Through the tarnished window bars she saw a tall, dark-haired man wearing a brown leather jacket. He looked in his early thirties.
“Hello,” he said, smiling. “I just moved here. I’d like to rent a box if I could.” His voice was mild and deeply-pitched.
“I’m sorry,” Miss Land told him. “I’m afraid all the boxes are taken.”
“Oh.” The man’s smile faded. “And I suppose there’s only one house delivery a day.”
“We don’t deliver to the houses,” said Miss Land. “You’ll have to have your mail sent in care of general delivery.”
“Oh. I see.” The man nodded, looking a little perturbed. “And—how many deliveries are there a day?”
Miss Land told him.
“I see. Well . . .”
“If you’d like to put your name on the waiting list for boxes,” Miss Land said.
“Yes. I would,” he said.
After he’d written down his name and said that yes, he’d given his previous post office a change of address card, the tall man left. Miss Land stood at the stamp window watching him walk across the wind-scoured square to a black Volkswagen. She watched him get in and her right hand fingered unconsciously at the gold locket around her neck.
When the man had driven away, she blinked her eyes and turned away from the window. “Hi ho,” she murmured. She walked slowly over to her desk, looking at the name he’d written on the list. Louis Smalley.
That’s a nice name, Miss Land thought. She wondered if Mr. Smalley had brought his family to Vera Beach with him.
Just before one o’clock, Miss Land’s mother phoned and told her to bring some lemons and sugar from the store when she came home for lunch.
Every morning when she’d finished sorting and distributing the seven o’clock delivery, Miss Land walked across the square to Meldick’s Candy Store for a cup of coffee and a cruller. By nine-fifteen she was back at the post office.
The morning after Mr. Smalley had moved to Vera Beach, Miss Land found him waiting at the closed general delivery window when she got back.
“Morning,” he said.
She smiled and nodded and let herself in through the back door. She took off her coat and put down her handbag. Her hands moved over her pale, brown hair, they ran smoothingly over her dark dress. Then she let up the window.
“That was Smalley, wasn’t it?” she asked.
The tall man nodded. “That’s right,” he said.
She drew out a small packet of envelopes from the S shelf and fingered through them.
“No, nothing today,” she said.
Mr. Smalley nodded. “Well, it’s a little too soon yet,” he said and left.
Miss Land stood at the window watching him walk across the square to his Volkswagen. That’s a funny car, she thought. She watched him pull open the door and duck in, then she turned away. Mr. Smalley. The name was spoken once in her mind.
Later she found the letters and cards he’d put in the box under the stamp window. She picked them up and looked at them. They were all neatly typed. She held them in her hands a moment, then walked over to the mail sack and dropped them in.
Ten minutes later she drew them out again, thinking that she ought to see if Mr. Smalley had put down the correct return address. She swallowed dryly as she held them in her hands.
There were three letters and a postcard. She saw that the return address was correct on all of them. She looked at the letters. Two of them were going to New York City, the third to Los Angeles. The postcard was addressed to New Jersey.
Miss Land turned the card over.
Dear Harry, it read. Trying the Island on for size. Address is General Delivery, Vera Beach, N. Y. Any word yet from Heller about MIDNIGHT DRUM? Am working on a few shorts before starting the novel for Cappington. Okay? Best to all. Lou.
Nervously, Miss Land dropped the letters and the postcard back into the mail sack. I shouldn’t have read it, she thought as she went over to her desk. She started checking the previous day’s postal money order receipts.
The next morning Mr. Smalley was waiting again.
“I’m sorry,” said Miss Land and she explained to him about the coffee break.
“Oh, that’s all right,” said Mr. Smalley. “If I’d known I’d have joined you in a cup.”
Miss Land took off her coat hastily in back. She felt at her curls automatically and adjusted her dress, then drew up the general delivery window. There were two letters for Mr. Smalley forwarded from Manhattan. Mr. Smalley said, “Oh, good.”
