Paper With Some Ink

In this small tale of small kindnesses with large consequences, a young man finds that he is now responsible for delivering a letter that has come into his possession by sheer accident.

Paper With Some Ink

by Christina Muldoon

            The man woke up to a throbbing in his legs. Half asleep, he attempted to stretch, but couldn't. He had completely forgotten where he was, and for a moment thought that he was having some horrible dream in which he couldn’t move. He had been watching this post box for a while now and saw that no one deposited or picked up letters anymore. He didn't know if the postal service removed post boxes or what, but he'd make use out of a good thing while he could. He fought for hours to jimmy the door open, and he managed to line the inside with his cardboard and took the tape off of the letter slot for extra ventilation. It wasn’t much, but for now, it was home.

            He fumbled in the darkness and unlocked the door. Cool, clean air rushed into the post box as he got out to have a stretch. He first looked up and down the street, making sure that the coast was clear. However, even if there happened to be someone, he knew the odds were that he would be ignored. Obviously, to see a fully grown man climbing out of a decommissioned post box would be a shock to anyone, but quickly they would look straight ahead and pretend as if they hadn’t seen a thing. They always did. Such is the unwritten rule of society: treat the invisible as such. You don’t have to deal with what you don’t see.

            He gave his back and legs a good stretch, yawned and rubbed his eyes. He lingered outside of the box in the pre-dawn darkness, looking up and down the street yet again. Loneliness and silence radiated from him to either end of the block.

            He sighed and went back into his cramped, temporary home.

            Something hit his face and he woke with a start. It took him a moment to piece together that someone had put something through the mail slot. He fumbled open the door to the post box and looked around. He saw her, walking down the street. A woman with her hands hung at her sides, her shoulders slumped in either defeat or exhaustion, or both. He couldn’t be sure, but he thought she was crying. In his waking stupor, he remembered that this post box was out of commission. Why would she even put her envelope in… oh, hell! He suddenly remembered that he removed the tape for ventilation.

            He began to walk after her. He'd tell her to put it into another box since no one would be by to collect from this one. Good deed for the day done. But as soon as he started, he stopped. How was he going to explain to her that he was sleeping in the post box? He might scare her, and she would for sure report him. He stood on the sidewalk, fumbling with the envelope in his hands. Then he realized that he could put it in another post box. There was probably one a few streets over. But, oh… his little home. Leaving it alone was a risk. What if someone else came along and took it over? It wouldn't be the first time it had happened. He almost died the last time he fought over a spot. He didn't want to risk that again and he didn't want to leave something he had just found. It served his limited needs perfectly. Why gamble that away?

            He looked back down the street for the woman. She had turned a corner somewhere and was gone. It was only him again. Him and the envelope. It was a piece of paper with some ink on it. None of his business or concern. He needed to look after his home, to make sure that he had somewhere to sleep tonight. He needed to take care of himself. As he decided to crumple up the paper, the writing caught his eye. The woman wrote like a person who didn’t grow up texting or emailing. This writing was romantic and elegant. Personal. Much like his auntie’s. His auntie had been a teacher and only wrote in cursive. She told him that handwriting was a dying, simple art, and here in his hand, this envelope was hand written. This woman, whoever she was, had not let her art die.

            Oh, come on, he thought, don’t be stupid. It’s just a piece of paper with ink on it. But to someone else, it was more than that: it was a document filled with words, thoughts, memories and perhaps hopes that no one but the writer and reader would understand. Perhaps it was an apology. Or a plea for help. Or just simply a small gesture of nonsense words, reaching out in hope of escaping mutual loneliness. And though he hated how much his romanticizing was spinning out of control, he couldn’t help but think about how people so often wrote down what they felt they couldn’t say out loud. He flipped the envelope over. The recipient’s last name was the same as the woman who wrote it. Well, s**t, he thought, and let out a huge sigh that sounded a bit like a groan.

            He continued to stare at his involuntary burden. He fumbled a bit more with it. It didn’t have to be important to him. Just a paper with some ink. He sighed again, and turned back to his small home, locked it as securely as possible and set off to find another post box.

            Two streets over, there was one that was being emptied. He'd wait until the postman left though. No one would believe that a person like him had penmanship like this. He might get arrested for stealing someone's mail. S**t, he didn’t want that, despite the possibility of being able to sleep stretched out in a warm cell for a night or two. He waited until the postman went around the corner before he walked up to the post box. He opened the slot to drop it in, but looked again at his tiny charge. The more he thought about it, the more he saw the similarities between this woman’s writing and his aunt’s. It made him think of things he didn't like to think about. Things that used to make him happy, but now just made him sad. She wrote him letters all the time when he was little, his auntie. Even though they lived in the same small town. Letter writing was one of the kindest, most personal things you could do for someone in this world, she often said. It showed time, patience and effort. It showed how important you were to someone. A small labour of love. Then came that horrible day that her letters stopped. After that, for a few years he received mail--- notifications, flyers, and bills he couldn’t pay--- but never a letter. And never hand written.

            A lump formed in his throat at the thought of losing it to the post office. Things got lost in the mail all the time. Hell, this letter would have gotten lost if it hadn't been for where he was sleeping at the time. He had noticed before that the address was here in the city, and he kind of knew where. He didn't want to lose this to the post office. This piece of paper with ink on it was too special. For the woman who sent it, and he hoped for the person who was to receive it. But it was special to him too. With the letter in hand, he walked further into the city. He needed to find bus routes.

