"And that’s it?" Father would ask.
"Yes, that’s it," I’d say. Father would eye me suspiciously, but deep down he knew I’d tell him if something seemed truly wrong.
And that’s how the days went until one day Mother began her writing, then, minutes later, stopped. I heard this loud wail from that very desk over there, and I ran from the kitchen only to see Mother hunched over the desk, crying loudly. I asked what was the matter, but she kept on crying and wailing, and she got up and ran to her bedroom, where she locked the door and refused to let me in. I looked at the desk, at the ink bottle she’d knocked over, the pen that she dropped onto the floor, and the paper upon which she’d been writing. I picked up the paper and read it. The handwriting looked so familiar, but it wasn’t my mother’s. After reading it over and over, I finally realized whose it was. It was Grandmother’s handwriting.
The letter was like the others, wishing her well, wishing Father and I well, informing us how she and Grandfather were somewhere but couldn’t say where, and so on. But it ended with this one line, and I’ll never forget it: "Robert will say Hello when he can."
Robert was my father’s name.
Just an hour later, this rickety old car pulled up to the house, and two men from the mining company stepped out and knocked on our door.
Machinery accident was what they called it. A coal car ran right over my father when he wasn’t looking. It happened so fast, they said. There was nothing we could do, they said. And then they left, and we never heard from the company again. Families of some of the miners pooled their money to get Father a coffin and a burial at a cemetery not too far from here. They were able to give my mother and I some food to help us for a bit, but then we were on our own.
That summer was the worst of my life. Mother had no time to grieve. Autumn and winter were coming soon, and we had little money for coal or food. We could chop down trees for firewood, but that would only go so far, and there were only so many lemons one could eat. We gathered lemons to sell at markets in Pittston, we tried to sell any furnishing we didn’t need. Chairs, small tables, anything. Mother spent every day walking through the house appraising every book, chair, or fork for what could be sold. In two months her hair turned from brown to gray, her body went from tall and firm to hunched and frail. Like the orchard, she wilted before my eyes, and when everything that we could sell was sold, and when the trees were picked bare of lemons, she sat in the living room, sometimes for hours, wondering what to do next, until one Sunday morning she walked to her desk and started writing again.
Hours and hours, sheet of paper after sheet of paper. When she completed one letter, she took an envelope and, as if in a trance, addressed it, slipped in the letter, then closed it with red wax and marked the wax with the stamp that bore the first letter of her name: L for Laura. She took me by the hand to the post office the next day, this large stack of letters in her hands, and mailed them. To where, I had no clue, but in the coming weeks, envelopes began to arrive in our mailbox, parcels arrived on our porch. And Mother continued writing day after day, and the postman got used to collecting handfuls of letters and leaving boxes by the door.
Does any of this sound familiar, Edward?
Mother would open the mail and pull out carefully wrapped cash, sometimes just a few dollars, sometimes a few hundred, sometimes even gold coins. The parcels would be filled with food or paper and ink. Parcels and letters from all over the country. Sometimes people would drop by, and Mother would send me outside to play, and the people would leave with freshly written letters in their hands and tears in their eyes.
And I noticed how the light seemed even darker, how the shadows among the trees seemed ever thicker, more alive. At night I thought I saw things looking through the window, dark figures that floated silently on the other side of the glass, and I’d run to Mother’s bedroom and hide under the covers, and she’d say so quietly to me, "There’s nothing out there or in here that wants to hurt you, Darling. Nothing at all."
By the time I was sixteen, I started having strange spells. I’d be sitting at the kitchen table or in the sitting room, and an hour would flash by in a second. Sometimes I’d find myself sitting in another part of the house, or sometimes I’d see a piece of paper in my lap, a pen in one hand, and strange scrawl all over the paper. It only happened at home or in the orchard. A moment of lucidity followed by a quick flash, and the sun would be lower, or the clear sky would suddenly have clouds, or the late afternoon would give way to a dark twilight. I kept it quiet as long as I could. I didn’t want Mother to send me to a doctor or to Blackbridge, but one day sitting on the porch, the clear morning suddenly transformed into an afternoon thunderstorm, and Mother was sitting beside me, looking at me and smiling.
And all she said was: "They’re reaching out to you, Percy."
After dinner that evening, Mother said to me: " Do you know how water flows to its lowest point? How rivers flow to the ocean? Do you know how certain places in the floor seem to collect more dust than others, Percy? Gravity, indentations, air currents. Things we can’t see pulling other things to one place. That’s the orchard, Darling. All these things we can’t see, all these voices we can’t hear, sometimes they just float all around the world, all through the universe, and they find resting places. Sometimes the resting places are filled with noise, or people too busy to notice, or no people at all. But sometimes the resting places are just right. Quiet, peaceful, with just enough people to scoop them up like lemons in a basket. This whole orchard, Percy, it brings things here, things that frighten some people. The orchard’s an indentation in our universe, a fold in God’s blanket, and if you listen with open ears, if you look with open eyes, you’ll see them."
And I asked Mother, "See what?"
And she said, "The dead, Honey. The dead."
