Undeliverable

by Rebecca Demarest

  Though, if he was being honest with himself, the warehouse wasn’t the only reason he had taken the job. The property clerk position would give him access to advanced search systems that browsed a wide variety of files—everything from mail forwarding requests to DMV and police records—all information that he could use while he continued his search for his son on his own. And so he had said yes, he would accept the position as Property Clerk at the Atlanta facility.

  A white and blue binder was waiting on Ben’s desk when they got there, square to the front corner. He flipped it open, idly wondering who had dropped it off. It was titled: A Manual for the Property Room of the United States Postal Service’s Mail Recovery Center by Mrs. Biun. It was massive, indicating that Mrs. Biun had spent more time putting it together than he—or anyone else, for that matter—would bother to spend reading it.

  He called out over his shoulder to Sylvia. “Hey, any idea where this came from?”

  “Not really, but I’m sure one of the office ladies dropped it by. That’s the tome that Bunion wrote, isn’t it?”

  Ben wrinkled his nose. “If you mean manual, yes. It seems quite extensive.”

  Sylvia snorted. “You mean excessive.”

  Even though he was in agreement, he still felt he should stand up for the absent woman. “Come on now, it can’t be that bad. If I have questions, did she leave any contact information?”

  “No, she moved to a tropical island somewhere.” Sylvia pushed the cart into the warehouse and Ben followed, sure he hadn’t heard right. He had done the math before accepting the job and there was no way anyone could manage to retire to an island on the provided salary.

  “How on earth did she afford that?” They stopped at the shelves and started to sort through the newest pile of offerings.

  “I’m pretty sure she was fencing things for the mob.” Sylvia made a shushing motion and winked at him before turning back to the cart.

  Ben picked up a hunting knife by the tip, examining the hilt, which appeared to be a skull carved out of bone. There was just no accounting for some people’s taste. “I didn’t know Atlanta had a mob.” He placed the knife carefully on a shelf that held contraband such as smoke bombs and fireworks.

  “No, the knives go in that drawer over there.” The tool chest had labels marking the drawers: tools, knives, kitchenware, and office supplies. “Of course Atlanta has the mob. Every city has the mob.” Sylvia leaned on the cart handle and stared at him through wide eyes. “Aren’t you even the least bit curious how she did it?”

  No, no he wasn’t. But he could tell she wasn’t going to drop the subject unless he humored her, so he decided to guess. “Fencing the items? I’d expect through the auction.” Opening the drawer, he placed the skull knife next to several pocket-knives and a machete.

  “Well, duh. But I spent a lot of time thinking about it, and I know exactly how she could have done it. Particularly since she was in charge of the warehouse. She could have all this mob stuff just sitting here, waiting to go to auction till the heat dies down, and then, bam! Auction it off under the table.” Sylvia dropped the empty trays back in the cart with satisfaction.

  Ben couldn’t help trying to poke holes in her logic. “I thought the accountants came in to do the registers for the auction. Wouldn’t it be hard to sneak in unaccounted items and get back the money for them?” Ben took the cart this time, leaving Sylvia frowning behind him.

  “You’re ruining the story, Ben. Sometimes you just have to suspend your disbelief. Anyway, that’s how she retired to France.”

  “I thought you said she retired to an island.”

  “Yeah, it was somewhere off of France.” Ben laughed and she scowled at him, but she couldn’t keep it up and shrugged. “Regardless, she didn’t leave a number or address.” Sylvia slid between him and the cart, jumping on the back and riding it down the hall. “You go open that manual of yours. I’ll just go get the next cart.”

  Ben rolled his eyes as she sailed down the warehouse and returned to his corner where Mrs. Biun’s instructions were waiting. Surely the staid mind that had produced such a manual wasn’t going to participate in illegal auctions and then retire to some mysterious island off of France. He was pretty sure she was furiously pulling weeds out of the walkway of her little retirement-community bungalow in Florida.