            He only had a bit of money on him. He was saving it up for a day when he felt like a cup of coffee or a bit of soup to warm him, but he spent it on a return ticket. He sat by himself on the bus. Though it was a busy time of day and crowded, no one wanted to sit next to him. He didn't mind though: the thought of his letterbox made him stretch out a little bit more, guilt free. He got off at a stop a few blocks from where the letter had to go. As he walked, his heart beat a little faster. He wanted to put it down to the incline of the hill, but he knew it was being somewhere that he was no longer invisible; he was now very... visible. But he kept going. Auntie always told him that some things were bigger than one’s self. No matter how true that was, he fear kept growing. He was in an older part of town. Rich people weren't tearing things down and building expensive monstrosities. Not yet, anyway. And thank God. If he was in a rich area, the police would have been called by now, and he’d be in handcuffs. But this area seemed kind of rough. Here, he might be able blend in a bit. He saw the house where the letter needed to go. Now, all he had to do was--- oh s**t, he thought, how am I going to deliver it? What if it was one of those communal letterboxes, where you need a special key to get into it? Or a mail slot is in the door, and someone is home when I put it through the slot?

            He began to panic. What was he doing here? Anxiety and fear hit him like a lead brick that had embedded in his chest. He couldn’t breathe. He spun round, trying to see if people were already staring at him through their curtains and on the phone, describing him to dispatchers. The panic made him think of his post box--- his home!--- that he had left unattended. Someone might be there, someone who wasn't afraid to hurt him for what they found and he'd abandoned. He had spent most of his money. It took him about three weeks to find that change, and he spent it all on a damn bus ticket. He was on a street where the invisible never went. He was in the middle of a panic attack on a strange street, and for what? This paper isn't from his auntie; it’s from some woman he doesn't know to another person that he’ll never meet. All this foolishness over some sentimentality? Screw that piece of paper with the damn ink! He began to look up and down the street as if at any moment, he would become swarmed with police. He felt his heartbeat in his fist as he crumpled the small, folded paper.

            He was waiting for the sirens and flashing lights.

            His head thrummed.

            His breath refused to pass his throat and go into his lungs.

            The thrum turned into a rhythmic clunking sound. Clunk. Clunk. Clunk. He opened his eyes and saw spots. Clunk. Clunk. Clunk. An old, rusted car passed him and pulled into the driveway of the house where the letter had to go. The clunking stopped, and a young woman got out. She struggled with the jammed car seat, trying to get it to go forward while telling someone to be patient. Finally, after putting her whole body into it, the seat gave way and out came a small child. His clothes looked new. Her's did not. He looked like he didn't have a care in the world; she looked like she carried them all for the both of them. As the small boy ran around the yard, she closed the door and went round to the trunk. She tried to open it, but it was stuck. Frustrated, she kicked it. The latch gave over and opened, only for her groceries to fall out. In that moment, she had the same look as the woman who wrote the letter: exhausted and defeated.

            He didn’t even register that his panic was gone. He just knew. Somethings are bigger than the individual. Without hesitation, letter in hand, he crossed the street and was picking up oranges. The young woman stood straight up with a look somewhere between shock and fear.

            “Can I help you with your bags, Miss?”

            She was quiet for a moment, unsure of what to say. Then---

            “No. Thank you. My dad--- and my husband--- are inside. They can help me. Thank you, though.”

            He doubted that there was anyone inside, but he understood that she was nervous. You and me both, he thought to himself. They stared at each other awkwardly, her, silent with fear, him, silent for fear but also guilt from having scared her. They stood in silence until something caught her eye.

            “Carter!”

            The young woman took off after her son, who was already half way down the street. The man let out his breath, took out the letter, and smiled tenderly at it. Time to say goodbye.

            By the time she had turned back around, the man was gone. She looked up and down the street just to make sure. And once she hustled her son and the groceries inside, she firmly locked the door behind her. She was sorting through the bags, cursing under her breathe. He had probably taken something while her back was turned… and then she spotted it.

            A little paper with some ink.

            Ink in the shape of her mother’s writing.

            Hands shaking, she opened the envelope she didn’t ask for but had wanted for some time now. She cried as she read the letter over and over, soaking in the words. She continued to cry when, for the first time in a long time, she phoned her mother. They talked about everything and nothing, and the strange way the letter had come into her possession. Her mother assured her that she had put the letter in a post box. The daughter assured her that it wasn’t a postman who had delivered it.

            That night, the mother returned to the post box, intent on finding some sort of clue as to who delivered the letter. The streets were abandoned, except for a homeless man carrying his cardboard up the street. But when she got to the box, she found that the mail slot had been sealed with tape, and the box was locked shut, as if no one had ever been there.

Reviews

[emmajoygreen]

This superbly written story should have far, far more than views. Time is not merely for reading a few words but the others that take time, imagination, care and quite often, sweat.

Start to finish, your words are set so well, thoughts coherent; actions slow, sensitive but ultimately generous and entirely unselfish. There is more than story here but a show of morals, ethics - sadly rare these days; an example of who or might and can be a real live stoic and saint. The coming and going of the hero, details of woman un-smart but the child cared for.. a moment in time's description and that end.. make me gasp then smile alongside three or four tears.