A pile of mail sat on the dining room table. I was excited to see an envelope addressed to me. It read Mama Gioia-Riano and was postmarked August 13, Oakland, California. In the corner, in multicolored letters was written Long Lost D., Mary, Santa Cruz, CA. My heart leapt - a letter from Mary. Since she left for California about six weeks ago, we spoke only once. I recalled the date, July 13th , the day of the first Live-AID concert. In the middle of painting the side door stairwell and listening to the concert on the radio, the phone rang. I answered.

Hi, Ma, its me, Mary. Just thought Id give you a call while I can. Hows everything at home?

Thrilled to hear her voice, I said, Let me put my paint brush down. Its so good to talk to you. Joan told me youve been in touch with her a few times about your cat, Samson. How do you like California?

Mom, its great. Its very different from home. You wouldnt believe these mountains out here. Theyre so beautiful. And things are going good - am traveling up and down the state looking for somewhere to live and to find a job.

We chatted for a few more minutes. She promised that when she had a mailing address for me, shed call.

With these thoughts running through my mind, I set the envelope aside, like a delicious dessert, to return to later. Now I had better help Moises unpack our camping gear.

When I finished, I climbed the stairs to the second floor bedroom. I made myself comfortable on the bed and picked up my precious letter. Now, at last I could read it.

As I opened the envelope, I smiled. There were seven pages in all, yellow, pink, orange, blue and white, a rainbow of colors. Her stationery was directed towards me, the occasional activist, as she wrote on the backs of local "protest sheets." She knew I would relish her choice of writing paper.

The first page, a bright yellow, shouted out an appeal to join the Coalition to Stop Food Irradiation. Mary scribbled, "Read this and weep! We must stop this terrible process. She intended to send a copy to the co-op she frequented in Albany. Next, a deep pink colored sheet announced "Down on the Factory Farm, a film produced by an Animal Rights Action Group. Page 3 was a flyer for "Update Nicaragua," a community public affairs radio show, and page 6, a small blue handbill, advertised a Santa Cruz production of Gore Vidal's comedy, "Visit to a Small Planet. I pictured her smiling as she wrote on the top of the last page, "Oh no, another piece of paper." This one publicized a Nuclear War Crimes Tribunal in Berkeley to remember the 40th anniversary of Hiroshima/Nagasaki.

When I finished reading all of the pages, out fell a comical newspaper article about Chumley the cat, which read, Sgt. Chumley has been booted out of the Police Department. Apparently, Chumley contracted fleas and could no longer be of service. Mary thought it would be great for our refrigerator and that Moises will be lovin it! Wise to the uneasy home situation, she wrote she trusted Gato (our cat) and Moises were doing fine and getting along and hoped her brother, Lieny (Dan) was getting in shape for football.

She said she was writing the letter while in a coffee shop in Santa Cruz, "sippin some coffee!" Mary enjoyed a nonchalant manner of writing, eliminating last letters on words. She said her lengthy letter was to save me another collect call from California.

Her letter described some jobs she was looking into. One at a ski resort at Lake Tahoe, or "northern California...where it's at for me these days! Up in the mountains, it's so beautiful."

She thought I might be "freaked out about these plans. She and a friend were plotting to go to Guatemala in January for a month to learn weaving.

I laughed as she described a "pretty neat job in San Franciscoa bike messenger!" But she thought this might be a bit dangerous.

I hadn't realized, I suppose, that she often used both names, Mary and Regina. She really liked her two names. Most of us called her Mary or shortened, Mare. Her brothers and their friends, with playful teen-age humor, said first names backwards so she was dubbed Yram.

The telephone on the nightstand rang just as I finished reading the letter. I answered. The person at the other end identified herself as from the Niskayuna Police. She wanted to make sure I was at home. "Is there anyone else there with you?" she inquired. I told her yes; my husband was home too. I thought those strange questions, but I replied to both in the affirmative.

A few minutes later the doorbell rang. I carefully put the letter aside and went downstairs to open the front door. Two solemn-looking policemen stood in the doorway

"Mrs. Gioia? May we come in? Is your husband here?"

Nervously, I replied, "Yes, please come in."

As I led them into the living room, my mind raced to Dan. Had something happened to him, still out with friends?

They asked Moises and me to sit down, making sure we were both comfortably seated.

Their first question took me off guard, "Do you have a daughter, Mary?"

I replied, nervously, "Yes."

"Is she in California?"

I responded quickly, "Yes, I was just upstairs reading a letter from her."

Their next words remain forever imbedded in my mind, "We're sorry. She's dead."

I screamed, "NO, NO, IT CAN'T BE! I WAS JUST READING HER LETTER!"

"She was found in San Francisco Bay."

Somehow I gathered enough strength to utter, "But she was a good swimmer. Are you saying she drowned?"

"No, she was shot."

"OH, MY GOD", I screamed and wailed. MY MARY SHOT! MY MARY DEAD!
The officers told us that the Berkeley Police contacted the Niskayuna Police earlier that night. I don't remember saying anything more, perhaps a whispered thank you. They gave us a phone number for the police in Berkeley but since it was almost midnight we would have to wait until morning to get more information from California. So I was left with the horror of knowing so little about Mary's death, except that she was dead.
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