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Date: Sat, 27 Jan 1996 20:26:12 -0500
To: elpolvo
Subject: 40

Dear Dusty,

We're taking off tomorrow for Maui, we got the temp custody from the Helena judge. We're meeting Ben over there and he's going to be part of the rescue operation. There'll be a process server with us, we'll go out early so we are in the sunlight. How would you handle this, you who went through that awful thing in your young life back at them oil wells? The kids have only been there a month but even so it'll be hard having dad and their brother Ben and some strangers and the peaceful Marilyn who loves them so intensely and quietly leading one of them to the van and the mom screaming and all these yogic pretzels snapping out of their positions and limbering out all over us, couples disenganging mid climax on the lawn and over there by the hot tub, genitals glistening to bring their lust and almalgamated power into our midst to keep these younguns from being taken from them, the spiders and their webs between every leaf and branch and tree and any passageway at all that a marsupial or mammal could edge through collectively coming on tendrils of wind snagged web in an attempt to spin a prison around us and freeze us mid-escape, the mother moving in, this proboscis extending from her mouth, the red hourglass on her stomach gaining in intensity...and then we're out of there with gravel spinning up all over the nekked bodies and the sheriff holsters his gun and the process server dashes for her car covered with crab spiders, her legs moving like she is in a tight Japanese kimona and her feet are bound. She gets there just as the last lassos of web are tightened by the clusters of black insects all over her and as she hurls into the drivers seat the windows go opaque with pussy fluid and as the door slams shut there is this scream and then the windshield wipers go on, the motor starts, somehow the car moves into reverse at a high speed and the yogics and once-coupled leap toward the side of the mountain toward the sea and as the car brakes just at the edge the fleers plunge down the incline and the sun is beautiful on them and they are beautiful in their tans with lines of crimson wetly sketched upon them and bursts of blonde hair the sun halos lovingly, richly, kissing them all over, into the bush they tumble and scramble and fall and roll and the van is already up to the main road and careening west and all is well and everyone breathes a collective sigh of relief, the children have been rescued and peace can return to the estate, there will be tranquility, sobs through the nights for a week or two upstairs in the pool side house, but in time the laughter will be there and the sun will be worshipped again and the pungent flowers and the yoga and chanting and deep breathing, and there will be stories growing out of this that are almost mythological that in maybe a hundred years will coalesce with Hawaian history, and strange mainland names will merge with feelings and become different and far more interesting and there will be prayers based on the myths and some of the very old who were alive at the time and may have seen it with their own eyes, and there will be effigies of two small children hand in hand running and disembodied larger hands reaching out to them and at the end of the carved hands will be vines of flowers of all colors and hummingbirds will be there always sipping nectar and this nectar will be the sweetest on Maui. And back in Augusta will be two children whose light makes the people over the Sawtooths in the Bob Marshall wilderness think the sun is coming up even when it is midnight. And they will talk about the dad and mom Marilyn who came and got them when they thought they were caught forever.

As for letter 40, I'm sending an edited version of it . It was just an outburst, all of it true at the time to my way of thinking but frozen in time on a computer screen would not be fair or good or serve any purpose.

Will you call me when you are in the frame of mind to dispense subtle rescue information? It'll make my day.  We leave tomorrow at around noon, that's Sunday.

Dirty Harry

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