“Cold for this time of the year,” Miss Land said as he was looking at the envelopes.
Mr. Smalley looked up with a smile.
“Certainly is,” he said. “Especially when you’re used to California weather.”
“Oh, is that where you’re from?” Miss Land’s gaze held a moment on his face.
He told her he’d decided to move east to see if he’d like it.
“Well, I hope you’ll like it here,” said Miss Land.
“I think I’ll like it very much,” said Mr. Smalley.
Miss Land watched him leave. She shivered briefly as a cold wind from the opened door laced across her cheek. She crossed her arms and rubbed at them with her hands. Cold, she thought as she watched Mr. Smalley walk quickly across the square to his car.
She stood there until he’d read the letters and driven away. Then she turned for her desk. Well, I hope you and your family will like it here, her question re-phrased itself in her mind. She would have found out about his wife and children if she’d asked him that.
Miss Land went to her work with great efficiency. What difference, she thought, did that make to her?
It was the following Monday that she found out about Mr. Smalley.
She was having her coffee and cruller at Meldick’s when Mr. Cirucci who owned the square grocery store came in.
They said good morning and Mr. Cirucci sat down on the stool beside Miss Land.
“See we got us a celebrity,” said Mr. Cirucci after the topics of weather, business and mail had been disposed of.
“Oh?” said Miss Land. The coffee had steamed up her rimless glasses and she was rubbing at the lenses with a fresh Kleenex.
“Mr. Smalley,” said Mr. Cirucci. “He’s a writer.”
“Is that so?” said Miss Land, enjoying the mild illicitness of already knowing.
“Yes ma’am,” said Mr. Cirucci. “He writes books. History stories.”
“Oh. How nice.” Miss Land was mentally watching Mr. Smalley walk across the square to his funny little Volkswagen.
Then the question occurred to her and she legitimized her nervous swallow with a sip of coffee. How could she phrase it?
“Yes, ma’am. He lives over on Brookhaven Road. Rents Miz Salinger’s place.”
“Oh. Yes,” said Miss Land, nodding. That was a small house.
“He—has no children then,” she heard herself saying.
“He’s not even married,” said Mr. Cirucci, not noticing the color in Miss Land’s cheeks.
He only heard her say, quite faintly, “Oh.”
She saw his car turn the corner and her half-full cup clinked down loudly in the stillness of the candy store. Mr. Meldick looked up from his newspaper. He saw Miss Land fumbling in her handbag.
“Somethin’ wrong?” he asked.
“No, I just have so much work to do,” Miss Land said. “I really shouldn’t have snuck out this morning. It’s a bad habit, I know, but then—”
She cut herself short and put two dimes on the counter for the coffee and untouched cruller. She turned away before Mr. Meldick could see the flush across her cheeks.
“Bye now,” said Mr. Meldick.
“Good—” Miss Land cleared her throat hastily. “Goodbye Mr. Meldick,” she said as she started for the door.
Cold wind whipped the hem of her coat around her thin legs as she hurried across the square. She made the post office just as Mr. Smalley came walking up.
<
br /> “Tie,” said Mr. Smalley.
Miss Land smiled nervously, then nodded as he opened the door for her.
“Certainly is cold,” she said.
“North Polish,” he answered. She didn’t hear exactly what he’d said but she smiled anyway.
When she drew up the general delivery window her windblown hair was back in place.
“Well, now,” she said and she drew out the packet of letters from the S shelf.
“I don’t believe I know your name,” said Mr. Smalley.
“Miss Land,” she said as she looked through the letters. She was pleased at how casual she sounded.
“Miss Land,” he repeated.
Two letters slipped from her fingers and fluttered palely to the floor. “Oh, dear,” she murmured, hoping that her face felt warm because of the oil stove’s buffeting heat. She bent down quickly and picked up the letters.
“There,” she said, putting his mail on the counter.
“Well,” he said, “I really hit the jackpot today.”
“You certainly did,” she said, smiling.
