| 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 |
"The Envelope" (the fifty-eighth ACWclub monthly writing contest) |
12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 |
Assignment: Write a story or poem using the following title: "The Envelope" 2500 words or less. Deadline: Midnight (EDT), June 15, 2006 All entries are the property of the authors and cannot be copied or reprinted without their consent. |
| The Envelope By STAR8955@aol.com (Entry #8) |
| ~Winning Entry~ |
| 5/24 I have a dream about a
bear. In my dream I am wearing my favorite childhood dress, a dainty,
red-dotted Swiss with a pinafore reminiscent of Alice in Wonderland. I can
still feel the stiffly starched material on my palms; the way the lace collar
itches. Mother takes me downtown to get my picture taken, hamburgers and
vanilla milkshakes for lunch. As a reward for "smilin' pretty", she gives me a
small teddy bear from a sidewalk vendor. I promptly name him Patches and skip
the entire way back to the apartment. When Barbara and I were little we automatically took on a certain indelible glow amongst our classmates and the other neighborhood children, a glow that made mothers give us trays of lasagna and okay weekend-long sleepovers, a blinking highway motel sign that flashed, "Troubled...Troubled...Troubled...". But that afternoon she was good. She laughed at my knock-knock jokes. She combed my hair into pigtails looped with scarlet ribbons. She held my hand as we crossed the street. I awake from my dream with a start. The Oriental man in the business suit next to me looks curiously. I stare back in confusion, moistening my dry lips, then look around. I wonder where Mother is, if he has seen her. In an instant I grow panicked, and unbuckle my seat belt to get up and look for her. She can't be left alone, not in her condition. Maybe she's gone to the dining car to grab a sandwich. I feel beads of clammy sweat forming on my upper lip as I scramble to my feet. My stomach is a falling elevator, my head a crashing kaleidoscope of red, then black, then red. Then I sit down because I remember. 5/25 Kevin is waiting when the Amtrak lurches to a stop in the morning. I silently curse my sister. Kevin is the kind of person I go out of my way to avoid in life, the kind who gave wedgies in high school, who jumps up and screams for touchdowns and throws people into the pool. He flashes a toothy grin and asks me, "how ya been, hon?" His eyes rove my body with a practiced glance, as if examining a thoroughbred pony. He smiles and nods and snaps his gum a mile a minute. I am grateful for the time it takes to claim my luggage, lest he notice my hands trembling. The dream has shaken me, and Kevin Mulligan is simply too conventional for such things. He is a frat boy, slightly softened by age, who likes red meat and cold beer. He is the head football coach at the local high school, his alma mater, where he still receives the same brand of hero worship and notoriety he enjoyed throughout his youth. Once the narrow range of these stiff banalities is covered during the car ride home I feel the fog of sticky silence creep between us. He compensates by fiddling with the radio. I chew my fingernails and silently gaze out the window. After what seems an eternity, the SUV swings onto picket-fenced, tree-lined Lilliput Lane. There is a gaggle of little girls skipping rope behind the fanned rainbow of a garden sprinkler, while a few young boys contend for victory points in a game of lawn football. Kevin slows the car to a crawl and watches the play as it unfurls. I finally find an outlet for conversation. "Cute little k--" "Atta boy, Matty!" he shouts, teeth displayed, thumb jerked upwards. Matty, a sharp-featured little redhead, has just immolated a fellow player, who is now curled into the fetal position, bawling. He returns the thumbs-up eagerly, screeching, "thanks, Big Kev!" Big Kev flips his chin and presses the gas, rolling forward. "My buddy Rog's kid," he explains. "Oh." I see the back of Barbara's cool blonde pageboy through the curtained picture window, back and forth as she furiously attacks the living room carpet with her vaccuum. She wears a stiffly starched pink blouse. Kevin looks at her and frowns. "I just hope this funeral business doesn’t freak her out too much." His warped sense of gallantry irritates me. Mother is nothing but a nuisance to these people. My sister the ostrich hasn't visited in nearly six months. Her sporadic calls are made out of guilt rather than concern. Even then our conversations never venture far from rudimentary. Lauren and Taylor both made the Honor Roll! Are you seeing anyone? You've got to put yourself out there more. What? Mom had another episode? Hold on, sis, I'm going to have to call you back. My brownies are burning. Kev and Barb have renovated, and Chateau Mulligan is the exterior shot of a sitcom, peppered with perfectly pruned rose bushes and gilded lilies. The spotless living room resembles a spread from Good Housekeeping, a luscious sea of peaches and cream, trimmed with gold throw pillows and a lacquered coffee table of cherry wood. Framed family photos adorn the flowery walls and white wicker end tables, documenting various family vacations and the chronology of my nieces' lives. She makes it a point to engulf me, to tell me how thin I look, to keep up appearances. She leaves traces of a light floral fragrance swirled with freshly baked bread. There is so much I need to say, but somehow the words are lodged in my throat, squashed and wadded up like paper. 5/26 Dinner tonight is roasted chicken, baked potato, and broccoli. I hover awkwardly at the edge of the kitchen, awaiting instruction on where to sit. There isn't any mention of Mother during grace, which comes complete with closed eyes and clasped hands. Lauren, my elder niece, is blonde and beautiful and snide. She dons a blue and white cheerleading uniform and a smirk slicked with gloss. "So, like, after dinner I can go to the game, right Mom?" she demands. "Mom?" "We'll see," Barbara replies blandly. "This is so not fair! If I don't go Joelle will get to lead the cheers. Why do I even have to be here?" she glares at me pointedly and mutters darkly, "this sucks." "Watch your mouth." Kevin has remained silent until this point, shoveling his meal in. I feel embarrassment at the almost-certain knowledge that my presence has been fodder for a Family Discussion. After that I eat quietly but try to stay involved, which means appropriately reacting to Kevin's recount of the neighborhood football game, Lauren's catty remarks about her cheerleading teammates, and Taylor's choppy rendition of "O Susanna" on the piano. In the end, I am utterly exhausted and want the procession to process. I am used to eating alone. Mother always spent the night in her room, cutting out pictures of eyes from my old Teen Beat magazines. "To protect us, to watch over," she'd explain. "So they don't come to get us." I never ascertained exactly who "they" were, she never said. Probably the demons in her head, manifested visions that had clawed their way out of our father's retreating back, or the empty bottle of sugar pills. 5/27 There is another dream. In this dream Barbara is in the sixth grade, clad in her maroon and white Pom-Pom Squad uniform. Mother is gushing about her "little beauty" to our neighbors, Mr. and Mrs. Fetterman. Their daughter Kathy is on the squad with Barbara. They both giggle madly, their hair slicked back into buns fastened with bobby pins. The Fettermans have come over to take pictures before we all go to watch the game together. Mr. Fetterman is balanced on one knee as Barbara grins into the camera, proud, shiny, gleaming. Mother shepherds us out the front door, beaming, brimming with pride. It is a good day, and on the way home we slurp Popsicles purchased from the ice cream truck, relaxed, content, and happy. 5/28 Scores of people who know Kevin and Barbara come for Mother's funeral. I meet Midge Bentley, president of the P.T.A., and her husband Todd, who has a fake tan and a real estate business. Mother looks radiant, and her wrists are concealed by a lacy white gown. Her honeycomb hair is fanned out across a satiny, snow-white pillow. Her wide-set eyes are no longer wild and confused, but sleeping serenely. She is safely in the ground now. The repast is finished, chicken or beef at swanky La Luna. Barbara and Kevin mingle, as do Lauren and Taylor. Father Roberts approaches me as I eat alone. He is white-haired and jowly and reminds me of Santa Claus. There is something comforting about him. "Your eyes are haunted, you know," he says. I wonder if he is referring to the dreams. How could he know? "What do you mean?" I ask. "With sadness. Such a heavy, troubled burden on your soul. Don’t be sad for your mother, child. She's in the Lord's hands now, and despite her choices, she's still one of God's children." "I'm not sad for my mother's death, Father. I'm sad--I'm sad for her life." The floodgates break and I am inundated by tears and snot. People look curiously as I bury my face in my hands and cry for all I am worth, for Mother, poor, abandoned, Mother, and for Barbara, who sweeps over and wraps her arms around me, even though through my bleary eyes I can see her smile apologetically to the room. 5/29 Kevin and Barbara babble about Ed Winemiller's lawn as they drive me back to the train station. Lauren and Taylor argue over who used the hairbrush last. I gaze out the window, distant and dreaming. I am thinking of Mother, wondering if she is watching me, watching this scene. I know I will probably not see Barbara or her family for quite some time. So I remove a crumpled envelope from my pocket, an envelope that contains my ticket back to life, only now it is a life without Mother. I watch them as the train departs, sticking my hand out the window, feeling nothing but wind on my empty, outstretched palm. Then I lean my head against the glass and close my eyes. Now I sleep to dream. |
| The Envelope By lee10@host365.com (Entry #15) |
| ~Runner Up~ |
| Harry was whistling in the shower.
The day was warm, there was a sense of spring in the air and he felt good. He
cleaned his teeth, then drew a smiley face in the steam on the mirror above the
sink. He couldn’t remember when he’d last felt this cheerful.