  The binder was one of those two-inch affairs with enough paper stuffed in its rings to make it a neat block, the whole of the 300-odd pages handwritten. A neat, trim hand had taken its time accumulating knowledge about the warehouse behind him, the handwriting exactly like his fifth grade teacher’s. He imagined they even looked alike: tight buns of white hair gathered at the napes of their necks, wearing cardigans and long skirts.

  After a quick flip through the densely written pages, Ben decided that delaying just a little bit longer wouldn’t hurt anyone. Instead, he decided to go out to his car and grab the box of office supplies he had brought with him.

  He almost got lost coming back in as he tried to navigate the warren of offices. After a few false turns, he made it back to his “office,” which consisted of a double-wide cubicle set off from the general warehouse by carpeted partitions. He dropped his box on the desk and sat, slouching with his elbow on the chair arm, fingers braced under his chin. He swiveled back and forth, taking in the pale blue walls with their navy blue detailing and the slightly newer industrial carpeting covering the concrete floor. A desk with an aging computer, some metal shelves, and a file cabinet completed his furnishings. He missed his workshop at the back of Jeannie’s store with the smell of wood shavings and sealants, and the sounds of the occasional customer as reminders of less painful times. But it was also full of reminders of what he was missing.

  Ben started to unpack his file box, mostly filled with the usual personal accessories for an office taken out of his old desk drawers: some well-used research books on appraisal and antiques, a stash of peanut butter crackers and beef jerky, a mug referencing the old Prisoner TV show. At the bottom of the box, his hand brushed a picture frame.

  He paused, running his fingers over the image of a smiling redhead and a young boy, about five, holding hands on the beach and waving. He had completely forgotten that he had thrown it into the box when he was packing up a month ago, and he propped it on the edge of his desk, trying to see if it felt right there. Tracing the line of her hair, and then touching their linked hands, Ben couldn’t tell how much of what made his chest tight was anger, sadness, or fear that he would never have an afternoon like that one ever again. After a long moment he tipped it into the bottom drawer where he had put his snacks. All he needed to feel right now was determination, and that picture wasn’t going to help him keep his head on straight.

  He took a deep breath, trying to put the picture and the accompanying emotions out of his head. He would rather be out on the streets canvassing for possible witnesses, but he needed this job to keep himself afloat while he continued his search. And to keep it, he needed to figure out exactly what this job entailed.

  Flipping back to the front of the binder, he adjusted himself in the worn office chair. There was no title page, just a table of contents. It included topics like Sorting and Auction Preparation, but his eye was drawn to the heading Live Animals and Other Contraband, pg. 209. Curious as to what kind of things Mrs. Bunion might consider contraband, he flipped through the pages until he found the right chapter.

  Live animals are prohibited in the United States Post, but some imbeciles insist on sending them anyway. We have had occasion to receive everything from tarantulas to birds, bats, and occasional puppies. When you receive post that contains a living organism, your first task is to make sure it’s still alive. If it’s dead, contact the Georgia State Government Department of Community Health at (404) 206-6419. They like free samples to dissect in their lab. If the animal is still alive, contact Animal Control at (404) 794-0358. We
have a special arrangement with them to hold the animals for ten days before they go to the local shelters for adoption. And for God’s sake, take the puppies for a walk so they don’t pee all over the office before Animal Control picks them up.

  Despite himself, Ben was drawn in by the sardonic attitude of Mrs. Biun. He pulled open the top desk drawer and took out a notepad emblazoned with the USPS logo. Using the fountain pen that was always in his pocket, he started a list of questions. First, just how often did they deal with live animals? Second, what exactly was the arrangement with Animal Control? He turned back to the beginning of the binder, determined to start making his way through more when Sylvia returned with another cart.

  “Enjoying Bunion’s work?”

