The Backup Plan

Fiction by Victor Lembrey
Author of Explaining My Cupcake Habit



When Mr. Hall was twelve, one of his goals, which he documented in a journal, was to visit each of the fifty states. Mr. Hall is now eighty, and sick. He feels close to death and he’s worried. Despite a life filled with significant professional accomplishments and a fifty year marriage to a wonderful woman, he has never been to Idaho, and time’s running out.

Last Saturday, as Mrs. Hall spoon-fed her husband some mashed bananas, an anonymous letter arrived in their mailbox. Mrs. Hall opened it and read it. It’s not important who I am, the letter began, but rather, who I was, and what I have to offer. I own some beautiful property in BLACKFOOT, adjacent to a lake. If you like, you may use my property as a burial site, but only on one condition: you must both agree to never visit BLACKFOOT, or any part of IDAHO, ever, prior to your deaths.

Mrs. Hall was confused and frightened. The letter was yellowed and typed on what was surely a very old typewriter. The anonymous writer included a contact address, but no phone number.

“Amazing, truly incredible, but it seems too good to be true,” Mr. Hall said after his wife read the letter aloud.

“Why would you even consider this?” Mrs. Hall said. Mr. Hall thought for a while. He explained that he thought it was a neat little compromise. Mrs. Hall reminded him that he had never been one to compromise his goals, so why start now? He said he didn’t see it that way. He saw it as taking advantage of a unique opportunity, a clever way to – in a way – fulfill a goal he had no other way of realistically fulfilling. She expressed concern about the mystery of it, the motive, the creepiness of the anonymous benefactor, the legitimacy of the offer, the denial of visitation rights and a few other things, including the caps lock on city and state, as if variables on a form letter. Mr. Hall waved her off.

“I don’t think you’re thinking this through,” she said.

“I’d like you to contact this person,” he said. She fed him more mashed bananas and attempted to change the subject. He resisted at first, staying on topic, asking to dictate a letter, but he soon became confused and tired and then asked to be left alone to sleep. Mrs. Hall wiped his mouth and adjusted the covers. She kissed his head.

Mr. Hall is now sleeping. He is dreaming of being a twelve-year-old, writing in his journal. BACKUP PLAN he writes in big red letters. Then, underneath: In case I miss some states, I will write detailed letters with blank spaces, and work out that great idea I have about filling in the blanks with cities and states and having them sent to me when I’m old. I’m not sure about all the details yet or how this will work, but I think it’s a great backup plan. Hopefully, I’ll visit every state and won’t have to do this. And hopefully, if I don’t visit every state, it won’t be more than one that I missed. I don’t think this idea will work any other way because I’m not supposed to be cremated. That’s a sin. Maybe if God changes the rules, I can be cremated and sprinkled on more than one state. But the main goal here is to avoid this super-clever backup plan by visiting all the states.

Of course this memory never happened, this is a dream, but Mr. Hall is making it happen, making his mind okay. He needs to feel safe. Smart. In control. He needs to know that when he sets a goal, he reaches it. He’s at the end of his life, a very delicate time for logic and sanity. Plus, he’s never been averse to taking credit for others’ work, so the dream flows guiltlessly.

Still, this doesn’t explain the anonymous letter. The impossible coincidence. Who would know to do such a thing?