Beware of Cat

by Vincent Wyckoff

  Minneapolis is built around dozens of parks and city lakes, connected by biking and walking paths, Minnehaha Parkway, and Minnehaha Creek. In the fall, this urban forest explodes into color. On sunny days the foliage glitters like billions of sequins caught in the light. The sky is a brilliant blue backdrop; the lakes reflect all the colors while their waters turn colder, day after day, until freeze-up.

  Fall is a rather precarious time in the life of a letter carrier. I imagine the motorcyclist on my route feels the same way. Each year is different, with no way to predict how long the season will last. I’ve worn shorts while delivering mail in December and fought through freezing snow squalls in early October. In 1991, the Great Halloween Blizzard dumped nearly three feet of snow in less than forty-eight hours. For several days after that we went out two carriers to a jeep. By taking turns driving and pushing we somehow managed to get the mail delivered. That storm was one of the three weather systems that eventually collided over the Grand Banks in the Atlantic Ocean to create what became known as “the perfect storm.”

  Because of this potential for a quick descent into winter, we relish the mild, colorful days of fall. It’s also why you’ll detect a slight hesitation in the enthusiasm of a letter carrier for this time of year. We all know what’s coming, and when it gets here, we’ll be struggling with it for months.

  But for this day, at least, we had stolen another one from Old Man Winter. The little construction crew wore T-shirts and sunglasses; their tool belts were piled off to the side. I paused a moment to try to make out the nature of their project. They were working well away from the house, halfway to the street in the front yard. A shallow trench had been dug from the worksite to the corner of the house. I decided that was for electrical conduit, but what were they erecting way out here that would require wiring?

  I studied the small pile of building materials, surely not enough for a garage. Besides, they would have poured a concrete slab first. My next thought was a shed for the motorcycle, but the lumber was solid white cedar. Not many people around here could afford expensive lumber like that for a shed.

  Just then I heard the unmistakable rumble of a Harley coming down the street. I put the mail in the mailbox and turned to watch the motorcycle brake to bump over the curb. The owner slowly rode up the front sidewalk, looking at the construction crew as he passed. Pulling up to me near the door, he stopped and nodded a greeting.

  The engine rattled and sputtered when he shut it off, like it didn’t want the ride or the season to end any more than the rest of us. The sudden silence had a ring to it, and the biker sat astride his machine studying the work crew while our ears adjusted to the quiet. When he finally turned his long-haired, bearded head to look at me, I noted the oddest grin of confusion on his face. “What are they doing?” he asked.

  I thought I must have misunderstood him. Now we were both confused, and we looked over the project and the front yard as if the answer might be hidden there, waiting to be revealed. I decided right then I wasn’t going anywhere until I knew what this was all about.

  The kickstand went down and a stiff leg swung over the seat. The rattle of a chain connecting his belt and wallet,

  and the creaking of his black leather jacket and chaps were

  the only sounds. The lead worker, clipboard in hand, approached and addressed the biker by name. “I just need your signature on this work order, and we’ll be out of here by the end of the day.”

  The biker combed his thick fingers through his beard. Stalling for time, he took off his sunglasses and straightened out his long ponytail. His expression of confusion had deepened to a frown of downright bewilderment.

  “What work order?” he asked.

  “For your sauna.”

  “Sauna? You have to be kidding me.”

  The worker looked at the clipboard and repeated the name. “You bought it at the State Fair. It was a really good deal, too, with that last weekend holiday discount. You even instructed us to put it up in your front yard.”

  The biker looked around and threw out his arms. “I only have a front yard.”

  “Good choice then, sir. Now, if you’ll just sign here.”

  “Wait a minute.” The biker held up his hands and shook his head in disbelief. “You say I bought a sauna?”

  They had forgotten all about me, so as long as I could refrain from laughing I got to be the proverbial fly on the wall.

  “You paid for it with a credit card,” the man said. “I have a copy of the receipt right here.”

  The biker studied the piece of paper. When he finally exhaled a big sigh, I figured he was beginning to succumb to the inevitable. “Sure looks like my signature,” he said, looking up. “But are you sure it’s supposed to be a sauna?”

  The man laughed. “Yes, sir. And it’s a large one, too. A barrel sauna with two bench seats.”

  “A barrel sauna?”

  “Yep. Looks just like an enormous whiskey barrel tipped on its side.”

  The biker nodded, accepting his fate. “Oh yeah. I guess that does sound sort of familiar.”

  They worked their way back over the dates. He had bought it on the Saturday before Labor Day. “Well, I was there that day,” he admitted. “Darned if I can remember buying it, though,” he added, giving me a sheepish grin. “I’ve been carrying that credit card around in case of an emergency. What the heck am I supposed to do with a sauna?”

  I’m pretty sure it never performed the function for which it was designed. It’s still standing out in the front yard, though. The heating unit was dismantled that first winter and brought inside as an auxiliary heater in the small bedroom. A heavy padlock was added to the narrow wooden door. The bench seats hold all manner of motorcycle parts, from spare wheels to brakes, even whole transmissions. He told me once, “At least it’s watertight. Things won’t rust in there, and now I don’t have to keep parts on the kitchen counter all winter long.”