His wife, Janice entered the bathroom. “Why are you making that god-awful row at this time of the morning?” she grinned and grabbing a wet flannel, she slapped it across his bare backside. “Get out, woman!” he laughed, “and leave me in peace.” Janice grabbed the damp towels from the floor and headed for the door. “I’ll deal with you later,” Harry shouted after her, “just as soon as you’ve sorted out the washing, cleaned the house and made my breakfast.” He started to whistle again, glad it was not a workday. The delicious smell of bacon cooking flooded the house as he was combing his hair, tempting him to rush. He smiled at his reflection. It’s going to be a good day, he thought. He passed his son’s bedroom on the way downstairs. The door was firmly shut. The boy, a typical teenager, hadn’t come in until 3am and he wouldn’t surface until teatime at least. His daughter’s bedroom door was ajar, a sign that she’d stayed over with her boyfriend again. A small grey cloud hovered above Harry’s head momentarily and his whistled tune wobbled but he remembered the lecture Janice had given him only last week. “She’s twenty-four, for heaven’s sake and they’re getting married in six months,” she’d argued. “So stop getting on at her or she’ll leave and move in with him altogether. Is that what you want?” Harry sighed. Janice was right. He didn’t want to drive a wedge between himself and Becky so he kept his mouth shut. It wasn’t her fault she was no longer a little girl. “Anyway,” he recalled Janice saying, “remember when we were her age? Remember what we got up to? Our pair are saints compared with us!” Harry did remember. He started whistling again and the small grey cloud evaporated. Passing the front door on the way to the kitchen, he stooped to pick up the post from the mat. “Junk! Junk! Junk!” he sang, shuffling the letters and skimming each unwanted item down the hall. One envelope felt thin. Curious, he turned it over to read the address. ‘MR.ROBERT CROSS, 12 STORNAWAY, CLAYBRIDGE, LINCOLNSHIRE.’ And Harry stopped whistling. He stopped breathing. He stopped thinking. The envelope was just that. It was too thin to contain anything. It didn’t need to. The message in the address was as clear as day. Harry’s breathe returned, each gasp ragged and laboured. He was unable to think straight but that didn’t stop him feeling again, with a vivid intensity, the fear that had accompanied his first days on the run. He’d been warned. “Cut all your ties with your past,” they’d said. “Contact no one. Not your friends, not your family, no one.” Harry had done as he was told. It had been hard at only 18 years of age to cut himself adrift from the people he’d grown up with and in particular from his mother. She’d died not knowing whether her son was alive or dead. But he’d never returned to see her. He had not even telephoned her because they’d also said, “If you contact any one from your old life, Punch will find out and will get the information from them that will lead him to you and he’ll send that person to the grave as payment.” So Robert Cross had ceased to be and Harry Towns was born. For years he’d moved, from place to anonymous place, until he met Janice. He was twenty-eight when he finally put down roots and became just another commuter living in a suburb of a large city. To be on the safe side, Harry avoided crowded places, claiming he was claustrophobic in a crush of people, “to the extent,” he told Janice, his new fiancée, “that even shopping is difficult.” The wedding, in an ugly, city centre, registry office had been a quiet one. Harry had managed to rustle up a couple of people from work to attend so that his lack of real friends was not too apparent and the day had gone off surprisingly well, with no one wondering why the groom appeared to be so anxious. Harry had entered the witness protection programme in a hurry when Howard Punch had amazingly been found not guilty of murder, despite Harry’s eyewitness statement and for the next twenty-odd years Harry had been looking over his shoulder, aware that Punch and his henchmen would be searching for him. It had only been in the last year or so that Harry had finally relaxed and begun to enjoy life unreservedly. He’d even accompanied Janice on the occasional shopping trip. ‘MR.ROBERT CROSS, 12 STORNAWAY, CLAYBRIDGE, LINCOLNSHIRE.’ There was no mistake. Harry realised he’d been fooling himself when he’d thought he was free of his past. Here was the proof of his stupidity. Punch had caught up with him. It had to be Punch. Harry was caught by this brief revelatory second in a state of shock that seemed to stretch to fill a lifetime. His thoughts skipped like a stone thrown across water. He was unable to catch any one idea to pin it down into coherence. “Do you want this breakfast or shall I feed it to the dog?” Janice shouted from the kitchen. Harry started. He looked towards the sound of the voice but was unable to take in what had been said. He looked down at the envelope, grasped tight in his clammy hand. The envelope was white. It was pristine but despite its virgin appearance, it was not innocent. It was like holding a ticking bomb. He turned it over. There was no postmark. Harry staggered. He felt sick. He needed to sit down. No longer aware of his surroundings, living in a sudden nightmare, Harry moved by instinct to his study, to the one place where he could think without being disturbed by members of his family. Janice appeared at the doorway to the kitchen. “Harry?” she queried. “What’s the matter?” Harry waved her away. “Nothing,” he muttered. “I’ll be there in a minute.” He closed the study door in her face. Harry’s study wasn’t a big room but it was spacious enough to contain a couple of easy chairs, a bookcase and an antique, leather-top desk. A matching red, leather chair stood at an angle to the desk, inviting him to sit. Its position usually gave Harry a good view of the front garden but the view of the street itself was restricted. Harry placed the envelope gently on the desktop. He put his hands on the chair back but didn’t sit. He needed to see who, or what, was moving in the street. Carefully walking around the edge of the room, touching the walls like a blind man or a drunk, he hid behind the folds of a full-length curtain. He peered up and down the street on which he’d lived for twenty years and where he had once felt safe. He wasn’t safe now. This house, his refuge, was a trap. Harry could see no one moving and no strange cars yet he felt eyes watching him; malevolent eyes; the eyes of people who wanted only to see him dead. Harry backed away and pulled the cord that drew the curtains silently across the window. The thick fabric cut out the day but the gloom only served to highlight the white of the envelope that seemed to glow with an inner, spiteful light. It sat on the desk, address side down. It seemed to Harry to be alive, to be breathing, to be giving off the stench of death. His legs felt weak and he sat in the red leather chair. He stared at the envelope. He didn’t touch it. He didn’t need to. He knew what was written on it; ‘MR.ROBERT CROSS, 12 STORNAWAY, CLAYBRIDGE, LINCOLNSHIRE.’ The envelope’s message left Harry with few options. He could run but he knew that his daughter wouldn’t run with him. Her life was here, with her young man. He doubted his son would run with him; his football, his girls, his college were too great a hold and Harry thought he was too young to take his father’s fears seriously. He could run but his wife would not be able to leave her children. If he ran, he’d go alone, leaving his family vulnerable to Punch’s vengeance. After so many years, the people who’d protected his mother were no longer around. So Harry couldn’t run. His options had reduced to two. He could hide in fear or he could die. Harry’s pulse pounded and his head hurt. He groaned and tried hard to concentrate but he couldn’t think. As his choice narrowed though, his heart rate slowed and like a rat caught in a blind alley or a rabbit pinned to the road by a rushing car’s headlights, Harry had to face the inevitable. ‘MR.ROBERT CROSS, 12 STORNAWAY, CLAYBRIDGE, LINCOLNSHIRE.’ He stared at the truth. He would die. He had to die. For his family to be safe, there had to be a funeral. He had to die, but not by his own hand. Suicide was not an option. His insurance company would not pay out if he committed suicide and he had no intention of leaving his widow with a mortgage and a wedding to pay for. His course of action decided upon, Harry’s heart rate slowed. He felt a surge of love for his family and tears rolled down his cheeks. Angrily he wiped them away. Anger, he thought, that’ll see me through. He jumped to his feet and slamming back the study door he ran down the hall. He snatched the front door open. He knew Punch and his cronies would be out there. He stepped back into the past he thought he’d escaped. Harry left the envelope behind on the desk. It told the truth. It would continue to tell the truth; that ‘MR.ROBERT CROSS’ once lived at this address. |
| The
WCA's The Writers' Choice Awards |
| Here's how the members of the
ACWclub voted for their favorite entries: First place: #8 Second place: #13 Third place: #17 Fourth place: #15 Others receiving votes: #1, #3, #12 |
Here are all the entries, posted in the order they were received.
| The Envelope Robert P. Herbst herbst@gtcom.net http://mountperry.com/ |
#1 of 21 |
| 931 | |
| I had only just settled down for my morning coffee
when, Yodar Hoopelhoffer, the Mount Perry town idiot, showed up with a problem.
Why does he always come to me with his problems? Probably because I’m the
only one, around town, who will listen to him and then help him with them.
