The Letter Carrier

It had gone too far this time and even the mailbox seemed to know it; seemed to be laughing at him from the inside. The address on the letter was clearly not his, not even close: “1496 Bonanza Ave,” addressed to a Jennifer Waterman, in a city that was at least twenty miles away. By itself the incident should’ve been of little concern–a simple oversight by the carrier, who was still visible in his Jeep down the street.

“But it’s happened so many times before,” he thought as he slid the envelope out of the cold box and held it in his trembling hands. “Does he even look at it before he puts it in here? Jeez!” 

 For Dennis Partridge, getting his mail at a certain time each day was part of a meticulous but almost entirely home-bound schedule. He never delayed retrieving it by more than ten minutes after it had been delivered, never wanting to meet the carrier directly but only swooping in decisively after he had left. And it seemed each time a letter had been delivered erroneously, he had simply taken it back into the house, marked it “Return to Sender” and on the very next morning, had put it back into the box. Each time he had written those words of rejection, he had done so more forcefully than the last, using bolder ink, sometimes in red, and he had even begun to add an increasing number of exclamation points.  

But the mistake had been made dozens of times by now. And the carrier seemed to be mocking him with each new occurrence. With the door to the mailbox firmly shut, his feet began to carry him, before his mind could pause them, down the street toward the Jeep. He wasn’t dressed for whatever he was about to do. The trip from his front door, down his driveway to the curb had never required him to wear anything but his housecoat and slippers. But the street was still damp from a morning rain which soaked into the felt soles of the slippers and into his black Nylon socks. Paying no heed, he quickened his pace, tightening the belt of the robe because a breeze was trying to flap it open. Of course he was wearing pajamas beneath the robe, as exposing himself would never be acceptable, even in a moment of utter frustration as this was. 

The walk had to be brisk as the Jeep was parked three houses away and could pull away at any moment. Dennis was already out of breath, clutching the letter and simultaneously holding the robe open at the legs so that his stride could be unhindered. While approaching the Jeep, he began to speak, before he even knew if the carrier was listening. It was the same guy as always, because it was something he had paid attention to each day, while watching from his front window. He was familiar with the dirty blond hair, the mustache, the ball cap.  

“You did it again,” Dennis said, the words escaping his lips in a sort of reckless croak. “You left me the wrong letter again, and I’m tired of having to put them back.”

“Excuse me,” the carrier replied, having not entirely heard what was said. He could tell by the posture of Dennis’s approach that something was wrong. “Can I help you?”

“You did it again,” Dennis yelled, this time from up close. “I can’t believe you can’t read, you must be stupid or something.” Dennis’s face was almost translucent now, cheeks quivering, and the arteries in his neck pushed on the collar of his robe.

“What are you talking about, Sir?” the carrier replied incredulously, looking down at the yellow envelope in Dennis’s hand.

“You know exactly what I’m talking about, dummy, now take it back. It’s the wrong address by a long shot and you know it!”

“Just put it back in your mailbox,” the carrier said. “Mark it ‘return to sender’ and I’ll get it tomorrow. I’m not taking it from you like this.” 

With shaky legs, Dennis moved closer and attempted to throw the letter into the open sliding door of the Jeep. The carrier didn’t react in the least, but the brim of his hat somehow perfectly deflected the envelope so that it fell back out, like a leaf falling from a tree. Dennis snatched it up again, leaned forward and screamed.

“I’ve never seen anyone so clueless as you,” he said.

“You need to go back home buddy or I’m calling the cops,” the carrier replied with a low voice, while still chewing his gum. “It’s super illegal what you’re doing right now, interfering with my job like this.” 

“I don’t give a flying shit,” Dennis said, raising his arms like a boxer. “You take this right now!” And he reached out and grabbed the carrier by the sleeve in an attempt to pull him from the Jeep, or at least move him enough so he could throw the letter inside.

