The Letter Obsession

Rain. Snow. It didn’t matter.

Every morning around 8 a.m., Mrs. Keats emerged from her front door, strolled the length of her asphalt driveway, opened her black metal mailbox, and retrieved her mail. Every evening around 7 p.m., Carl noticed she returned to her mailbox and placed at least one letter in her mailbox and put its flag up to signal the postal worker.

Over the past ten years that Carl lived next-door, he appreciated her dedication, giving her a wave each time he witnessed this marvel while getting in his car to leave or returning home from his various destinations. When he had realized the seriousness of Mrs. Keats’ routine, he smiled.

She must have quite the pen pal. But all those stamps must be costing her a fortune.

Carl had experienced a similar refusal to embrace technology with his own mother. She couldn't be persuaded to use email either but she had developed a fondness for her cellphone. For older folks approaching their late 80’s, like Mrs. Keats, the modern tech era must be an overwhelmingly alien concept to those glued to the past. Truly, some habits rooted deep, a reoccurring pattern much like the hundred growth rings of an ancient tree. Particularly, Carl imagined, when it came to a daily ritual of writing and mailing letters.

As he watched Mrs. Keats mailing her letters day after day, Carl felt a warmth radiating in his chest. Now, he nodded and smiled at Mrs. Keat as she continued her simple letter writing duty. In a moment of wistful nostalgia, he had bought five postcards from the nearby convenience store. Currently, the postcards gathered dust atop his dresser. He had his own habits, he supposed. He patted his cell phone peeking from the top of his front pants pocket. Even that had become a routine, making sure it was still there.

For Carl, sleep-eat-work-play-sleep was fast becoming ingrained, the same shaped pattern happening day after day. Occasionally, he glimpsed the topmost postcard lying on his dresser, its image a silly cartoon that always triggered a chuckle. Without him realizing it, that had slinked its way into his own daily routine as well.

***

A dreary, freezing morning in November, Carl sat in his car shivering and rubbing his gloved hands together as he revved the engine, waiting for Mrs. Keats imminent arrival and the blast of air from the interior vents to warm him. Above the navigational panel, the digital clock displayed 8:00 a.m.

Carl sipped coffee from his steaming travel mug. He’d feel better knowing she made it out into the cold and back inside her home safely.

8:05 a.m.

Anytime now.

He pictured a tightly bundled Mrs. Keats appearing any moment to complete her stalwart mail retrieval quest.

8:15 a.m.

Carl firmly gripped the steering wheel.

It was a brutally cold morning. It made sense she might wait a little longer. Though, did her hunched back stance seem worse lately? Her stride now more of a wobble? Should he contact her daughter Rose?

He had met the friendly, no-nonsense Rose a couple times, when she had visited her mother now and again. He had never thought to ask her about all those letters. He had once suspected Mrs. Keats was writing to Rose, but her mother mailed those letters even when Rose visited her.

Did he ever get her number?

A quick search of his cell phone contacts yielded no one named Rose.

When the clock displayed 8:20 a.m., Carl drove to work. Only a few minutes late for his sales job, the thought of Mrs. Keats and her mail evaporated as he sat down in his office chair and logged into his computer for the workday.

Later that evening, he steered his car down his street and barely registered the blinking red lights. He had his fast food bagged supper and an iced diet soda he sipped from a paper straw. What he vaguely contributed to an eccentric neighbor’s early display of festive lights, were flashing lights from an ambulance parked in Mrs. Keats’ driveway. His heart dropped to his stomach.

Poor Mrs. Keats!

As he pulled into his crescent shaped driveway, the ambulance jerked into motion and rumbling, lights-flashing, exited the neighborhood. The other vehicle next-door no longer blocked from his view, he quickly recognized the white mini-van belonging to Mrs. Keat’s daughter Rose.

Empty handed, he hurried toward the vehicle as he fumbled with the zipper of his winter jacket. Rose sat in the driver’s seat dotting her eyes with a napkin.

“Rose, everything all right over here? Can I be of assistance?”