He smiled back at her and turned away. She stood there watching him walk across the square, examining his mail. When he’d driven away she got a Kleenex from her handbag and patted at the dew of sweat across her forehead. The jackpot, she thought with a smile.
He was a writer, all right.
He corresponded with writers in Los Angeles, New York City, Milwaukee, Phoenix and his agent in New Jersey. He subscribed to The Saturday Review, The National Geographic Magazine, The New Yorker and The Manchester Guardian. He was a member of the Book Find Club. He typed all his mail and sent most of it in envelopes except for an occasional postcard. As far as could be judged by handwriting and return addresses he received no letters from women.
This Miss Land had discovered in several weeks of observation.
She sat at her desk looking at the wall clock. It was nine-thirty and Mr. Smalley was late. Miss Land fingered at the magazine on her desk. It had been forwarded from Los Angeles. There was three cents due on it. That meant she would have a few moments talk with Mr. Smalley.
She was stroking the magazine distractedly when the doorbell tinkled. Her fingers jerked away and she stood up quickly, smiling.
Mrs. Barbara sent a package to her brother in Naples.
Mr. Smalley didn’t come in all that day. Miss Land kept the office open an extra half hour because she had some special work to finish up. Then her mother phoned and Miss Land went home to a restless evening.
“I was wondering what happened to you,” she said impulsively when Mr. Smalley came in the next morning.
“Oh.” He smiled. “I had to drive into the city,” he said.
“Oh.” She handed him his mail. “There’s three cents due on this,” she said.
“Okay.” He fumbled in the right-hand pocket of his trousers.
“Have you given your change of address to them?” Miss Land asked, looking at the dark tangle of hair as he picked at the mound of change in his palm.
His eyes met hers. “Yes, I did,” he said. “I guess I’d better send them another notice.”
“It might be a good idea,” said Miss Land.
After Mr. Smalley was gone she sat at her desk staring at the clock. After a few minutes she became conscious of the fact that she was trembling and she pressed her thin lips together and looked angry.
I must be getting a chill, Miss Land said to herself and proceeded to identify herself with her work.
On Wednesday it poured. Mr. Smalley didn’t get in until almost one. Miss Land was deliberating whether she should have her lunch in the candy store instead of getting soaked walking home when Mr. Smalley came in, his hat and raincoat darkly wet.
“You’re late,” said Miss Land, her hands unconsciously smoothing at the skirt of her dress.
“Couldn’t get my darn car started,” he said. “No garage where I am.”
“Oh,” she said. She gave him his mail. “Don’t catch cold now,” she said. Her heartbeat jumped she was so startled at her own forwardness.
“I won’t, Miss Land.” He looked up from his letters. “That’s a nice dress,” he said and left.
Miss Land stood watching his tall form run across the rain-swept square. Once he slipped and almost fell and Miss Land gasped, a sudden constriction binding her chest. Mr. Smalley righted himself and made the car safely.
“You’d better be more careful there, my lad,” Miss Land said lightly to herself.
She shuddered a little. No, she thought. It was all she allowed herself. She got her coat and umbrella and started out, then went back and phoned her mother and said it was raining too hard, she was going to have lunch at Mr. Meldick’s candy store.
Which was empty. Miss Land carried her bowl of tomato soup, her chopped egg on wheat bread sandwich and her cup of coffee to one of the wooden booths.
She sat there eating slowly, listening to the drumming of rain on the roof, the splattering of it outside the door. The soup tasted delicious as it trickled warmly down her throat. The sandwich was also delicious. Miss Land kept looking down at her dress.
When she’d finished eating, she sat running one finger around the smooth warm lip of the empty cup. I love coffee, I love tea, the rhyme appeared. She blinked away the remainder of it and took in a deep breath. She looked around the dimly lit candy store. It was peaceful, she thought, very peaceful here in Vera Beach.
She looked at the jukebox a long time and glanced at Mr. Meldick a long time before she struggled out of the booth and walked toward it.