What Dennis didn’t expect was to feel the terrible strength of the carrier’s arm beneath the sleeve of the flannel shirt–like a 16-inch rope stretched between tug boats. When his shirt was grabbed, the carrier, without leaving his seat, instinctively flung his arm, and the back of his hand caught Dennis square in the face. The blow was enough to detach Dennis from his slippers, sending him reeling backwards, stumbling, until he fell onto the asphalt. As he landed, his head made a nasty whip, putting a tremendous strain on his neck and causing him to momentarily lose consciousness. 

As his vision cleared, Dennis could see the Jeep driving around the street corner, not at any great speed but just as if continuing on its rounds. And he could see the carrier watching him, with troubling indifference, from the side mirror.  

Dennis rose slowly, his head throbbing. In wet socks he walked over to his slippers and carefully put them on, trying not to bend over. He rubbed the back of his neck and looked toward the sidewalk. There on the ground, near the gutter, but not so close as to be swept away, was the letter. For a moment, he looked around, thinking to just leave it there. But he saw his neighbor, Mrs. Gene Dobbins, watching him carefully from her front window. She had a cordless phone in her hand, and she must have seen what happened, but she never attempted to open the window or to communicate with him. Knowing that he couldn’t leave the letter there, in front of her, he picked it up and carried it home.  

It sat for a time on his kitchen counter, wrinkling some as it dried. Amazingly, the ink remained legible. Dennis considered throwing the letter in the trash or burning it, but as far as he knew it was a federal crime to discard or destroy official mail and he knew the police were likely coming for him anyway, and probably the postal inspector too. It would look doubly incriminating if he were found to have gotten rid of the letter. 

Throughout the evening, he waited for the ring of his front door or the ring of his phone. He sat in the living room, a fire blazing to dry his socks and robe and to soothe his aching body. His six cats, sensing a profound disturbance in the routine of the home, gathered around him. He stroked each one of them and then carefully moved a stack of papers and magazines closer to him, to hedge himself against any more trouble. He drank some wine, put menthol cream on the back of his neck and drifted off to sleep.

In the morning, the chime of the clock jolted him awake. There were just embers in the fireplace now and at least three of his cats, Tina, Drezelle and Poncho were already out in the yard, sunning themselves in the grass and pouncing on bugs. Dennis slowly stood from the couch. It was 9:00, much later than he had slept in years. He shuffled to the kitchen, past a mound of cardboard boxes and two old dressers forming a small corridor through the living room. 

On the kitchen counter, he began to make a mild breakfast, putting exactly one and a half slices of bread into the toaster. As usual, he took the cover off the butter and inspected it. He looked out into the yard, across his large lawn toward a barrier of trees that lined the front sidewalk. Although the mailbox was not visible from the kitchen window, he thought about what happened there anyway. And his thoughts turned naturally to the letter, still lying on the corner of the counter. What was he to do with it today, after all that had happened? And were the police coming or not, to investigate his crime? He groaned to think of it, as he had never done anything like it in his life. His emotions had simply taken over. How many times had he respectfully returned the errors to the box? 

After he had eaten toast and jam, Dennis moved to the living room again, but this time carrying the letter. He put another log on the coals and stuffed a stack of newspaper ads into the crevice to revive the flames. He resisted the urge to add in the letter. What was different about it that had caused him to act out yesterday morning? Was there something to it that he did not, could not know? What was he missing? Maybe now it was time to do something else he had never done. The handwriting actually appealed to him. It was in “all-caps.” To: Jennifer Waterman, From: T.H. Danby, 2nd Avenue, Kalispell, Montana and was postmarked six days ago. It had a commemorative stamp on it, with an image of Glacier National Park, and it appeared to have at least some weight to it, at least a few pages thick.  

Dennis rifled through his kitchen drawer to find his letter opener. If he did open it, he would still need to be able to tape it and send it like he always had, back to the mailbox. Sitting down on the couch, he gave one good stroke to the nearest cat and then opened the letter. 

“Dear Jenny,” it began. “I’ve missed you so much these past two months. Kalispell is a beautiful place, but nothing like seeing your face in person. These high mountains are much less forgiving than you are anyways, haha. I’ve thought about you day and night since I’ve been away. I hope you are doing well.” 