Resolved to my fate, I listened intently as he explained how he needed to send in his tax return off to the IRS and wasn’t at all sure he’d done it all correctly. Yodar was a neat person, but totally lost with anything more complicated than spelling his name correctly. Anyhow, he’d earned just enough money in 2005 to have to pay income tax on it. This alone surprised me. According to Yodar, he had all the papers properly organized but was completely lost about how to get all the papers into the envelope, provided by the IRS, to send them off to the tax collector. No matter how he folded and stuffed, all the papers just wouldn’t fit into the envelope. Simply using a larger envelope would have been an ideal solution, but Yodar had already stuck the $0.39 worth of postage on the smaller envelope and try as he might, the stamps could not be removed. Indeed, the stamps did seem to be firmly fixed in place. Every time we tried to lift a corner of the stamp to get it started off the envelope, the paper began to tear and we had to stop and look for a better solution to the problem. Yodar was absolutely determined not to lose the postage. I suggested we cut around the stamps and glue both stamps and the part of the envelope we’d cut away on a new envelope. Yodar was shocked I’d even suggest wasting an unused envelope in such a way. We decided to try dissolving the glue on the back of the stamp with some cleaning fluid I had in the back room. Rather than dissolve the glur the solution seemed to have the opposite effect and the glue became hard and brittle. We then tried bending the envelope in the hopes the glue holding the stamps in place would fracture and the stamps would fall off. We bent and crumpled the paper but the stamps held firmly in place. Then, figuring the cleaning solution might have made the glue water soluble, we soaked the envelope in water. All this did was to dissolve the glue on the rest of the envelope leaving us with a flat piece of paper. This, however, we could re-glue the seams and the envelope would not go to waste if only we could get the stamps off the thing. Even adding dish washing detergent to the water did little to help with the removal of the stamps. We struggled with the stamps in the soapy water for so long both our hand, although quite clean, were very wrinkled. I suggested Yodar invest another $0.39 in postage and start over with a larger envelope. Yodar didn’t have another $0.39 so the envelope had to be salvaged. I called the post office and asked them what we could do to resolve the situation. After several minutes of explanation and haggling, they suggested Yodar bring the envelope with the stamps on it up to the post office and they would give him a new envelope and the proper postage to place on the outside. Knowing Yodar was involved, the people at the post office were careful to spell out; the stamps needed to be placed on the outside of the envelope. Yodar left the shop with the soggy envelope draped over his hand and walked the two miles to the post office. Then with a new envelope, of the proper size and the postage necessary to get the envelope to the IRS, he walked back to the shop. It was a hot day and I was sorry to send my friend off on such a long walk in the heat of the day, but Yodar didn’t seem to mind. Mind you, I still can’t figure out why he didn’t just put the papers into the envelope at the post office and send the thing off from there. Yodar and I once again sat down at the table to make sure all the proper papers were placed in the envelope. Each paper had to be checked off a list Yodar had to be sure the forms were properly presented. Finally the papers were all in order and in a neat pile on the table. The envelope was properly addressed and the stamps affixed. in the proper spot on the outside of the envelope. The whole thing was ready to send off in the day’s mail. Frustrated by all the effort I turned and poured myself another cup of coffee. As I poured Yodar quipped, "There’s the post man! Everything is done and the envelope is sealed. I need to catch him and get this off in today’s mail." I heard the door slam as Yodar raced across the street to post the envelope in the outgoing mail as the letter carrier picked up the mail from the post box. He was back within a minute, beaming from ear to ear. "I got my taxes paid." he cried as he waved his hands joyfully in the air. "I’m all done until next year." He sat down at the table and picked up his coffee cup just as I pointed to the pile of papers next to the coffee pot and said, "Aren’t those the papers you were supposed to send to the IRS?" There was a profound silence in the room for several moments. |
|
| The Envelope Matt Bressler (a kid from the tenements of Greenpoint, Brooklyn) BREZZ132@cs.com |
#2 of 21 |
| 1359 | |
| The Envelope Routine. In 1957, I decided that my 1953 Plymouth needed to repainted. There was an auto painting firm, Earl Schribe, just down the block from where I was working at Bush Terminal, Brooklyn, This company advertised an offer to paint your car for a mere $99, (a bargain at that point in time). It sounded like a really good deal to me and I stopped by the Schribe company and talked to the manager. I explained that I worked nearby and could I bring my car in, early in the morning - - - and absolutely had to be able to pick it up that evening at 5 o'clock. The manager, (I'll call him Tony because I cannot remember his actual name) explained that, if I brought my car in by 7am, he could have it painted by 5pm. He said that the short drying time span was possible because he "baked" the paint finish onto the car. I selected the paint color and made an appointment to bring my car in the very next day. I gave him the $25 dollar deposit they required. That night I removed all the window sills from the doors, cleaned and sanded them, and placed them on newspaper in the back seat - - - because Tony said if I "prepared" them he could paint them at no extra charge. My thought was that they would then match the new paint color. I got up early the next day, drove from Long Island to Brooklyn and arrived at the Schribe company at 6am. When Tony arrived a half hour later, I was waiting for him. I had a check made out to his company for the remaining $74 (there was no sales tax on painting at that time). I wanted Tony to assure me that he would have the car ready at 5pm, so I could drive it home that night. I also reminded him of his offer to repaint the window sills. Tony hemmed and hawed, saying that he was really booked up that day and he might not be able to finish my car that night. That was totally unacceptable to me, since I needed the car to drive home to Lynbrook, Long Island. THEN, I HAD AN IDEA! I picked up an empty Schribe white envelope from Tony's desk and asked him to write his name on the outside, He looked at me strangely and asked me why? I said that if he could have my car ready at 5pm, it would be a big favor to me and I would put something in the envelope to "thank him". He smiled and said that he would "try really hard to have it done by 5pm". I thanked him and went to work. That night I went to the Schribe company and there was my car, parked right out in front. The outside looked really good. I looked inside and saw that the window sills were NOT painted. They were still on the back seat where I had left them. That would mean that those window sills would not match the new paint on my car. I was pissed! I took the white envelope out of my pocket, removed the $10 bill and inserted a small piece of paper on which I wrote, "Thanks very much Tony, for painting the sills". I sealed the envelope and placed in my jacket pocket. When I walked inside, Tony was busy with another customer so I gave his clerk my check and asked for my car keys. The clerk stamped my copy of the bill "paid" and gave me my keys. I went outside , started my car and was about to pull away, when Tony came running out and came up to my car. He said. "Didn't you have something for me?" I said. "Yes" and handed him the white envelope. He thanked me and I drove away before he could open the envelope. Driving home that evening, I realized the "promise" of some reward could work wonders for me, if I handled it correctly. And my "White Envelope Routine" was born. I used that routine several times thereafter, mostly for minor things. It worked really well and I told my family about this little "trick". Of course my wife thought it was a mean trick to pull on someone but my kids enjoyed my stories whenever I used the "White Envelope Routine". In 1960 I went into a Pennsylvania hospital for an ear operation. The hospital was very old, the rooms painted a drab green and the nurses very surly, (back then, they were certainly underpaid). After the operation, I was in a lot of pain so I buzzed the nurse several times After a while this heavy middle-aged woman came in. She asked what I wanted in a tone of voice that implied I was a pain in the ass. I asked for a pain pill, (that my Doctor said I could have) and some water to wash it down. She went away and much later, came back with the pill in a little cardboard cup. I asked for water and she looked around and didn't see a water pitcher so she said she would be back with some water. Back in those days, the hospital rooms didn't have toilets in the rooms - - - so I couldn't just go into a bathroom to get the water. At least an hour went by and still no water. I ran the buzzer again and again. While I was waiting, I went thru the small cabinet by the bed - - - and found some blank paper with the hospital's monogram on it. Also, there were several WHITE ENVELOPES. I took out one of the envelopes and when the nurse finally came in with the water - - - I asked her to write her name on the outside of the envelope. To allay her suspicions, I quickly explained that I knew she was busy and I appreciated he attention to my needs. I said that it was my practice to "thank" people who helped me. Her face lit up and she smiled and wrote her name on the envelope. About 15 minutes later, another nurse, (who I never saw before) came in and asked if I wanted a back rub. I said yes and when she finished I handed her another white envelope - - - and she wrote her name on it without even asking me why I wanted it. For the next few days I was pampered, massaged, treated to coffee and cookies from the nurse's station, etc. etc. I actually ran out of white envelopes and had to ask for more. A nurse brought me at least a dozen more envelopes. When the time came for me to check out, I had at least nine envelopes, each with the name of a nurse. I felt bad that some of the nurse were really very nice - - - but I couldn't just give some money to them and not to the others. So, I just wrote "Thank you very much" on nine pieces of paper and inserted them into their envelopes. Thank goodness I never had to go back to that hospital again. Just a few weeks ago, I was sitting in a Church, attending my great granddaughter's Christening. Some of the pews had small white envelopes in amongst the prayer books. I suppose that they were there for people who didn't want to place bills directly on the offering trays. I put $10 in the envelope, 5 for me and 5 for my wife. When the tray came by, it went first to my wife, (who handed it to me) and after I placed the small white envelope on the tray, I handed it to my son. He looked at me and at the white envelope and he started to giggle so loud that everyone around him wondered what the joke was. All he could say, between bouts of the giggles was "white envelope, white envelope". |
|
| The Envelope Maureen Eleanor Green m.e.green@xtra.co.nz |
#3 of 21 |
| 2145 | |
| Housebound by her recent hip replacement and hardly
seeing anyone except the physiotherapist and meals on wheels services, Helena
Mackie re-wiped the kitchen surfaces again. Getting old is a bitch, she
thought. This place is a prison. I hate being couped up; stuck inside,
unable to get out. The grandmother clock chimed twelve. She sighed and feet
always in contact with the floor, shuffled her way toward the wide plate glass
window opening onto a balcony. As she leaned over the rail a red ford van
rolled into sight, its engine coughing and spluttering as dark smoke spewed
from the exhaust. About time, thought Helena I’m starving.