  I HAVE TO ADMIT that over the years I’ve made some mistakes when delivering mail. Probably not as outrageous as buying a sauna and not remembering it, but no matter how minor the infraction, mistakes are never appreciated. There are the little ones, like an envelope that sticks to another one so you never see it. You find it the next day, though, when it’s still in the mailbox with a nasty note scribbled across it in big black letters, saying something like, “This goes to St. Louis! Can’t you read?”

  After being on the same route for an extended period of time, carriers learn to sort and deliver the mail by name, rather than address number. Any letter carrier will tell you that every day, on every route, there are pieces of mail bearing incorrect addresses. Sometimes it’s a problem of dyslexia, or a computer glitch. Other times simply a wrong number, like an eight substituted for a nine. When that happens to the last number in an address, it puts the letter on the wrong side of the street. That happens daily. Delivering mail by name, then, prevents many misdeliveries.

  One of the first things a letter carrier learns is to double-check to be sure he’s on the right street and the correct corner. That sounds simple, and it’s second nature when you do the same route every day. Substitute carriers, however, are often in a hurry, running way behind schedule in unfamiliar neighborhoods. Their mistakes are easy to understand. But substitutes aren’t the only ones who have to pay attention. Several years ago I worked with two senior carriers who have since retired. One day, both of them offered to work extra hours by delivering mail on a route whose regular carrier was sick. After first delivering their own routes, they drove to the second route later in the day. Halfway through a block they both stopped and looked across the street at each other. Obviously, one of them was on the wrong block. After a short pause they shrugged their shoulders and continued on their way. Neither carrier ever admitted to being the one who was wrong, but we laughed about that incident, and the unlikely image of two carriers going in op
posite directions on the same street, for years afterward.

  AS A SUBSTITUTE CARRIER, I often worked a route for several days for a regular carrier who was on vacation. Here’s an obvious fact about mail volume: the wealthier the neighborhood, the more mail you carry, and this particular route received tons of mail. At each house I delivered eight or ten magazines and catalogs and a thick handful of letters. But mistakes happen in even the fanciest of neighborhoods.

  As I meandered through this opulent streetscape of mansions and luxury sedans, I let myself be entertained by the exceeding beauty of the landscaping and architecture. Each property had its own varieties of trees and shrubs, many professionally manicured, but all of them in their full summer splendor. Cobblestone walkways allowed passage through gardens and patios.

  One day I heard a faint cry for help. At first, I wasn’t sure I had heard it correctly because it was so quiet. But it came again, at regular intervals, seemingly out of nowhere. It was really unnerving, because the voice didn’t sound upset in the least. If anything, it was a monotone of complete boredom. “Help. Help me please. If anyone can hear me, please help me.”

  I finally decided it was coming from the backyard of an enormous limestone and brick mansion. It took me a while to navigate my way through the gardens and gates and pathways, but eventually I found myself in the midst of a beautiful, quiet, terraced garden with a small waterfall and stream. A hobbit would have felt at home here, but I was uncomfortable. As far as I could tell, there was no one around. It seemed like I was trespassing in someone’s little slice of Eden. I turned around to leave when I heard the voice again. “Say there, young man. Could you spare a moment to give me a hand?”

  Looking around, I still couldn’t spot the source of the voice. Then I heard, “Up here.”

  An older gentleman sat on a branch high up in a birch tree. His ladder had fallen while he trimmed dead limbs, and he’d been stuck up there for hours. Because the houses were spread so far apart, and most of the neighbors were at work or school, his calls for help had gone unanswered.

  I found his ladder where it had fallen in the shrubbery. The man was very appreciative when I helped him down, as he could have been up there for several more hours.

  While I knew that as a substitute carrier I needed to be paying constant attention to delivering the mail, it was impossible to keep my thoughts from wandering away in the peace and beauty of that quiet neighborhood. I think that’s the reason I made such a ridiculous mistake a couple of days later. I chuckled to myself when I remembered the old man in the tree. Then I shoved two or three handfuls of mail down a slot and I heard it splatter across a hardwood floor. A horrible thought occurred to me and I tensed up with a rush of panic.

  This couldn’t be. I stepped back to look at the address over the entranceway. Sure enough, the owners were on vacation for at least another two weeks. The mail I had dropped down their slot belonged to the next house up the road.

  As far as I knew, in my short career I had never made such a silly mistake. The first thought that came to mind was to simply walk away, skip the next house, and pretend that nothing had happened. If anyone should ask, I would plead total ignorance.

  Head down, ignoring the beauty around me, I set off at a pace just short of a jog. By the time I began passing the next house, however, my conscience was getting the better of me. If that had been my mail, I reasoned, I would at least want to know that it had been misdelivered. With the large quantities of mail these folks received, they would have to be suspicious if a day went by without a delivery. I knew they would call the post office to ask about it. In the end, I decided my best recourse was to own up to the mistake and hope it would all blow over.