Only one paragraph in and Dennis was already mystified. This was the sort of letter that would’ve been written 30 years ago. How could anyone not communicate by phone or text these days, especially being in the sort of relationship as this seemed to be? Was this some sort of theater, or just another mis-guided, garish sales letter? It was already ridiculous to him and, in a very real sense, added insult to his injury. He set it down on the coffee table, moved to the living room window and attempted to bring his mind back to reality–to the cats in the yard, something, anything.

 It was four hours later, driven by his already ruptured routine and growing soreness, that he picked up the letter again: 

“I wanted to write to you the old-fashioned way. Something about being here makes me want to be more authentic. I figured you might find it a little romantic too. How’s the store going? I hope your making good friends and money too! Your so talented, and I’m so excited to hear all about it and hold you again. I hope to be home sometime near the end of the month! Meantime, I’ll try to stay warm and on the good side of the bears, haha. It isn’t easy sometimes. I would tell you everything I’ve had to deal with, but I don’t want to scare you. I’ll just say that I’m more of a man now than I’ve ever been. Something about this place seems to take a peek inside of you, to see what your made of. No day is ever the same, that’s the craziest part. I have a few routines but life is mostly wide open each day. I love it! I sure can ride a horse now too. They are such honorable creatures, you know. Or ornery-able. Lol. Mr. Perkins said I’ve been a good help this season. He said they’ve been booked up so much that they couldn’t have done it without me. It makes me feel good about my options with them for the future. We can talk. I’ll have to send you a picture of last week’s trip into the Flathead. We had a lot of difficulties, some unexpected issues for sure, but we just improvised and it was so amazing in the end. You have to be able to roll with things, that’s for sure. No service, no roads, nothing for days but wild, beautiful scenery. I’m enjoying it so much, but I can’t wait to be back home with you…”

He had to stop reading again. He looked around the room, at the stacks of furniture, the knickknacks and the record players and the televisions, at least four of them, and the collection of dusty Japanese swords above the mantle. It was a comfortable and spacious home, entirely paid off and sitting on two acres of land that appreciated by the day, as Dennis was well aware. The house had six bedrooms and a three car garage which sheltered his old Ford Mustang and an antique, steam-powered tractor that hadn’t seen the fields for 45 years. His wife had left him 15 years ago–something about not feeling excited about life–and no one else had shared the home with him since. They had no children together, “thankfully,” he thought. All he had ever really needed or wanted were his belongings and his cats, who didn’t question him, didn’t try to change him. He was not an old man yet, not by any objective standard, but the letter somehow made him ashamed, and not just for the fight over it or because he had now stolen it. There was something about the letter, and the story, that made him hollow. 

“Stupid thing,” he thought. “Makes me feel bad whether it’s open or closed.” He stood at the window again. But the cats had moved on, probably to the back porch, probably to lounge and gaze at the backyard, which was now mostly an overgrown collection of shrubs and trees. “It gives them plenty to hunt for either way and keeps them interested,” he thought. It was too hard to care for the yard anyway. It hurt too much to do it and made him huff and puff too much. Besides, there was no time for it, not with all the things he had to do each day, the rounds he had to make–the things he had to arrange.

Four weeks passed and the letter sat unmoved and unfinished. He never found the courage to take it back to the mailbox, fearing it would just be a confirmation of his guilt. To his surprise he had still seen nothing of the police or the postal inspector. He had made a difficult change to his routine, only going out after dark to check the mail. To his astonishment, it was still being delivered as usual which made him find a strange forgiveness, maybe even an admiration for the nameless carrier. After the way he was yelled at, it would be a wonder if he ever delivered the mail again. 

But each night, Dennis secured his slippers and took a small flashlight, with cats trotting behind him, to the street. There, he would walk out to the mailbox to find that it was filled. And, more thankfully, he would see that everything inside of it was firmly, accurately and rightfully addressed to him.