Her hunger almost satisfied, the television nestled into the corner of the room murmuring a news item caught her attention. An image of a stocky red-haired man, whom she had once taught, flashed onto the screen. “Hunter feared missing in the bush,” intoned the presenter. “Why,” Helena exclaimed, “that’s young Callum. What a bully he was, always beating up Donald Bracken.” As the camera panned over the crowd assembled outside the police station she tensed. “That’s Donald. Why is he volunteering for the search party?” she blurted as her mind travelled back in time to the days when she had taught the boys. When her doorbell rang Helena was surprised. Her hand poised over the security chain, she looked through the peephole. All she saw was a bouquet of flowers, and, as that was lowered the smiling face of Donald. She simply stood there, flummoxed with surprise and fiddled with the button on the front of her cardigan. Minutes later she composed herself and opened the door. “Why, Donald. What brings you here?” “You remember me, Mrs. Mackie?” “I certainly do, young Donald Bracken. I hardly recognised you when I first saw you. You have filled out. Look at you, tanned and muscular, quite the handsome one, so different from the weedy teenager I knew.” Donald’s finely chiselled countenance broke into a wide beam. “How could I forget the intelligent quiet lad you were; such a loner. I used to worry about you. I can picture you, even today, behind the toilet block.” Donald interjected, “Crying my eyes out.” “Yes,” she said nodding. “It wasn’t the crying that’s etched in my memory, Donald; it was what you were saying.” “I don’t recall what I said. Your memory must be better than mine.” “It has it moments,” Helena chucked. “For you,” he said proffering the flowers, “heard you were poorly; something to brighten your day.” “How kind of you,” she replied as she took the flowers in her arms. “My, my favourite, iris; you are such a thoughtful young man.” “Have to look after someone who took care of me when I a weedy teenager.” “Well, I’m off,” Donald said, and hurried towards the stairwell. He’s checking to see if I remember, Helena thought as shuffled into the kitchen, placed the flowers in a vase and opened the envelope. I remember old times. Paying back your kindness. Best wishes for a speedy recovery. Donald. As she finished her pecan pie to the last crumb and licked every trace of mocked cream from her spoon, it occurred to her that Donald might have returned home to extract revenge. Startled by the thought, she muttered, “You silly old chook; fancy imagining such a thing.” A sharp rapping on her door diverted her attention from her dreaming. “Hello in there,” a cheerful voice called. “It’s Phyllis.” “With you in a moment,” Helena called as she made her way slowly to the door and checked through the spy hole before opening it. “Just got back from South America and heard about your operation. Poor thing - bet you are taking it hard not being able to get out and about,” Phyllis rattled as she greeted Helena with her usual flamboyant bear hug. “Brought you a memento,” she said sweeping into the room and handing over a package, beautifully wrapped and topped off with bright orange bow. “I know how you like exotic instruments and I couldn’t resist. Now you just sit there and enjoy. I’ll put the kettle on.” Making sure the paper was preserved for future use Helena began un-wrapping the parcel. “For Gods sake, just rip the thing open. You give me the willies the way you open parcels.” Helena smiled. During their years together at Area School, Phyllis, impatient to see what lay inside packages, had often grabbed her gifts and ripped them open. “Oh my, how beautiful,” she gasped, as a delicately carved ocarina was revealed. “I’m overwhelmed.” Helena lifted the flute from its cradle, caressed it and examined the detailed artwork. “I don’t know what to say.” Visibly delighted by her friend’s reaction, Phyllis chuckled, “That would be a first for you.” Helena chuckled and smiled. “It seems things have been happening around here during my absence. What do you make of bully-boy Keppleman’s disappearance?” Phyllis asked. “Do you think somebody finally payed him back?” Helena sat silent for some time. “I’ve had worrying thoughts running through my mind and keep returning again and again to a bullying incident many years ago.” “You mean the Bracken beating?” “And the fact, that the weedy young teen was bullied mercilessly by Callum.” “It seems history is repeating itself.” Phyllis added. “What do you mean?” “Oh Helena, I never thought your memory would desert you. Don’t you remember; twenty years ago; two of the bullies disappeared without trace?” Helena sucked in hard and paused “I had quite forgotten about the search.” All that day, history repeating itself, history repeated, kept whirling over and over in Helena’s mind. Was it possible, she thought, that a small, quiet lad of thirteen could have been responsible for the bully-boy’s disappearance? The intensity, the conviction, and the hate emanating as Donald spoke those words twenty years ago, “I’ll kill them. One day, I swear, I’ll f ...en well kill them,” was something she had never forgotten. She hit the remote to catch the Channel Three late news. Callum’s photograph on the screen was replaced by a caption: Detective Senior Sergeant, Chas Winter. Helena looked Chas up and down. He’d been a scraggy pock-faced youth, but now he was handsome, well groomed and dressed in an expensive looking suit, crisp pale yellow shirt and paisley tie. “The body of Callum Keppleman was found in the reserve,” ... Chas was saying. Helena whispered, “My God, he’s dead.” Her mind whirling she shuffled out to the balcony into an evening where the air hung heavy and sultry, looked into the clear sky towards the Southern Cross constellation and then to the Big Dipper. “Oh Donald, Why now?” she whispered. Helena fell into a fitful sleep only to stir in the dark, in the dead of the night. A whimper sounded as she tried to bring herself out of her sleep, for she sensed a malevolent presence behind her. Panic wedged in her throat and tore through her stomach. Awareness flooded like a spring tide, threatening to spill out of her throat in a scream. Fear spasmed the muscles in her arms and legs and no matter how hard she tried, she could not turn to face the intruder. Her body was disconnected from her brain commanding that it respond. Strong hands closed around her neck pressing against the small vital bones. Through clenched teeth she rasped, “I knew you would come.” The hands loosened their hold and she twisted to face her attacker, his silhouette huge and black in the moonlight, making his form clear. His features were masked, but his steely eyes fixed on her gave no flicker of emotion as he raised both arms above his monstrous form. A hunting knife, its blade flashing in the moonlight, plunged downward. “No.” Helena screamed and sat bolt upright. Her pulse raced and her eyes darted around the room searching for the man, but she saw only an empty room. “Where are you?” she called in a tremulous voice. Her arms trembled as if she had Parkinson’s and she was bathed in sweat. She gasped for air as she craned her ears listening for sound that would betray a presence, but heard only the comforting groaning and creaking of the building. The grandmother clock chiming the hour startled her and she jumped as its twanging sounded one o’clock. She rose gingerly from her bed, wrapped her dressing gown around her dancing body and hobbled to the kitchen. It takes time to sift through twenty years of data and Helena did just that. She sat sipping a strong brew of tea, a notepad in front of her and her pen poised, looking at the message from the florist’s envelope and reliving her vivid dream. Was it one of those premonitions she had been subjected to during her lifetime? In her subconscious, Donald Bracken’s name, and the words payback echoed over and over. Was it possible that he could have payed back the bully? The intensity, the conviction, and the hate emanating as Donald spoke those words twenty years ago, was something she had never forgotten and he knew she remembered. Dear Phyllis We have known one another for many years and I cannot think of a more fitting person with whom to share my innermost fears. I fear for my life. The killer at large may think I am a threat. Call me a silly old fool if you like, but whenever I think of the murder, my mind keeps turning to Donald..... “Rang Chas,” Phyllis huffed as she swept into the room, clutching Helen’s letter. “I’ve phoned the station several times, but was unable to speak with him.” Helena said. Moments later the doorbell jangled. "Chas, I didn't expect you to call. I've been trying to arrange to meet with you at the station." "Normally I would have responded to your calls, but right now I'm preoccupied with a murder investigation," he replied. "Now that you're here," Helena said, in an embarrassed, hesitant manner, "I'm not sure the ramblings of an old woman will be of interest." "Ramblings," Phyllis interjected. "You wrote me a letter because you thought you might be the killer's target. Its contents don't seem like ramblings to me." "What made you think that you were a target?" Chas enquired. “What I read about the murder sounded well planned and the killing personal. A series of events, seemingly unrelated sprang to mind and the message from Donald in the florist’s envelope – the word payback. When I pieced them together, I feared for my life. "What events?" Chas asked leaning forward. Helena settled back in her chair and placed her hands in her lap. "Oh I have some thoughts about Callum's death. I think he was murdered because of his bullying." In a voice filled with remorse Chas whispered. “I'm fearfully ashamed of what we did to Donald and I never apologized.” Helena paused, cocked her head and peered deep into Chas’s eyes. He shuddered as memories of that night flooded in. Helena inhaled, sucked in air. "That was a brutal beating. Donald carried bruises for more than a month, but did not complain." “I didn’t intend to hurt him, just wanted to frighten him, but things got out of hand. Callum really worked Donald over and I did nothing to stop him.” “I suspected that was so,” Helena remarked as she stroked her chin in thoughtful pose and sat silent for what seemed to Chas, an eternity. “Some time after that bullying event, two of your gang members disappeared without a trace.” "Bill and Harry," Chas whispered hanging on every. "You think Donald had something to do with their disappearance and the recent murders?” "In my mind it does. Recently Donald returned to the town and another gang member was eliminated.” Chas looked thoughtfully at Helena. "You think it was Donald?" "Call me a silly old fool if you like, but whenever I think of the murders, my mind keeps turning to Donald." "So you think Donald is killing because of the bullying that took place twenty years ago?" "And that anyone who gets in the way will be eliminated to preserve anonymity. That's how I see it Chas." Chas startled and sucked in air. "Why would he wait for so long – to payback?" "Donald was a bright lad, determined and focused on what he thought fair and just. Preparation was always important to him.” "Twenty years is such a long time. It is difficult to believe bullying would motivate murder." "For someone who harbors resentment, one who has been trained to kill, time is of little importance." Chas frowned and his brow creased as he sat silent and thoughtful. "If you are right Mrs. Mackie I need to speak with some people straight away." “It’s what the envelope contained; the message in there clicked everything into place. The word payback, the catch-me-if-you-can attitude, was Donald’s mistake. I think making the bullies pay is his mission." Rising with effort, Helena made her way to the door. Chas, following her labored progress stopped in the doorway, shuffled his feet and asked sheepishly, "Do you think I could have a copy of the letter you wrote to Mrs. Morrison, and the note and envelope from the florist?" Helena smiled and paused. "We'll provide anything you think significant to help make our community safe." |
|
| The Envelope Charles Clifford Brooks III angelus725@yahoo.com |
#4 of 21 |
| 334 | |
| Spun from the run on this earth, wrapped up in the wind