The middle-aged, dark-haired woman opened her window. “Hi-," she hesitated. "Carl, was it? We’re okay here. Looks like mom came down with pneumonia. She’s going to the hospital to be evaluated.”

“Sorry to hear that.”

“I’m headed there now.”

Carl nodded and stepped back from her vehicle. Rose didn't waste a moment, speeding down the road and out of sight. Carl stood there in the cold and gazed at Mrs. Keats’ front door. The least he could do was retrieve her mail while she recovered.

He trudged to her mailbox and pulled open its lid. Inside on the cold metal grating, laid a battered and bulged large manila envelope. Written on it in large black caps was, DO NOT MAIL. LEAVE IN BOX.

Curious, he thumbed the envelope open and peered inside. A thick fold of paper was wedged there. Carefully, he pulled the pages free and opened to the first page. The handwriting was fairly scraggly, but he could decipher most of the words, signifying an end to the letter mystery. His chest gave a flutter. He smiled as he read.

Yesterday’s letter. So boring. I read as many as I could from the stack before supper time. I can hardly believe it was me that wrote them. Such adventures! I put letters with this. Re-read these! And before I start another new letter – always, must tape this down (Clever I be!):

In the letter, a rectangular piece of typed paper came next. The clear tape glistened where it held the paper down on all sides.

---

Dear Penny, these are your honest to goodness memories. True tales and notes about your life. Please don’t worry that you might not remember. It’s okay. It’s you that have written them down so you will always have them. And I know the one habit you will never change or forget, collecting your letters and reading them. You wrote your friends so many. You always loved writing them.

Your genuine and loving self, Penelope “Penny” Keats

---

Carl gasped. Her memories? To herself?

The jagged edge of the insert appeared to have been cut with dull scissors. He pictured a supply of the trimmed papers filling a drawer, ready for use. The pile tenderly prepared for a time when Mrs. Keats could no longer type. Probably too, when she could no longer use her scissors. His chest tightened and his smile drooped. Glassy-eyed, he read on.

 Let’s see.. I started the day collecting my letter, then I checked my bedside list. So many notes I’ve left myself. I didn’t remember how to turn the TV channel. I found a note for that! Along with Rose’s number taped to the phone…

He moved the page aside. The next page was another letter. This one written about her favorite cat Sam. The next, another written about a vacation cruise to the Caribbean. And one about how she heard about and felt on the day of President Kennedy's assassination. Another written about her first pen pal Sabrina of California. And, many others. All the letters started with that taped piece of typed paper, informing her that these were her memories written by the expert on the matter, Mrs. Keats herself. 

Carl thought it was much like capturing graceful butterflies in a net. Along with some ugly spiders and nasty flies too. But all took part in the special collection that could be viewed and experienced again and again.

Carl refolded the papers and slowly returned them to their envelope within the mailbox. Then, wandering sluggishly, Carl wound his path to the other side of the street, recovered his cold supper from his car, and returned home.

***

Wednesday was warmer than predicted on the morning a moving truck parked in front of Mrs. Keats’ and two men began loading it with furniture and boxes.

The sun shined steadily, creating dappled shadows across Carl’s lawn. The birds chirped in the trees and squirrels scurried along wooden fences. A dog barked down the street and some distant neighbor revved their lawn mower. The wall clock ticked off the minutes in hollow beats.

For Carl, it was a fine day to call out of work and contemplate the small crack that, at some point, had appeared on the beige wall below the ceiling trim while he sat sipping his morning coffee over his neatly plated, freshly-fried eggs and warm toast at the kitchen table. The amazing aroma! A tantalizing blend of buttery, oily, eggy, and yeasty goodness. He breathed deeply, indulging in one more whiff before relishing the first savory forkful.

When he had finished breakfast, he pushed the empty plate aside and shifted the wiped-clean postcards in front of him. He stared at the crack in the wall again, thumping his pen against the wooden table.

That Ted! A wide smile spread across his lips as he reminisced about an old college roommate.

With a click of the pen, he flipped over a postcard and began to write.

Hey, Carl! Remember Ted? What a character! Especially, when he persuaded you to skip Friday’s test prep classes to go camping with him near Lake Shonoka during hunting season…