to table your jealousy so long as I disclose every transgression.
Please forgive me, Patricia.
Still,
Your Gerard
December 5: OUTER CORE
Dearest Patricia,
The creatures I expected to find at this depth have yet to appear. Our grant is dependent on discovering the fossils of proto-crustaceans, the shells of which might offer sustainable energy. Would you believe me if I told you I’m frightened? Would you care? There must be more down here than grainy photos of Earth’s molten viscera and the end of a decade-long marriage. Tell me there’s more, Patricia. Just tell me something.
Gerard
January 19: OUTER CORE
Dearest Patricia,
Catherine has chosen to leave me. She tells me there is no other man. I believe her—where would he fit? Now that our intercourse is strictly accidental I find myself tormented by a brain-squeezing loneliness that may or may not be due to the core’s turbulent gravity.
Please listen, Patricia: every morning as I gaze over Catherine’s left shoulder, through The Earthworm’s® clear flexiwindow, into the agitated pulse of syrupy magma, I don’t think of the sex with Catherine, but of Sunday morning omelets with you, dear Patricia, or picnicking in McGinn’s apple orchard, your blond ringlets bouncing and aureate in mid-autumn sun. What a mistake I have made, Patricia!
With unlimited kisses and sorrow,
Your Gerard
February 14: INNER CORE
Patricia,
You’re right. I should have expected you to take a lover as well.
Gerard
March 19: INNER CORE
Dearest Patricia,
This morning, Catherine made love to me out of pity—her words—and to celebrate our most recent discovery. The grayscale photos we recovered last night are, I am sure, the innermost core of the Earth. We believe shading in the upper right corner is water. And if there’s water there’s life. The life that my grant is dependent on. I am on the eve of greatness, Patricia. Are you so sure you want to leave me?
With imminent glory,
Your Gerard
April 29: INNER CORE
Dearest Patricia,
Catherine has abandoned the tube. The inner core upset her. The interns threw down a rope ladder this morning. Her climb promises six long weeks of effort. She returns fatigued and jaded, carrying igneous rock for the children and this final missive.
It seems, now, that all I have found in this journey is the urge to descend even further. I always feared that I would find nothing. But isn’t that what we all secretly fear? Why, Patricia, did I think going deeper would make me unique? Why do I still hold out hope for discovery? What use is a search for stability, Patricia, at the heart of perpetual motion?
Did I think the search would impress you?
Has it impressed you?
Will it impress you if I keep going?