up, I find that life is on me like a coat I have outgrown. Citizens, a courthouse, a blue afternoon with Coltrane on the brain; All these flicker past my peripheral vision like forgotten autumn leaves. I pull inward, jack into the World Wide Web, then scour its expanse For books. I have a hiding place with books. The mail carrier becomes My best friend. The envelope encapsulates academia. It is my bastion Of literary, idealistic dreaming. Like a tin roof in a tornado I rip away its edges; Maul the Mylar cover to excavate my newest edition to my collection. I read like a man starving for words- a wolf snarling after some terrible winter. I cannot slough off my intellectual madness, my addiction to books, And my new love, the sheepish woman with a Grecian nose and Italian Coloring who brings me treasure. I am sure she doesn’t understand my panting at her arrival. Me, a grown man at the mailbox, almost shaking in anticipation. The envelope. The shell which covers the sweet meat of an inner haven. There is no micromanagement inside the brown, white, or otherwise dark Envelope which is always the perfect hue for a man less than new. The brilliance of the moment keeps me quickened even now. Oh, the time! The hours between carriers and my burning to learn more About myself by understand everyone else. I want to find my own song, My own dance, and my own coming-of-age in a day many could care less. Decency, ethics, metaphysics, humor, and true thought are brought To my door in order to lift me from the cerebral slumber In which man has encased itself. I am unafraid of the idea we are more mind than body; that we are more god than we believe. I do not fear doubt and I embrace the envelopes My intellectual freedom brings home. I am home in books, and like shed skin, The envelope is tossed aside. The messenger is discarded once the job is finished. |
|
| The Envelope Teresa L. Boone boonesfullhouse@comcast.net |
#5 of 21 |
| 91 | |
| The seal is forcefully pierced with a blunt knife
Emotions, like the neat triangular folds, are ripped open It cannot be contained, all is exposed No longer can I stuff my feelings Spilling out, overflowing, with no boundaries No longer protected by four corners Torn open, exposed Try to peer into the window, to see the heart of the matter But it is not meant to be visible Handled without care, labeled, left to be sorted The glue that bound is no more The mystery behind the cold crisp whiteness is exposed The tongue and soul are cut from trying to conceal it |
|
| The Envelope Robin Ehrlichman Woods Rubygross@aol.com |
#6 of 21 |
| 1113 | |
| My Nana, Adele Webber Sidman Jasper, might have been
the inspiration for “Auntie Mame.” She exposed me to cultural and
artistic delights from the time I was five years old, making me feel like a
fairy tale princess. “Grandma” was the stout, stern old country woman
who cooked cabbage and made us whisper while sitting on the scratchy horsehair
chairs in her sitting room. A visit to my father’s mother made my stomach
hurt, but every minute with my Nana was an adventure. She was small, sleek and platinum blonde with skin as dark and weathered as a crocodile purse, the result of years of basking in the Miami sun. Her jewelry was expensive, important and flashy, the rewards of marrying well and often. All I had to do was admire a diamond ring of hers, and she would slip it on my fat little finger. Too young to realize the worth of her treasures, I would invariably end up flushing a priceless bauble down the toilet. Nana never scolded or chided me, but would leave an envelope on my bed. Inside I would find a beautiful invitation written in calligrapher’s script, with the time and date for a spree at Tiffany’s to find a replacement piece. I managed to hold on to a gorgeous 2-carat diamond solitaire on a delicate platinum chain for a few months before it joined the veritable treasure chest in our plumbing system. We had fun and that was all that mattered. She must have had a lot of money, and spent it lavishly on her loved ones. More importantly, she adored me as much as I worshipped her. I remember attending gala performances of ballets and operas before I turned eight. Another envelope would appear on my bed, and Nana would take me on a shopping binge to buy me patent leather shoes in pink, blue and lavender while my mom tried to steer me toward sensible sturdy brown oxfords. My love of shoes exists to this day, as I sit here wearing my current favorite fuchsia, violet fabric and rubber water socks, happy toes tucked inside. I proudly donned a pink mink jacket to evening performances, tossing aside my dull and practical camel’s hair coat for the beautiful lush fur, complete with a matching hat and muff. Our seats were always in the front orchestra, and the ethereally beautiful prima ballerinas and bosomy divas performing on stage mesmerized me. It was always just Nana and me, going backstage after each performance. I would shyly curtsey to the artists, tongue tied by their costumes and makeup. Nana managed to have a ballerina doll made for me, and I carried her around as if she was my twin. The doll was about three feet tall with a coronet of red braids wound around her head, dressed in a gauzy rainbow tutu and miniature pink leather ballet slippers. I would play opera recordings repeatedly on my phonograph while recreating Swan Lake or The Nutcracker with my doll. She was so special that I did not have a name for her, merely calling her “The Ballerina.” Nana and I went to the finest restaurants in New York City where I quickly learned to order lobster instead of a hamburger. I never felt awkward or chubby with her, as she ordered Crepes Suzette or Baked Alaska for dessert. I was used to tapioca or cherry Jell-O, but she believed in fun; taking her job of spoiling me very seriously. She never served me the inspired but disgusting meals of liver meatballs with spaghetti, or my mother’s most colorful and nauseating cherry gelatin molds with green beans and carrots hidden inside in an attempt to get me to eat vegetables. Of course, she would go a bit too far now and then, not realizing how confused I would be after attending a performance of “The Jewel Box Revue“. Ground breaking at the time, it was a troupe of 19 female impersonators and 1 woman who dressed like a man. They sang and danced, looking more beautiful than I could ever imagine turning out to be. It was a talent and fashion show at its most outré, but not seedy or suggestive at all. After one performance, my questions to my mom ended my attendance at that particular club for the duration of my childhood. Some things were just too confusing to explain to a little girl brought up in the shadow of The Mickey Mouse Club and perky Mouseketeers. When Nana left for Miami each November to supervise her hotel, The Mantell Plaza for the winter season, she would send me “care packages” of coconut patties and other delights. I can still taste the thick dark chocolate squares and feel the coconut sticking to my teeth as I hoarded and hid my stash from my younger sisters. I received these packages a few times a month until summer when she returned to NYC. I became an avid reader of the books in many genres that Nana thought would intrigue me. My parents did not appreciate the special delivery of baby alligators packed in with crates of Florida oranges, grapefruits and mangoes. I knew that Nana’s message to me was one of fun mixed in with some serious Vitamin C. We became frequent contributors to The Central Park Zoo, as alligators quickly outgrew the confines of a bathtub. The miniature bars of soap and bottles of shampoo and hand lotion from the hotel seemed to be tailor made for my small hands. Nana might have had a fortune, but she hoarded those little samples like a tourist. She would spend hundreds of dollars on a pair of shoes for me, but hated to spend money on toiletries and essentials. A delicate bone china figurine or silk shawl would be included to break up the mundane nature of these gifts. I’d reread her loving messages included inside the envelopes inside each package, waiting for her return. My Nana was fun personified, and never judged, never worried or looked back wistfully on her life. She helped me to become the artsy, dreamy, sensitive woman I turned out to be, with a closet of crazy impractical shoes and bracelets of diamonds and precious stones going up my right arm. However, my most precious possessions are the dozens of envelopes I’ve saved over the years, with messages containing the essence of Nana , I feel free to walk barefoot through town in the rain with my children, humming our favorite arias all the while. Yes, “we need a little Christmas right this very minute,” and try I to spread a little sunshine around me. Life is too short to carry an umbrella or wear ugly shoes. |
|
| The Envelope stephanie onetruesally@yahoo.com |
#7 of 21 |
| 715 | |
| The familiar handwriting on the envelope made her
throat hurt. It was comforting, even though it wasn’t pretty or
sophisticated like her own. Whenever she saw the almost-scrawl of her
mother-in-law’s letters, she knew there was something heartfelt and
important coming. Sam didn’t put pen in hand for any reason other than to
record specific and necessary information, while her daughter-in-law was
inclined to write lists of things she had already completed just because she
liked the look her words formed on the page. This girl had, she thought, sufficiently dealt with the long-awaited blow of death. Her mother-in-law had been sick long enough that the end was anticipated, so imminent that it might as well have happened already. She rushed home from shopping when she got the call on her cell phone. The kids were asleep; she stepped into the house to trade places with her husband, hugging him before letting him go to his father. She cried awhile but it just didn’t seem necessary or productive, so she had turned on the TV. She was alone for hours before he returned, exhausted from grief. She understood, and she was genuinely sad, but the whole thing seemed so clichéd. Everyone goes through this at some point, and it’s always the same – there is sadness, a sense of loss, denial, some anger. They write books and create step programs based on this inevitability. It’s almost passé, something she doesn’t want to be a part of not because it hurts so much but because it’s irritating to be so predictable. The phone calls from the grief center were particularly annoying. She knew, because she was well-educated, it was important to ‘honor the grieving process,’ and she was perfectly willing to counsel her children to express their feelings. But the expectation that she would need someone to help her, or her kids, generated something almost like contempt in her. She never answered the phone, just let the machine pick up. The woman’s calm voice explaining the family program made her teeth clench. She always wanted to delete the messages but thought she should at least leave them for her husband; he might want to know about the service even though she wasn’t interested. She got through the memorial service without crying. She wondered if people looked at her the way they do the spouses and parents of murder victims who don’t break down when interviewed on TV. Even she is dubious when she watches those people talk about the last time they saw their wife or child without shedding a tear. How she must look, not sobbing through the funeral of her husband’s mother, the grandmother of her children. But to her there was no sense in breaking down when others need your support. Now here is this envelope, with her name written on it in that familiar, comforting handwriting. Her first thought is ridiculous, that Sam is really still alive and has dropped off this letter. She wryly notes to herself how this is one of those stages of grief she's supposed to go through, though she doesn't know if she's feeling it in the right order. But then her chest gets tight; she furrows her brow. Her breathing is shallow; her husband and kids are watching without looking directly at her. She takes a deep breath and walks upstairs with the letter. In the bathroom, two doors closed between her and the rest of the household, she reads and still ignores the pain. She concentrates on the kind words her mother-in-law has written about her as a daughter-in-law, a mother, a teacher. She wills herself to feel grateful for this praise and for the chance to have known this woman. This is what she keeps repeating to her friends, and her children, when sympathy and grief creep into conversations. Sometimes she lets herself fall to pieces for a few minutes when she's home alone; she is afraid that if she doesn't allow this, anguish will inconveniently and embarrassingly ambush her. She let's life go on; she likes to think that is what Sam would have wanted. |
|
| The Envelope STAR8955@aol.com |
#8 of 21 Winner |
| 1666 | |
| 5/24 I have a dream about a bear. In my dream I
am wearing my favorite childhood dress, a dainty, red-dotted Swiss with a
pinafore reminiscent of Alice in Wonderland. I can still feel the stiffly
starched material on my palms; the way the lace collar itches. Mother takes me
downtown to get my picture taken, hamburgers and vanilla milkshakes for lunch.