  I climbed the imposing flagstone steps and stood before a massive solid wood door. Pushing the bell, I heard the stately report of chimes inside. The door slowly swung inward, and I was relieved to be met by a well-dressed young mother. A toddler peered up at me from behind her legs. The mother’s broad white smile made me feel even more comfortable about my decision.

  “May I help you?” she asked.

  “Yes, well, you see,” I stammered, “I’m pretty new at this job, and it seems I’ve made a terrible mistake.”

  The smile disappeared, and I was struck by how swiftly her expression went cold. My reaction was to quickly add, “Well, probably not so terrible as all that.” I flashed her my best smile, but she wasn’t willing to be reassured. I could tell that this was a big mistake. I should have played dumb, but now I had to go through with my confession.

  “Do you have my mail?” she asked, very businesslike.

  “Well, that’s the problem. By mistake, I delivered your mail to the neighbor’s house over there.” She leaned out of the door to look down the road. “I just thought I should tell you,” I added, “so you wouldn’t wonder what happened to it.”

  When she again looked at me, her expression had gone from cold to frozen solid. Words came pouring out of me. “They’re on vacation,” I explained, “and I thought, you know, because you’re neighbors, maybe you’d have a key or something. Some way to let yourself in to get your mail.”

  She didn’t say anything, so I kept spewing nonsense. “I was hoping that maybe you were checking on their house for them, you know, like watering the plants or something. Maybe letting the cat out.” I don’t know where that came from. I had no reason to think they even owned a cat. “Or turning on different sets of lights at night. Sometimes neighbors do that for each other to make it look like someone’s home.”

  I expected some sort of rebuke, but the icy vehemence in her voice startled me. “We haven’t spoken to those people in over a year.”

  Those people? A form of rigor mortis infected my lips while my mouth hung open in shock. We stared at each other, and I knew she was waiting for me to solve the dilemma, but I had nothing to offer. Finally, I managed to croak out, “I’m sorry. I’m really sorry. I just thought you should know what happened to your mail.”

  For a long time after that I paid real close attention to my deliveries. When the regular carrier returned from his vacation, I told him what had happened. His response was much more casual. “Hey, don’t worry about it,” he laughed. “It’s just the mail. They’ll figure something out.”

  We joked about it, even coming up with the theory that the woman would have to go next door to get her mail, or the neighbor would bring it over to her, and perhaps they would rekindle a friendship. We never did find out what happened, but I kind of liked that idea—that maybe the neighbors would get along again because of my mistake. At least, that’s my theory, and I’m sticking to it.

  Undaunted Spirit

  When one of the neighborhood gossips told me that Edith had been suffering from cancer for several years, I found it hard to believe. There are various signs and stages to the disease that are quite identifiable, but Edith had exhibited none of them. Retired and living alone, she seemed quite capable of taking care of herself and her two-story house.

  “Are you sure?” I asked. “I mean, I see her almost every day. If she had taken chemotherapy or radiation, I would have known it.”

  “She’s had it for years. It’s either inoperable or she doesn’t want surgery. But I know it’s terminal.”

  It was one of those pieces of information I had tucked away in the back of my mind. I couldn’t see how it could be true, and it was a topic that I felt uncomfortable asking Edith about. I mean, if she didn’t tell me herself, but I asked her about it and it was true, she would know people were talking about her behind her back.

  Besides, the way she performed chores around the yard made a terminal illness unimaginable. She did all her own lawn mowing and raking. Using a ladder, she cleaned her gutters and washed the windows, although she admitted to me one time that she didn’t much like climbing ladders anymore. She maintained birdfeeders and birdhouses and grew vegetable
s in a garden plot out back.

  She seemed to have an endless supply of energy, quite unlike any cancer patient I had encountered before. When her own chores were caught up, she cleaned the neighbor’s yard or swept the sidewalks. At other times I saw her on her daily walk around the neighborhood. After a couple years of this, the notion of Edith having cancer seemed ludicrous to me.

  She told me one time about growing up dirt poor on a farm in Depression-era South Dakota. After World War II, she moved to Minneapolis with her husband to look for work and to raise a family. When the children were old enough, Edith joined her husband in the workforce, taking a full-time job in a factory. Her husband had died years ago, but her children and grandchildren were still in the metropolitan area.

  The notion of her being sick had become no more than a distant memory to me when I ran into the neighborhood gossip again. She told me that Edith had taken a turn for the worse. The only reason I gave it any credence at all was because I hadn’t seen Edith for a couple of days.

  “She’s in the hospital,” the neighbor told me. “The cancer has spread all through her body. She probably won’t be coming home.”

  For a day or two then I watched for Edith. It did seem as though she had slowed down a bit in the last month. Even so, she had met me at the door almost every day. Now I wondered how difficult it had been for her to greet me with a pleasant smile and one of her wry comments while probably suffering great pain.

  A couple of days later a pickup truck with South Dakota plates parked in front of Edith’s house. An older gentleman fumbled with a bouquet of flowers while making his way up to her front door. This didn’t seem like a good development.