The Letter

The mailman is never going to get here, is he?

You’ve been waiting weeks to get that catalog. Oh, of course, it’s old-fashioned of you to get a paper catalog when you’re surrounded by technology. Not only are you surrounded by technology, but you could also afford the best of it, can’t you? Still, there’s something about the feel of the paper beneath your fingers, the crinkle as it shifts in your hand, the smell of it.

Oh, do you hear that? The mailman really needs to have his employer give his little white truck a tune-up. You’ve listened to the rumble of that little white truck for years. You’d know it anywhere.

You watch from the window as he quickly places your mail in the box. You understand he’s on a schedule, but really, one’s mail should be treated with care. You never know what you’ll receive.

After he drives off, you walk to the box and retrieve your mail. Wonderful! Your catalog is here! The pile of mail feels quite hefty today. Junk mail, no doubt.

You begin to sort through the mail as you wander back to the house: the local community paper, a coupon for the dentist - you should go, but haven’t found the time; a flyer for a restaurant you’ve been meaning to try; a letter, a-

Wait, go back! A letter? Yes. You’ve stopped on the path back to your front door. You’re staring at the letter. 

It’s a beautiful stationery. A thick, creamy-pale, linen envelope that feels like velvet in your hand. Your name and address are written in black ink by a beautiful, compact hand. And if your throat wasn’t tight and your breath hadn't stopped in your chest, you’re sure you’d inhale that faint scent of coffee and cotton that you’d become familiar with over the years, before you retired.

 You stand there staring at the letter, you hear a voice. Yes, a real voice; you’ve not gone completely mad yet. You breathe and look to the right. It’s Mrs. Akopyan, your neighbor.

Breathe, act as you have for the past five years. You paste a smile on your face. It feels like a distorted rictus, but you know it’s your usual pleasant grin. You wander closer to the low hedges separating your properties and chat with Mrs. Akopyan.  

She babbles on about Mr. Akopyan, about her children, about her grandchildren. You wonder what her expression would be if she knew some of the things you’d done, what you’d been before you retired, what had happened that last time.

You want to go inside and read your letter. You idly wonder, with your pleasant grin still on your face, what would happen if you reached across the hedges and snapped Mrs. Akopyan’s neck.

She finally winds down and wishes you a pleasant day. You want to run into your house, but you don’t. You casually stroll up the path and through your door. You throw all but the letter on the small table in your entryway as you make your way to the dek you call your home office. You slice open the top of the letter and remove the sheets. You notice your breath has quickened. Fear, anticipation, need? You’re not sure yet. 

“My dearest friend, 

It feels like quite a long time since I last wrote, or at least it feels like it! I hope all is well with you. Things here are almost the same as they’ve always been. Surely you remember how things were - one doesn’t forget such a life as yours. LOL.

I’ve been in touch with Uncle Jonathan and Aunt Miriam. Uncle Jonathan has been feeling unwell for quite a long time. The doctors say he will need surgery, sooner rather than later. Of course, the children are upset about the situation. Aunt Miriam is attempting to still run the company while tending to Uncle Jonathan, but it’s been difficult.

Enough about my worries! How are you? Is retirement treating you well? Do you miss us as much as we miss you? I’m sure you could walk back through the door and it would be as if no time had passed.  

Please let me how things have been with you! Let me know if you need anything. I look forward to hearing from you!

Regards, 

D.”

Well. This is a bit unexpected. You haven’t heard from your former colleagues in awhile. In fact, you expected to never hear from them, not after...well, you’ll call it “the incident”. Surely there’s no need to delve deeply into those memories, is there? It was required. You did what had to be done. 

Your thoughts return to the letter. For a while, you’d been happy in retirement. You’d convinced yourself that this was what you wanted, what you needed. Then, a few ounces of creamy-pale linen paper arrived. Your breath caught, but not with the fear or disgust you expected, but with...delight. You miss your profession. You miss using your skills. The thought of going back to work is enticing. It’s an insidious thought at the forefront of your mind, like the anticipation of a lover’s kiss. The world needs people like you, people with your skills, doesn’t it? And you’re one of the best at what you do.

Well, you know what you’re going to do, don’t you? You knew the moment you laid eyes on that creamy-pale envelope. Uncle Jonathan needed surgery, did he? So be it.

You run on years of behavior ingrained into your mind and muscles. You get up from the desk and put the letter into the shredder. You then take the minuscule pieces - all of them because you’re meticulous in that way - and go to the backyard to the grill. A squirt of lighter fluid and the minuscule pieces are on fire in a moment. You watch them burn to ash, then go through the ashes to make sure everything was burnt.

You go inside and wash the ash from your hands. Then, onto the closet in your bedroom. You push your clothes aside and find the panel you haven’t visited in years. It’s as if you never retired. You open the safe and plunge your arm inside. You push aside the gun, you push aside the passports and various identifications and retrieve the small book you haven’t looked at in years.

You slowly flip through the pages. This little book isn’t as luxurious as the letter you’ve received; its pages crinkle and snap as you turn the pages. You find the information you want and return the book to its home.

You return to your desk and dial the number you memorized a moment ago. A shiver - of ecstasy, of fear? - rolls down your spine as a familiar smooth voice fills your ear.

“AOD Enterprises, how may I direct your call?”

“Good afternoon,” you reply, voice steadier than you expected. “I was calling to inquire about the status of Jonathan Levigne. I understand he may require surgery.”

“Ah, yes. You’re a friend of the family?”

“Yes, I received correspondence about it earlier today.”

“Of course. It would seem Mr. Levigne’s condition has gone downhill and will require immediate surgery. Do you need additional details? I can connect you to the appropriate party.”

“Yes, please.”

“Please hold.”

You take the next few seconds, as the connection buzzes and clicks, to revel in the sense of peace washing through you. The past doesn’t matter, only now is important.

Your call is connected and the operator speaks the details you need. You have no need for paper to write them down. Years of practice have trained your mind to retain them. Once the details have been explained, you hang up.  

You sit at your desk for a moment. You breathe. You savor the moment. You’re returning to your career.

You'll make arrangements later with Mrs. Akopyan to watch the house during the few days you’ll be away. Maybe she’ll make you those lovely cookies you're so fond of once you explain you’ve come out of retirement and will be away on business.

Until then, you have one last thing to do. You return to the backyard and head for the shed in the far corner. You unlock it, closing the door behind you. You go to the corner, move the worktable, and open the hatch in the floor. You have so many nooks and crannies, don’t you? So many secrets and dark corners, don’t you?

You climb down the stairs. If you ever cried, you would now, at this moment, as the scent of gun oil wafts into your nose. You run your hand over the tools of your trade and stop at the racks of rifles. You eye one in particular. This tool has served you well over the years. You remove it from the rack and run your cheek over the barrel. So smooth. So hard. So cool. Yes, this one. You feel...peace. You shouldn’t have retired. This is what you are. This is what you do.

Yes, Uncle Jonathan would have his surgery very shortly.