As a reward for "smilin' pretty", she gives me a small teddy bear from a
sidewalk vendor. I promptly name him Patches and skip the entire way back to
the apartment. When Barbara and I were little we automatically took on a certain indelible glow amongst our classmates and the other neighborhood children, a glow that made mothers give us trays of lasagna and okay weekend-long sleepovers, a blinking highway motel sign that flashed, "Troubled...Troubled...Troubled...". But that afternoon she was good. She laughed at my knock-knock jokes. She combed my hair into pigtails looped with scarlet ribbons. She held my hand as we crossed the street. I awake from my dream with a start. The Oriental man in the business suit next to me looks curiously. I stare back in confusion, moistening my dry lips, then look around. I wonder where Mother is, if he has seen her. In an instant I grow panicked, and unbuckle my seat belt to get up and look for her. She can't be left alone, not in her condition. Maybe she's gone to the dining car to grab a sandwich. I feel beads of clammy sweat forming on my upper lip as I scramble to my feet. My stomach is a falling elevator, my head a crashing kaleidoscope of red, then black, then red. Then I sit down because I remember. 5/25 Kevin is waiting when the Amtrak lurches to a stop in the morning. I silently curse my sister. Kevin is the kind of person I go out of my way to avoid in life, the kind who gave wedgies in high school, who jumps up and screams for touchdowns and throws people into the pool. He flashes a toothy grin and asks me, "how ya been, hon?" His eyes rove my body with a practiced glance, as if examining a thoroughbred pony. He smiles and nods and snaps his gum a mile a minute. I am grateful for the time it takes to claim my luggage, lest he notice my hands trembling. The dream has shaken me, and Kevin Mulligan is simply too conventional for such things. He is a frat boy, slightly softened by age, who likes red meat and cold beer. He is the head football coach at the local high school, his alma mater, where he still receives the same brand of hero worship and notoriety he enjoyed throughout his youth. Once the narrow range of these stiff banalities is covered during the car ride home I feel the fog of sticky silence creep between us. He compensates by fiddling with the radio. I chew my fingernails and silently gaze out the window. After what seems an eternity, the SUV swings onto picket-fenced, tree-lined Lilliput Lane. There is a gaggle of little girls skipping rope behind the fanned rainbow of a garden sprinkler, while a few young boys contend for victory points in a game of lawn football. Kevin slows the car to a crawl and watches the play as it unfurls. I finally find an outlet for conversation. "Cute little k--" "Atta boy, Matty!" he shouts, teeth displayed, thumb jerked upwards. Matty, a sharp-featured little redhead, has just immolated a fellow player, who is now curled into the fetal position, bawling. He returns the thumbs-up eagerly, screeching, "thanks, Big Kev!" Big Kev flips his chin and presses the gas, rolling forward. "My buddy Rog's kid," he explains. "Oh." I see the back of Barbara's cool blonde pageboy through the curtained picture window, back and forth as she furiously attacks the living room carpet with her vaccuum. She wears a stiffly starched pink blouse. Kevin looks at her and frowns. "I just hope this funeral business doesn’t freak her out too much." His warped sense of gallantry irritates me. Mother is nothing but a nuisance to these people. My sister the ostrich hasn't visited in nearly six months. Her sporadic calls are made out of guilt rather than concern. Even then our conversations never venture far from rudimentary. Lauren and Taylor both made the Honor Roll! Are you seeing anyone? You've got to put yourself out there more. What? Mom had another episode? Hold on, sis, I'm going to have to call you back. My brownies are burning. Kev and Barb have renovated, and Chateau Mulligan is the exterior shot of a sitcom, peppered with perfectly pruned rose bushes and gilded lilies. The spotless living room resembles a spread from Good Housekeeping, a luscious sea of peaches and cream, trimmed with gold throw pillows and a lacquered coffee table of cherry wood. Framed family photos adorn the flowery walls and white wicker end tables, documenting various family vacations and the chronology of my nieces' lives. She makes it a point to engulf me, to tell me how thin I look, to keep up appearances. She leaves traces of a light floral fragrance swirled with freshly baked bread. There is so much I need to say, but somehow the words are lodged in my throat, squashed and wadded up like paper. 5/26 Dinner tonight is roasted chicken, baked potato, and broccoli. I hover awkwardly at the edge of the kitchen, awaiting instruction on where to sit. There isn't any mention of Mother during grace, which comes complete with closed eyes and clasped hands. Lauren, my elder niece, is blonde and beautiful and snide. She dons a blue and white cheerleading uniform and a smirk slicked with gloss. "So, like, after dinner I can go to the game, right Mom?" she demands. "Mom?" "We'll see," Barbara replies blandly. "This is so not fair! If I don't go Joelle will get to lead the cheers. Why do I even have to be here?" she glares at me pointedly and mutters darkly, "this sucks." "Watch your mouth." Kevin has remained silent until this point, shoveling his meal in. I feel embarrassment at the almost-certain knowledge that my presence has been fodder for a Family Discussion. After that I eat quietly but try to stay involved, which means appropriately reacting to Kevin's recount of the neighborhood football game, Lauren's catty remarks about her cheerleading teammates, and Taylor's choppy rendition of "O Susanna" on the piano. In the end, I am utterly exhausted and want the procession to process. I am used to eating alone. Mother always spent the night in her room, cutting out pictures of eyes from my old Teen Beat magazines. "To protect us, to watch over," she'd explain. "So they don't come to get us." I never ascertained exactly who "they" were, she never said. Probably the demons in her head, manifested visions that had clawed their way out of our father's retreating back, or the empty bottle of sugar pills. 5/27 There is another dream. In this dream Barbara is in the sixth grade, clad in her maroon and white Pom-Pom Squad uniform. Mother is gushing about her "little beauty" to our neighbors, Mr. and Mrs. Fetterman. Their daughter Kathy is on the squad with Barbara. They both giggle madly, their hair slicked back into buns fastened with bobby pins. The Fettermans have come over to take pictures before we all go to watch the game together. Mr. Fetterman is balanced on one knee as Barbara grins into the camera, proud, shiny, gleaming. Mother shepherds us out the front door, beaming, brimming with pride. It is a good day, and on the way home we slurp Popsicles purchased from the ice cream truck, relaxed, content, and happy. 5/28 Scores of people who know Kevin and Barbara come for Mother's funeral. I meet Midge Bentley, president of the P.T.A., and her husband Todd, who has a fake tan and a real estate business. Mother looks radiant, and her wrists are concealed by a lacy white gown. Her honeycomb hair is fanned out across a satiny, snow-white pillow. Her wide-set eyes are no longer wild and confused, but sleeping serenely. She is safely in the ground now. The repast is finished, chicken or beef at swanky La Luna. Barbara and Kevin mingle, as do Lauren and Taylor. Father Roberts approaches me as I eat alone. He is white-haired and jowly and reminds me of Santa Claus. There is something comforting about him. "Your eyes are haunted, you know," he says. I wonder if he is referring to the dreams. How could he know? "What do you mean?" I ask. "With sadness. Such a heavy, troubled burden on your soul. Don’t be sad for your mother, child. She's in the Lord's hands now, and despite her choices, she's still one of God's children." "I'm not sad for my mother's death, Father. I'm sad--I'm sad for her life." The floodgates break and I am inundated by tears and snot. People look curiously as I bury my face in my hands and cry for all I am worth, for Mother, poor, abandoned, Mother, and for Barbara, who sweeps over and wraps her arms around me, even though through my bleary eyes I can see her smile apologetically to the room. 5/29 Kevin and Barbara babble about Ed Winemiller's lawn as they drive me back to the train station. Lauren and Taylor argue over who used the hairbrush last. I gaze out the window, distant and dreaming. I am thinking of Mother, wondering if she is watching me, watching this scene. I know I will probably not see Barbara or her family for quite some time. So I remove a crumpled envelope from my pocket, an envelope that contains my ticket back to life, only now it is a life without Mother. I watch them as the train departs, sticking my hand out the window, feeling nothing but wind on my empty, outstretched palm. Then I lean my head against the glass and close my eyes. Now I sleep to dream. |
|
| The Envelope Dave Washburn patches.wash@prodigy.net |
#9 of 21 |
| 77 | |
| Man of expression as experience goes searches the contents of the envelope Unraveling meaning of paper and pen the letter is read then read once again With dubious thought he lets on a laugh as the envelope reveals a photograph Conveying nothing so modern in mind but conventional memory faded in time Respectively speaking a message remains with words of conviction directed in ways Lost and forgotten with absence of hope no letter delivered without the envelope |
|