  Ben got up and followed her into the warehouse proper. “Sure, I guess. She seems like she was a special woman; at least she looked at things in a…well, interesting light. Do you mind finishing the sorting today while I get settled? I might have some questions for you later.” Like, just how sane were the rest of the employees? Mrs. Biun and Sylvia were quirky enough. He wondered if the Center drew unusual people to it or if dealing with lost letters made them that way.

  Sylvia laughed, open and un-selfconscious. “I’ll be in and out of your office every ten minutes with a cart. Just holler.”

  Ben thanked her and returned to his desk. Before he re-opened the manual, he heard the first strains of a whistled waltz echo, out of tune. Wincing a little bit at the discord, he sat back down and started in on the first chapter of protocol; The Property Room.

  Your job as property clerk is to ensure that all of the items that get lost in the mail don’t end up permanently lost. You are the accountant. Don’t lose an item, and don’t put an item up for auction that someone might claim later. He wondered how he was supposed to predict whether or not someone wanted an item back or was beyond caring about it. You will sort the items as they come in and keep track of their entry dates so you know when they are to be auctioned off. Four years is the standard with exceptions for live animals and perishables. See those respective chapters.

  If an item is particularly valuable or personal, at the end of four years, it is moved to the long-term storage bay. It then becomes a judgment call as to when those items are to be auctioned. My rule of thumb was journals after fifty years, jewelry after ten. Some things should never be auctioned. Uncle Shem is one of those. Familiarize yourself with the contents of bay five.

  The empty cart clattered through his office, and Ben glanced up to nod at Sylvia before he got up to go explore bay five as instructed. This one was organized differently than the other bays and was much smaller. He started at one side and worked his way slowly over the three walls, noting shelves for journals and diaries, file drawers for photographs, shelves full of paintings, and a safe bolted to the floor. Centered on a shelf on the back wall was a black and gold marbled urn. The bronzed plaque on it read Beloved Uncle Shem, 1934-1989. He lifted the lid and gazed in at the pile of ash, closed it, and picked up the tag. Posted from Storm Lake, Iowa. 89-12-26-78. He couldn’t believe that no one wanted to claim the old man; no one cared enough to find out what happened to him. There was surprisingly little dust on the urn, especially compared to the rest of the objects on the shelves above and below.

  The door swung open. “You in here, Ben?”

  “Over here. Meeting Uncle Shem.” Ben stepped back from the shelf, scrubbing his hands on his pants to rid himself of phantom particles of his new uncle.

  Sylvia poked her head around the shelf, grinning. “Isn’t he wonderful? The one relative you never have to worry about entertaining. Or disappointing. He’s been here a long time.”

  “Twenty years by the tag. No one ever found his family?”

  “Don’t know. All I know is no one paid to have him shipped home. Could be they never found his family; could be they didn’t want him. Haven’t looked up his claim log though.” She patted the jar fondly. “He’s a good listener, you know? And I’m not the only one who thinks so, either. Jillian, the reader? She comes in and talks to him all the time. She only does it after hours, but I’ve seen her.” She drifted back to her cart. “Any other questions?”

  “A couple. How many live animals do you get here?” Ben followed her back around to the 2010 bay.

  “Oh, I’d say about one or two a month. My favorite was the bat. He was just the most precious thing ever! A little fruit bat that would hang off your finger or curl up in that little hollow by your collarbone.” She indicated the spot with an unconscious caress. “I wanted to keep him, but the animal control guy said that bats carry rabies, and I shouldn’t have taken him out of his tank. He just looked so scared I couldn’t help myself.”

  “Are bats common then?” He picked up a jar of preserved peaches and tucked it on the shelf next to several mason jars of vegetables. He prayed she would say no, since he really didn’t care for the creatures. They were firmly in the realm of freaky for him.

  “Oh no, mostly we get reptiles. They’re easy to ship ‘cause they get all lethargic. Once we had this six-foot ball python; she was just darling. We called her Cuddles because all she wanted to do was curl up around you. Well, I called her Cuddles. No one else would touch her.”