And Mother took me by the hands and smiled and said, "And they need to speak. Sometimes when we leave the world, we never really say 'Good-bye', not like we should. Sometimes that need to say 'Good-bye' becomes so overwhelming it becomes an obsession. I don’t know what it’s like over there, where Grandmother and Grandfather and where . . . your father . . . are, but I know it’s not like here. I know days there are like seconds here and years here are like minutes there. I know that they see and hear things that couldn’t be described and maybe shouldn’t. And I know that the tether that kept us close to them in life keeps us close in death, but it becomes stretched and strained, so they speak to us however they can. Voices in the night. Raps on the window. Letters in the mail."
"At first," Mother said, "I was like you are now, scared that hours were disappearing, terrified to find a piece of paper in my hands with odd words and odd handwriting, but then I listened. Sat and listened. Like I told your father once, I let the silence wash over me like water in a bathtub, and I found myself awakening instead of simply falling into trances. They’d guide my hand and whisper in my ear, and I’d write their words. I became their messenger, Percy. A messenger from one world to another."
Mother showed me what to do. How to sit, how to listen, how to walk through the orchard and not run from the shadows as they peered from behind the lemon trees. How to be an antenna, to draw in the signals, to put pen to paper or finger to key and begin writing or typing. At first it was gibberish, but then one night in early October, a day after my eighteenth birthday, I picked up that fountain pen over there, unscrewed the cap, and touched the nib to paper. Fifteen minutes later, I’d written a letter in flowing cursive to a woman’s husband in Iowa, I’d written an address on an envelope, and I’d sealed the flap with wax and Mother’s stamp. My first.
That’s how we made our living, Mother and I sitting at our desks, listening, writing, mailing. Years. Mother died twenty years later in her bedroom. We knew it was coming, you know. Her constant aches and pains swallowing her up like the moon swallowing the sun, but she said 'Good-bye'. We both said 'Good-bye'. I held her
hand in the end as she fell asleep, and all around us the shadows watched quietly . . . and then it was just I.
Or, I should say, the shadows and I.
***
Persephone took a sip of coffee and smiled at Edward. "Messengers are so unappreciated, Edward," she said. "These days? These days people don’t bother to thank those who trudge through the rain and snow just to bring that small Thank You or I Love You from across the miles. People want to cut out the middle man and send lazy electronic impulses over computers. And they wonder why they feel so alone, Edward. They wonder why they find themselves on their deathbeds trying to find old letters that no one sent or cards that no one bothered to buy for them. They move on to the next world feeling lonely and unloved. Then they ask me to send one short note, one brief reminder to the living that they once existed, loved, and cared. Such a sad irony, don’t you think? Just a sad irony."
She set the cup on the coffee table, then sat back, resting her hands in her lap. "We’re a dying breed, Edward. The world won’t realize how much they’ll miss us until we’re all gone."
He looked down at the coat in his lap, the letter peeking out from one of the pockets, the now-empty cup in his hands, but said nothing.
"Take your time," Persephone said quietly. "Have some more coffee. I made enough."
V. The Coldest Christmas
"My parents," he said. "You contacted my parents."
She shook her head. "You misunderstand, Edward. I can’t contact them. It’s a one-way street, like getting a letter or a postcard without a return address. They speak through me, or, through my hands. I write what they tell me to, they give me the address—"
"If they know my address, why did they ask me questions about my life in my letter?" he asked.
"Did they ask you questions?" Persephone asked. "As I mentioned, I really can’t remember all of the specific letters. There are just so many of them. Sometimes I even have the letter sealed and addressed by the time I know I’ve actually written one. And that’s fine by me. I don’t need to know others’ dirty laundry. But my mother didn’t mind keeping track of those things when we were at our most desperate, I must say."
"But my address—"
"Mother and I thought about that quite a bit. If they know where someone lives, why not just pay a visit? A good question, but we could only come up with one answer. Maybe they can feel where you are, maybe they can sense it, and if they work hard enough, they can even see it. I don’t know if all the letters I send out are correctly addressed, to tell you the truth, Edward, but then again it’s not the radio’s job to determine the quality of the programming, just as long as it can tune it in."
"Jesus," he whispered.
"I know," she said. "Sounds insane, but that’s how it is. It’s how it’s been since my mother started doing it as a child."
"And I’m the first who tracked you down?"
"Oh, well, I never figured I’d be sending a letter to my mail carrier, but you’re not the only one who knows."
"The money. When your father died—"
Mother sent requests to the . . . wealthier recipients. You’d be surprised how thankful people can be for that final Good-bye. They can be very thankful." Eddie sighed and pushed the letter into the coat pocket. "If you don’t mind me asking," she said, "What did your parents ask?"
"How my life was," he said quietly. "They wanted to know about my"—he laughed—"adventures."
"Why’s that funny?" Persephone asked.