“Somethin’?” Mr. Meldick asked, looking up.
“Just thought I’d have a little music,” she replied.
She stood in front of the jukebox’s Technicolor bubbling and looked at the titles. There were a lot of love songs. She put a nickel in and the little green SELECT light went on. A little cheerful music, she thought, something relaxing. Her finger wavered over the buttons, then, abruptly, pushed one in.
Before she’d reached the booth the music started.
“If I loved you,” sang the woman, “Time and again I would try to say.”
Miss Land sat looking at her hands on the table, glancing at Mr. Meldick. When she saw that he wasn’t paying attention to anything but his Herald-Tribune crossword puzzle she relaxed. She leaned her heart back against the booth and closed her eyes. Warm breath trickled out between her lips.
The woman sang, “Wanting to tell you but afraid and shy.”
The next day Mr. Smalley didn’t speak or smile and when Miss Land dropped one of his letters she heard him tap his fingers impatiently on the window counter. When she handed him his mail he turned immediately and left without a word.
Miss Land stood motionless watching him walk across the square. Even after he’d driven away she stared at the place where his car had been, a look of hurt confusion on her face.
She began to recount the sequence of actions between his entrance and his exit. She went over every step, watching herself as she smiled and said good morning and got his mail and handed it to him. Was it because she’d dropped one of his letters? But he’d looked glum from the moment he’d entered.
At five-thirty when she locked up the office she still didn’t understand.
A little after seven she got up from the supper table and went for a walk while her mother did the dishes. She walked for several miles along the dark, windy roads listening to the far-off explosions of the surf. She looked at every street sign when she passed it even though she knew that Brookhaven Road was far away from there.
At nine o’clock her mother went to bed and Miss Land sat watching television. It was a comedy program but Miss Land saw only veiled sorrow in it and she turned it off.
It was after eleven when she sat up in bed and stared around her small, dark room. She should take a sedative, she thought. Maybe she’d had too much coffee that day. She decided it was that.
She turned on the table lamp and sat on the e
dge of the bed, her feet resting in a pool of light. She turned on the radio very softly and listened to Andre Kostelanetz’s orchestra playing “Lotus Land.” She stared down at her white kneecaps and at the pale curl of her toes on the rug. There were veins like blue cords in her ankles. She thought—In a month and a day I’ll be thirty-seven.
She took the book off her bedside table and opened it. It was a Modern Library anthology of poetry she’d bought one day on a trip to the city. Her eyes moved idly down the index of first lines near the back of the book until she came to a particular line. Then she turned to page 875. The poem was written by e.e. cummings.
Always before your voice my soul
half beautiful and wholly droll
is as some smooth and awkward foal
She read the entire poem twice and read aloud the lines:
“But my heart smote in trembling thirds
of anguish quivers to your words
as a—”
“Jessica?”
The book thumped shut loudly. Miss Land looked up and saw her mother standing in the hallway like a bulky ghost, her head alive with curlers.
“Are you sick?” her mother asked.
“No, Mother. Go back to bed.”
“You’ve been drinking too much coffee again,” said her mother.
“I’m all right, Mother,” said Miss Land.
“You shouldn’t drink so much coffee,” said her mother. “I always said that.”
“Yes, Mother.”
Later, lying in the warm center of her bed, Miss Land stared at the ceiling, her shallow chest almost still. There was a tight pain around her heart. Gas, she thought.
Suddenly, with a grunt, she brushed at something crawling down her cheek. And when she discovered it wasn’t an insect she rubbed her wet fingers against the spread until the tips felt warm. This is nonsense! she told herself.
The next morning Mr. Smalley smiled at her. Miss Land felt very sleepy around noon and took a refreshing nap during her lunch hour.
It was May and Mr. Smalley had dropped a postcard into the box under the stamp and postal order window. Miss Land had it in front of her on the desk. Her heartbeat staggered as she read it again.
Offbeat: Uncollected Stories Page 14