  “For good reason, I should say.” Ben leaned his elbows on the handlebar of the cart. “Sylvia, just how long do live animals stay with us?”

  “Oh, until Animal Control can pick them up. Not long. Maybe a day or two at the most. Though, that hedgehog was with us for almost a week. I just about took him home myself. When Spike wrinkled his nose, it was just the cutest.”

  Bats, snakes, and hedgehogs, oh my, rang through Ben’s head. “And who takes care of the animals during that time?” He was really hoping she wouldn’t say him. He wasn’t any good with other living beings; just ask Jeannie, she’d be happy to elaborate on all his faults.

  “Well, I guess you do. Sometimes I would help Bunion with them. But it’s not often we get any,” she added quickly, seeing the frown on Ben’s face. “And Jordy can typically pick them up same day they come in.”

  Ben rubbed his hands across his face, trying to clear enough cobwebs from his mind to keep up with the jumps in Sylvia’s thought process. “Jordy is Animal Control,” he clarified.

  “Yup. And when he comes, he picks up whatever pet stuff is due for release. It’s the arrangement we have with them. We get pet bedding, leashes, food, chew toys. After its time is up, he takes it. Whenever there is an animal to retrieve, that is.”

  Ben held up a hand. “Got it, thanks.” The information that Sylvia was providing wasn’t going to stick unless he made some notes in the manual at the appropriate places, so he turned back to the office and sat down once more with Bunion.

  For the most part, the manual consisted of straightforward advice about how to organize his day and month to make the best use of his time. Spend a little time each day prepping for and transferring old items to the auction area for the monthly auction. Make sure to enter each item that appears into the spreadsheet on a daily basis so you know what to retrieve for each auction. Stock up on Band-Aids for paper cuts until you form calluses. Throw out any perishables in the packages and do not allow them to find their way to the lunchroom, as there was once an incident with a poisoned—well, laced with laxative—coffee cake. Ben made it through half of the manual before realizing that it was past four, and he hadn’t seen Sylvia in over an hour. He picked up his tablet and worked his way out to the bullpen to inquire after his wayward assistant.

  The readers ignored him so he approached one on the end. “Hey, sorry to interrupt, but do you know where Sylvia is this time of day?”

  The man finished scanning the letter in his hands before looking up. “Typically shredding. She shreds at nine and four.” He put down the letter and picked up its envelope, looking at an address that was short a line. Google Maps was up on his screen, and
he started slowly scrolling through listings for Bourbon Street.

  “Thanks.”

  When Ben found his way back to the shredder, it was humming softly, but not active. The behemoth took up an entire corner of the sorting garage, and was perched on scaffolding that allowed rolling carts to be filled with the shredded correspondence. Sylvia was sitting on the top stair, a half-full bin sitting beside her. There was a piece of stationery in one hand, her chin propped in the other and a small smile on her lips. When she saw Ben standing at the foot of the stairs, she stuffed the letter she was reading in a back pocket of her jeans and stood up, tossing the contents of the bin into the shredder. The shearing sound filled the air for a minute as the machine chewed its way through the paper and then muted to dull humming again.

  “Done with the manual already? You read faster than I thought.” She wouldn’t quite meet his eye as she spoke, one hand checking to make sure there wasn’t any paper sticking out of her pocket. Ben decided it would be better to pretend not to have noticed, rather than call her on one of Bunion’s cardinal rules, listed on page five: “NO READING ALLOWED.”

  “Not quite, just about done with half and the day’s almost over, so I thought I’d track you down and wrap up for the day.”

  “Sure, sure, have a seat while I finish this up.” Sylvia, all smiles again, picked up another box of letters and used it to gesture to the steps. Ben made his way up to the top and sat leaning against the railing. It was impossible to hear over the shearing, crunching sound of the paper, so Ben waited until the last bin of letters fluttered into the machine and Sylvia hit the kill switch, leaving the room silent.