"Funny?" he said. "It’s funny because my adventures consist of waking up in a tiny apartment, eating bagels and coffee for breakfast, getting up before the sun rises not to hit the high seas or to tackle a mountain peak but to drive to Pittston to load up a truck with trays of mail. My adventures are driving around the same place where I grew up, checking my bank accounts every week to see if I’m going to make it to the end of the month, watching the same television shows, and falling asleep in the same bed. My adventures—Jesus, I can’t get over that word—my adventures caused a girlfriend to walk out on me, has added more than a few pounds to my gut, and has pretty much drained all my dreams from my mind. All of them. Oh, I’m sure my folks are really anxious to hear about my adventures."
Eddie stared at the coffee pot, lamp light glistening off its surface. "I feel really worn out," he said. "I feel that it’s all over. Forget about adventures. Forget about marriage. All I have now is all I’ll ever have."
"You’re a young man," she said.
"I feel two steps from the open grave."
"A stupid thing to say."
"That so?" he said. "I’m only a mailman. That’s it. That’s all I am."
"Is that such a bad thing?" she asked. "Would you rather be a banker, shuffling papers and stealing investors’ money? Would you rather be a captain of industry, paying your workers the lowest wages while you jet off with mistress after mistress? You and I, Edward, this is what we are. I’ve accepted it."
"You sit here all day—"
"All day?" she said. "What makes you think I’m here every day or all day? I do get out of the house, you know. I do travel. Just because you don’t see it when you’re not making mail runs doesn’t mean I’m not doing it. I vacation twice a year. Nothing special, mind you, but I do enjoy my vacations. You, Edward, are quite fortunate. No family commitments, no house or property to care for, and a steady job. Maybe not a high-paying one, but I’m sure you could piece together enough money for a trip somewhere. I recommend train travel. A much better way to see the country. Much less stress."
"Let me guess," he said, "you hop the train behind your house."
"Oh, that thing?" she said. I can’t make heads or tails of that. I thought it was one of those fabled ghost trains. Everyone has a ghost train story, Edward, but I don’t. I know that line shut down in the sixties, but like clockwork that train flies through there at the same time every two weeks. Seems to come out of a tunnel that we can’t see, then goes back into another one. And it’s a real train, Edward. It crushes weeds and flattens pennies. Never stops here, though I do wonder where it does stop. Interesting all the things we can see when our senses aren’t cluttered, isn’t it?"
Eddie stood up. "I don’t know if I’m insane or if you’re insane."
"We both are," she said. "At least a little. Who isn’t?" She stood up, placed her hands behind her back. "All things seem crazy when you first encounter them, Edward. And then they just become part of everyday life, as normal as the clouds in the sky or the changing of the trees in autumn."
He turned and walked to the door, Persephone following. He took out the small pad and pen that he kept in his coat pocket and wrote his address and phone number on it. "If you have any other letters to my address, could you let me know?" he asked.
She took the paper and folded it. "Usually they only make contact once, Edward, but I’ll hold onto it." Behind her, shadow bodies shifted on the wall, arms and legs and torsos wispy and ragged like torn cloth. He stared, wide eyed. Persephone turned and looked at the wall. "Sometimes they get impatient, but they can wait," she said. "They’ve got their schedule, and I’ve got mine." She turned to him again with her dark eyes. "Just everyday life, Edward. Nothing more."
He opened the door, backed onto the porch, then stopped. "I think," he said, "you’re the only person I’ve met who didn’t think I was a failure."
"I don’t think anyone sees you as a failure, Edward."
"My parents might disagree."
"Your parents loved you enough to break though. They loved you enough to let you know they still existed, that they were waiting for you. They’ll never see you as a failure. Never."
He took a deep breath, stepped off the porch, and walked to his car. As he opened the door, his head swimming with images of ghostly shadows on walls and tables, of hollow eyes glowing in windows, of nighttime trains crashing into and out of existence, of his tiny, empty a
partment, of his mother and father.
"Edward," she said. He looked up at Persephone standing in the doorway, her arms folded against the cold nightwinds. "Come by when you feel like talking. Maybe you can help me write a few letters someday."
He nodded.
"You’re not a failure, Edward. You’re not a waste of space on this planet. You mean something to somebody in this universe. You mean something to so many who need you. You’re a messenger. Don’t forget that." She backed into the cottage, waved, then closed the door. As the door locked, Edward stood in the swirling wind, his clouds of breath whisked into the dark spaces between the lemon trees.
***
Eddie sat on the small couch in his living room, his parents’ letter and his open address book on the coffee table. He’d been cradling his telephone in his lap for an hour, staring at the letter, at the address book. Nicole’s new phone number was at the bottom of the page. Since she left he’d spent hours looking at the number, wondering if he should call, wondering if the number was still active, wondering if, like she said, she still wanted to be his friend.
The night was late, but she was in Santa Fe, New Mexico, now. Or she was when she’d given him the number days after she left, a number she’d spoken through tears on the telephone, a number heard through the numbness in his ears.
He lifted the receiver, began dialing, then hung up. He sighed, then began dialing again. After a few rings, the connection was completed. "Hello?"
Eddie took a deep breath. It had been a year since he last heard her voice. "Nicole?" he said.
"Eddie?" Nicole shouted. "Hi, Eddie! I was kind of thinking about you the other day. I was just talking to a couple of friends, and I mentioned you in conversation."
Christmas in Culm: Three Stories Page 8