44

After my daughter’s rape, I went into a deep depression that took the shape of guilt. I couldn’t do anything for her or for anyone else. I was no good to anyone and the best thing I could do was to leave home. I thought of moving into a cohousing community in Santa Fe. I visited the community several times, ate dinner with residents, talked with people who’d lived there from its inception, studied the only remaining building site, and timed the walking distance to the center of town. All I needed to pull off my redemption was half a million dollars.

When I got back home, the very next day a flyer arrived in the mail, a contest sponsored by Publishers Central Bureau. First prize was a half a million dollars. That would do it; that prize money would enable me to do what I had to do.

I moved the sticker from the flyer to the coupon and mailed it back to PCB. I knew the odds were against me, especially since nothing was asked of me, no purchases, no games, nothing but a first-class stamp.

A week later another letter came from PCB announcing that I was a first round winner and that now I needed to peel another sticker off, further declaring my intention of winning the grand prize. I did it willingly, investing another first-class stamp into my future happiness.

While I waited for the return mail, I drew plans of the adobe house I was going to build. As soon as the letter arrived, asking for another sticker on another flyer, I knew that my odds of winning were increasing, because who else would answer these absurd letters? I was determined.

Another round of You-Are-In-The-Winners-Circle. Another return envelope with another stamp. I landscaped the desert garden around my future house. Endurance is a virtue, and so is vision. Surely I had more of those than most people in America.

PCB’s envelopes became thinner, a clear sign that contestants were dropping off. I was still in the running. A drawing with finalists’ names was scheduled for the near future. I had to make up my mind about where to place the furniture in my new house.

About four months into the running, I opened the mailbox to find a simple card with five names on it, mine being number 4. If I would just check my name for accuracy and return the card, a winner would be announced within days. I wondered what kind of artwork looked appropriate in an adobe house – Native American? Spanish? Abstract?

Somewhere after this time, the correspondence between me and PCB dropped off. I don’t know whether the mail failed to get through, or whether they selected another winner and forgot to tell me. They even stopped sending me catalogs, so I guess they realized that I was not someone they could mess with. For one thing, I had a roll of first-class stamps at my fingertips. For another, I was never going to give up hope.