Red Letter

We were understaffed, overworked, and underpaid… just like every other wage slave in America. Difference is, about a hundred years ago some doof in New York thought it would be a bright idea to slap the phrase “Neither snow nor rain nor heat nor gloom of night stays these couriers from the swift completion of their appointed rounds” on the front of the main office. It's not even our official motto, but people still got the idea that we were supposed to be dependable, even as our budget gets slashed and our systems are overloaded.

You told me that load had been tagged out for delivery a week ago, but somehow it hadn’t made it on a truck. You didn't care whose fault it was, but you were getting calls, you said, angry calls. You pleaded with me, begging me to stay past my shift, head out one more time. If I hadn’t… if I’d just gone home… but I’ve never been able to say no to that sweet Irish lilt of yours Fionnula. 

I loaded up and headed out, driving way across town to the top of a warren of residential streets nowhere near my normal route. I’m an old pro, and even though I didn’t know the route, I dropped off mailers, letters, and packages of all shapes and sizes quick and efficient-like. You would have been real pleased Fionnula. 

I reached down for the last letter in my bag… red and unusually sized, with a wax seal and some stamp I’d never seen. The address was handwritten with a lot of flourishes… so many it was impossible to read. Wrigley… was that ST or CT? Street, I was almost completely certain… God, if only I’d paid more attention when Mrs. Monahan was drilling us on cursive writing in the first grade. 

Had I gone down Wrigley Court I would have dropped off the letter at a nice little ranch with pansies in the window boxes and a tricycle in the front yard. I would have hopped back in my truck, gotten home by 6, made a quick smoothie, lifted some weights before settling in for a night of knitting and watching old ER episodes on demand. Maybe I would have called you Fionnula, and invited you out for dinner at that new Nepali place we were talking about. But you know I’ve always been unlucky, and so I guess I’ll never know how it ended… ER I mean.

I turned right, instead of left, arriving in front of 7 Wrigley Street, a grey two-story that had seen better days. Slates that had probably once sat in perfect little rows were strewn across the roof like spilled chiclets. Paint peeled from the wood siding and the juniper bushes out front were scraggly and overgrown. Some homeowners are so thoughtless, sure most of them enter from the driveway but someone always enters through the front… like your friendly neighborhood post worker. I lifted my bag so I could step through the narrow gap in the chest-high bushes and sucked in my stomach. As my foot crossed the threshold the world went dark, as if someone had shut off the sun. Confused, I stepped back and the sun was up again. It was a normal day, kids playing in the distance, birds crapping on my truck up the street. 

I thought about heading back, just stamping this letter "undeliverable". But that damned motto and a vision of your pleading blue eyes had me turn back, Fionnula. I didn’t want to make any more headaches for you, so I crossed back into the mysterious darkness, pushing my way through the bush and stepping onto the porch. The old boards complained under my weight as I danced around brushing leaves off my uniform. I bent to push the red letter through the letterbox and the door creaked open. Something in me screamed run, but as soon as I caught a whiff of the damp and decay seeping out of that house, it was like I lost all control over my body. 

I stepped forward, through the door. I felt myself compelled to keep moving forward, one foot in front of another as I mentally screamed at my legs to turn around. Steadily I moved towards a tall armchair facing a small flickering black and white TV. I couldn’t turn my head but as I strained my eyes side to side I could only see dark empty rooms with black mold creeping up the wallpaper. I didn’t see or hear anyone pass me but the door creaked shut and I heard the lock click home.

“I have a letter for you” I heard myself say, as I closed in on the chair. I was almost close enough to see who or what was sitting in the chair when I felt a breeze on my neck. 

Suddenly I could control my body again, I whipped around only to find the walls weren’t where they should be. They had snuck up on me, the peeling wallpaper now only 6 inches from my face. I turned again to see that it had happened on all sides, creating a near-perfect cell. A deep laugh came from the other side of the wall as I ran my hands along them, looking for a crack in the plaster, but they were perfect except for a small letter box at the bottom.

I suppose it could be worse, Fionnula. The homeowner passes me some pretty good food through the slot. Steak, french fries, and pudding cups. He says delivery people have good lean muscle but even I could do with some more marbling. I’m not entirely sure what that means for me, but I’m not hopeful. 

Sometimes he lets me prop open the slot and watch tv with him, but I’ve never seen any of the shows he watches. 

He also passed me some paper and a pen to write to you, my sweet Fionnula. Don’t send anyone else to 7 Wrigley St. Strike it from the map. Forward all the letters straight to the dead letter office. 

I’m sorry to be leaving you even more short-handed. If it was in my control, I’d be there for you, you know I would. But sadly, you’ll have to consider this letter my resignation. 

With all my love, 

Mary Golding, Former Mail Carrier