| The Envelope Colin Campbell colinisabbacus@yahoo.co.uk www.colincampbell.org |
#10 of 21 |
| 397 | |
| 'OK new boy, the Boss needs this brought over to him
and he asked for you specially,' the large man smiled as he handed over a fat
padded envelope sealed round and round with clear tape. Perhaps it was the scar
near the mouth, but the smile came across more as a wicked grin. 'Don't let us
down and don't even think about looking inside.' 'Yes Sir, you can rely on me,' he replied in a suitably respectful voice. But inside he was thinking you won't be calling me boy for long. What’s more, that scar doesn't scare me it's the mark of a loser and I know it's a test. Scarface smiled again, 'Do you have a weapon? It's a jungle out there. By the way, the Boss must like you for he said he won't start dinner until you arrive.' 'Oh yes, I do have a weapon and the Boss does me a very great honor.' Like a newly won trophy, he carried the envelope to his car and proudly laid it on the front passenger seat. More discretely he slipped his handgun beside it then covered both with his coat. If only his friends could see him now. But he and his envelope were being watched and not by his friends. 'Good things come to those that wait,' said one of the shadowy figures on the motorcycle, 'but don't get too close, not yet.' 'There's fresh blood everywhere, don't touch it without gloves you might catch something,' the older detective warned the young officer. It wasn't too difficult for them to work out the events that had unfolded at the traffic lights. It should have been a quick clean robbery but the target had a gun and he had put up a fight. 'OK let's see what these three fine citizens chose to die for,' he said indicating that the young officer should open the blooded envelope. With curious colleagues gathering round, the young officer could sense the drama of the occasion. More slowly than was necessary, he opened the envelope and drew out a small plain cardboard box. Looking inside he announced prophetically, 'Looks like someone important is still waiting for dinner.' Of course they asked how he could tell. At first he claimed it was just something any good detective would get through intuition. Then finally he let them see that the box was home to an expensive looking set of dentures. |
|
| The Envelope Bren Nelson bren60@bellsouth.net |
#11 of 21 |
| 2049 | |
| It took Carrie Ann O'Malley all of twenty minutes to
drive round trip to the corner store. Carrie was almost 18, next week in fact.
A birthday she had been dreaming about since she started high school. The most
exciting part of turning 18 is being old enough to do your own thing. As she
entered the house, she stopped in front of a mirror for a quick check. Running
her hand through her thick black hair, eyeing it carefully making sure
everything was in place. Giving her mirrored image an air kiss, she was pleased
with what she saw. Carrie was always thankful she had not inherited the mousey
brown hair of the Petrov family. People would say; “yes you sure look like
Paddy O’Malley’s daughter, black hair, and those blue, blue
eyes.” She was becoming aware that people were turning and watching her
walk by. She liked that. “Mom, I’m back. I have everything you asked for. I am putting it in the fridge.” Carrie yelled. “Mom, where are you?” Carrie took the stairs two at a time. She stopped outside of her mother’s bedroom and listened. Behind the half-open door she heard sobs, so she gave the door a slight tap. The door opened a little more and she could see her mother stuffing an envelope into her pocket. “Ah, thank you Carrie. Come in dear, I was just putting some laundry away.” Monika gave her daughter a slight smile. “Well, shall we get dinner started. I really feel like Stroganoff and I have never had Stroganoff without sour cream. Thank you for going to the store for me. If you get the ground beef out and start browning it, I will be right down.” One thing Carrie could say about her mom she was a great cook, but as far as remembering what it was like to be an eighteen year old, her mother was clueless. "How could she possibly remember, she is so old? I can not believe her sometimes and why did they wait so long before they had me," thought Carrie. "I mean it is disgusting to think of your mother being almost forty-five and having a baby. What were they thinking? Yuck!" “Carrie do ya have the table set now,” asked Paddy later in his firm Irish brogue. “We are goin’ to sit down soon. Put that Ipod thing away. You should be getting’ in the kitchen and helpin’ your mother.” “What’s up with Dad,” asked Carrie as she walked into the kitchen. “What a grouch he is tonight! You both are acting strange, what is going on? I bet it is something in that dumb envelope you got today.” A plate that Monika was holding slipped from her hands and crashed to the floor. Carrie ran to her mother, thinking that she might fall. Carrie heard her father’s footsteps coming from the living room. “What’s happenin’ here?” Seeing Carrie holding her mother Paddy went to Monika’s side. “Carrie go to your room right now,” Paddy said. “I didn’t do anything,” Carrie said. “She just dropped a plate.” “Carrie go to your room,” Paddy said firmly. “Just go there I’m tellin’ you!” “Man, everybody is so tense,” Carrie said as she stomped out of the kitchen and up the stairs. Sitting on the edge of her bed her thoughts started going in many directions. It had to be what ever was in that envelope. Maybe it was a doctor’s report saying that one of them was dying. They were so old and they were going to die and leave her alone. Well that is what she wanted, not for them to die, but to be on her own. Carrie laid back on her bed with visions of her living in her imaginary apartment in New York City. This apartment was not far from a Broadway dressing room where she would go every night to transform herself into Mame, Dolly or Virginia Wolf. “Carrie your Mother and I would like to talk to you in the livin’ room," said Paddy from downstairs. Carrie’s mind went flashing over the past few days wondering what she had done wrong. As she walked into the living room, her mind was made up; apologize first then find out what horrible thing she had done. She looked at her mother, she had been crying. “Daddy, I’m sorry if I have done something to upset mom I just don’t know what I could have done.” “Carrie you di na do anythin’ wrong. This is goin’ to be hard for us. We should have told you before but we thought that, well, we never wanted you to know. I guess the simplest way to do this is to just say what we have to say,” Paddy said. “Carrie, darling,” her mother said. “We love you very much and we never thought this day would come.” “Oh, mom, dad I know you don’t have to tell me. I knew one day I would have to face this but not so soon. We can work things out. I will work hard around here and not go away to school. You can trust me to do my part. I love you both so much and I know that I have wanted to go away and do my own thing but I will stay here and be with you as long as ... “ These were the words coming from Carrie? They were not what she had been thinking all these weeks. This was different the realization that one of her dear parents may be dying was suddenly too much to take in. “Carrie how long have you known. We thought we kept it from you very well,” Monika said. “I just knew it would happen one day, because of your age and all.” “Carrie what are you talking about, our age. Age has nothing to do with it,” said Monika. “Well,” she stammered, “dying. One of you is very sick, that is what the letter is about, right?” “Oh, bless my soul, no! Nobody is dyin’. We are both healthy as a horse,” Paddy boomed impatiently. “Carrie, come sit by me,” said Monika patting the couch next to her. “The letter was from a lawyer in Chicago. Eighteen years ago, we had a housekeeper, named Alice, its Alice Sweetwater now. She became pregnant and her boyfriend left her so we helped her out. She stayed with us until the baby turned 6 months old. Then Alice’s boyfriend came back and wanted to marry her but he did not want the baby. So Alice took off and left her child with us thinking that we would take care of her. She thought that she could convince him to keep the baby but that never happened.” “What happened to the baby, then,” Carrie asked. “Well, we hired a lawyer to track Alice down and then went through adoption proceedings with the stipulation that she would have no further contact with the baby or us,” said Monika. “Oh,” said Carrie as she was slowly realizing what they were telling her, “Oh, I am that baby, right?” “But the laws are on the side of the child and you have the right once you are 18 to contact your birth mother and father,” Monika continued. “Your birth parents also have rights and they are exercising their rights to get to know you now that you will be turning eighteen.” “Oh, wow, this is heavy,” Carrie’s mind was off again on all kinds of rabbit trails. “I mean it changes so much. I have to think about all of this. You, I mean wow. You are not my real parents. I have a real family some place else. When, I mean where do they live?” “Outside Chicago,” said Paddy. Carrie left the living room and went back up to her bedroom. She sat on the edge of her bed and rested her head in her hands, suddenly the tears started. She laid back and let the tears flow until she fell asleep. “Mom,” Carrie said. It had been a week since they had told her about her adoption. “Today is my birthday and in two weeks it’s spring break. Janelle and I want to go to Chicago for a couple of days; Janelle will drive. She has an aunt in Winnetka and we will stay with her. You can call