Hello; allow me to introduce myself. My name is Anne Nichols, former neighbor to a woman of our mutual acquaintance: Elly Patterson. I'd like to set some things straight about myself before I get to why I'm writing you all today. The first thing, of course, is why I'm in no great hurry to divorce the husband I didn't want to admit was the nomadic sort Mother said he was; it starts, of course, with having to listen to Mother saying "I told you so". I'd rather not admit someone that out of it had a point. I'd also rather not subject my children to what an annulment means in the eyes of the Church; there are still a few people left to whom that matters. The second, of course, is my distaste for Connie "Look-at-ME!!!!-Daddy" Poirier; I don't much care for the fact that the only reason that she ever tried to talk sense into Elly was as a back-handed way of trying to get her to feel sorry for poor, pitiful dateless her. I tried to do so because I was worried about her children.
The two of them are, to get back to the present, why I'm writing this letter to you; I'd heard that the Pattersons have a list of people that they write to about their comings and goings and I'm about to talk about a particular "going": Elly going back to the CMH. Now, I was sort of kept out of the loop for the last twelve years or so so I didn't know why it was that things had gone so wrong with them. What I did know was that, whatever the reason, Elly had somehow lost her grip and wound up at large somewhere. My part in the drama came about as my having to go down to Eastgate on my afternoon off last Friday to help Mrs Mayes with her campaign to do something to address a wrong that that old dinosaur Harvey helped perpetrate; when I was walking back to my car from the Hall of Records, I'd noticed that a bag lady had fallen on her rump chasing a stray that had stolen her sandwich. When I got close enough, I was horrified to find it was Elly; it was even more horrifying (as if seeing her in the state she was in wasn't bad enough) to hear her yell about that old dog of hers as if it hadn't died years ago. Anyway, I accompanied her to the hospital; as she was getting cleaned up, there was that irritating know-it-all Connie ranting about how her children were all in Colorado instead of roaming the mean streets of Suburbia in search of someone who didn't want to be found. It didn't seem to matter that that nice young Deanna was in greater need than Elly was, all that mattered was that someone who refused help needed it. (To get a bit off topic, I'd say that her piously spouting that women miscarry all the time must have made the entitled dimwit a LOT of friends in Ecuador.) Good thing that John showed up to tell her to be quiet; that took the heat off of Michael and the others.
In any event, Elly is now back at the Center for Mental Health under firmer supervision; the fool that let her escape has been fired and her privileges have been revoked. This will at least make things easier for John's family and what few friends he has left; it'll also allow us to focus on fighting the idiots who want to stop the Mayeses from doing something about the radiation issue. You see, that greedy clod Gavin Caine and his drinking buddy Arsenault are trying to get back at the Mayes for "turning Anthony against them" by interfering with the planned inquiry; they'd tried to enlist John as a third party only to be turned down because he wants to keep a low profile. Also, he thinks that they're in the wrong; I told him that he should speak out for our cause anyway because, as a symbol of What-is-wrong-with-this-town, any evidence he might give would be more credible. (As they say, only Nixon could have gone to China.)
I don't know if he will but I hope he does; knowing that Leah's extra digits are simply a symptom of someone else's stupidity and not, as I once feared, my lack of vigilance was an angry sort of relief. It's also made me review all the other odd things I've seen. Shelties that look nothing like shelties, bat-eared dogs, that gap-toothed hockey player that yells "Hoo" all the time and all the funny looking people from Molvania and Brutopia aren't simply an accident or twist of fate; someone made them appear and I mean to get them to pay for it.
With that in mind, I'll have to cut this short; the flyers for the next town hall aren't going to distribute themselves. I'll see you when I can.