Janelle’s mom. I would like to invite my birth parents to my graduation but first I think I should meet them and get to know them a little bit.” “Yes, I think that would be a wise idea. I can’t stop you and you have to do this sometime. Chicago is only two hours from here and yes, I will call Janelle’s mother.” Monika was stunned. This was happening too fast but she and Paddy had decided that they would let Carrie make her own decisions. Carrie and Janelle pulled into her aunt’s driveway, Janelle got out but Carrie stayed in the car. Maybe if she stayed here in Chicago and got involved with a theatrical company it would be a very good stepping-stone to Broadway. She had been thinking about this since she found out she had family here. There would be a lot more exposure here than in Crown Point, Indiana. Carrie pulled out her cell phone and called home. It was the required phone call; arrived safely, traffic was not bad, had a good lunch, her aunt seems nice, promises to be polite, the stuff you are supposed to say to an over protective mother. It just makes life easier. It was at breakfast the next morning that Carrie and Janelle decided to make a surprise visit to Carrie’s new family. They lived in a town called North Park and from the address Monika had given Carrie; she was able to get the directions off the internet. Okay, Janelle, turn left here then go two blocks and turn right." They turned on to Maple Street and Carrie watched the street numbers, "there it is, that's the house! Drive past it," she said motioning for Janelle not to slow down. "Keep going! Okay turn around, and park down a couple of houses and let's watch for a few minutes." Janelle did as Carrie said and they watched the house for some time. There was a chain link fence around yard up to the front sidewalk. There was Styrofoam cups smashed into the fencing to spell out ‘Mer y Xmas n Happy Ne Year’. Some of the cups were missing. Carrie looked into the yard were two small children where playing. A woman came out on the front porch and stood there looking right at the car. Carrie watched her as she went around the front yard picking up toys with one hand and clutching a ragged sweater closed with the other. Her hair was long and black. She had a cigarette in her mouth and she was shouting something at the children. She had her head cocked to one side to keep the smoke from going in her eyes. Then she turned and went back in the house. “Well,” said Janelle, “are you going to go over there and meet them?” Carrie kept watching and took everything in. “No, Janelle, my mother and father are in Crown Point. That is where I belong and that is where I want to be. All of a sudden, I am very homesick!” Carrie could not keep her hands from shaking but she held her head high. “The envelope please, this years Tony Award for an actress in a starring role…and the winner is Miss Carrie O’Malley for ‘One Fine Morning’.” The crowd went wild! Trenton Fleming pulled Carrie up from her seat and gave her a bear hug then bent down and kissed her. “First of all I would like to thank my Mom and Dad, love you. Thank you so much for making all my dreams come true. You can put the children to bed now,” Carrie said as she fondly looked at her statuette and fanning herself with the envelope. “Good night my sweets, Mommy and Daddy will see you in the morning.” Paddy and Monika loved these nights when their two grandchildren stayed for a visit. Next week they would all be together in the Hamptons for a long overdue celebration of Carrie’s 32nd birthday. They always made such a fuss for her birthdays and she liked that. |
|
| The Envelope RUBY ASTARI author81@gmail.com |
#12 of 21 |
| 1095 | |
| I was standing in a dark hall alone. Vaguely, I heard
familiar voices. First, there were people whisperings. But then their
whisperings turned to yellings. I couldn’t catch what they were saying. I
only heard my name, eerily echoing: “Rasha…Rasha…Rasha…” I clamped my hands against my ears, but I could still hear them yelling my name, over and over. I couldn’t stand it anymore. I felt my body weaken and lost my balance. At that time, I’d finally managed to scream: “STOOOP!!!” Suddenly, my forehead bumped against the bedside table before I fell hard on the marble-tiled floor at the same time Mom burst into my room. “Rasha, are you alright?” Slowly getting up, I blinked to help my eyes quickly adapt with the light coming from outside my door. My forehead hurt and started to swell, but I forced a smile as I looked at her. “I just fell.” “You must be careful,” she said with concern. “Now, why don’t you take a shower and have breakfast? Uncle Badri’s going to come today.” Uncle Badri?? I suddenly remembered. It was the first Sunday of this month. Believe it or not, Mom’s youngest brother could only visit us at least once a month. It was actually rather ironic, knowing he and his family also lived in the same part of town. Lazily, I dragged myself out. Passing by the open door to Grandma Ajeng’s room, I stopped to take a look. She was still asleep. With a relieved sigh, I grabbed a towel on my way to the bathroom. Uncle Badri showed up after Mom and I had finished our breakfast. The bald man in spectacles smiled when I greeted him by the door. “Hi, Rasha. Where is your mother?” “She is in here.” I let him in to see Mom. I watched the two siblings talked in almost hushed whispers and serious expressions, like most grown-ups usually did. Then, Uncle Badri handed her a thick envelope. “For Mom,” he said shortly. Then he turned around and smiled as he briskly passed me by. “Got to go, Rasha.” “Don’t you want to see Grandma in her room for a while?” I asked, everytime he visited. And his response wasn’t that surprising. “I’d like to, but…sorry, I’m in a hurry right now,” he said sweetly. His hand lightly ruffled my wavy hair. “I’ve promised to take Ari and Brina out to see a movie.” “Oh.” “Bye, Rasha.” After Uncle Badri had left, I heard a wail from Grandma’s room. “Wina…Rasha…” Mom and I exchanged nervous glances, then quickly burst into Grandma’s room. If we’d come in there a little too late, Grandma might’ve fallen off her bed again. Luckily, after struggling and panting, we’d managed to make Grandma sit on her wheelchair. Next was a series of routines that often could take half a day. Cleaning her up and changing her clothes. Patiently feeding her, although her left hand was sometimes out of control --- slapping Mom’s hand away while Mom was holding the spoon. Talking to Grandma, even when her responses now were only her faint smile and quietness. And sometimes, Grandma would suddenly cry without any specific reason. Mom knew better how to calm her down, eventhough it could make her cry too. After that, I was about to do my history homework in my room, but Mom suddenly called me. “Rasha, we need to buy milk for Grandma.” With some money from the envelope Uncle Badri had given us, I went to the nearest supermarket. While I was grabbing a can of milk from the counter, my cellphone vibrated in my jeans’ pocket. There was a text message from my high-school classmate Tina: “Sha, we haven’t hung out in like, ages! We miss you.” Smiling sadly, I put my cellphone back. Then I paid the milk in the cashier. “Rasha!” I turned my head and spotted a straight-haired, plump woman in spectacles smiling as she approached me. I was startled. “Aunt Mira!” I let Mom’s sister hug me. “When did you arrive from Malaysia?” “Two days ago.” Then, as usual, her stories flowed like flood. She told me about her last visit to her precious son Reno’s place, because Reno attended a college there and just missed her. She told me about her shopping spree. I barely listened because I suddenly felt dizzy. “Oh, by the way, please give this to your mother.” Like what Uncle Badri had done earlier, Aunt Mira also handed me a thick envelope. I could already guess its contents. “I must go, sweetie. I have to pick up Edo at the mall.” “Okay.” After she’d left, I just felt suffocated. I’d wanted to dump the damn envelope, but I knew it would be utterly stupid. Mom definitely needed it for Grandma. Besides, was there any normal person who’d throw some money away? I walked home, carrying the plastic bag with the canned milk in it. My other hand was squeezing the envelope very tightly, almost crushing it. I furiously gritted my teeth. I’d badly wanted to scream, but my tears were already flowing. I don’t need your GODDAMNED envelopes! Uncle Badri and Aunt Mira…they just had no idea. They still had their stupid weekend activities with their super brats. They always had excuses to avoid their obligations for Grandma. They never noticed Mom’s tired expression. Did they even care? They could still sleep well at night, because Grandma just wasn’t around to call them from midnight until dawn. They had no idea just how hard it had been for me to hear the voices since Grandma had a stroke: Rasha, I’m sorry I have to minimize your allowance for Grandma’s medications. You don’t mind with that, do you?...Rasha, the nurse can’t come today. Can you watch over for Grandma for a while?...Rashaaa, Grandma fell!...Rashaaa, Grandma wants to pee!...Sha, how come you never hang out with us anymore?...Sha, can’t your mother at least pay for the nurse? Do you have to do everything?...Oh, you’re just no fun anymore, Sha…Rasha…Rasha…Rasha… I stopped to catch my breath. My tears had run dry. My body was shaking. No, I shouldn’t have had such awful thoughts. Poor Grandma. Poor Mommy… The sky had darkened when I finally returned home. I opened the door with guilt, because I’d left Mom alone with Grandma for quite long. “Mom?” I called. I saw her coming out of Grandma’s room. Her face was pale and her lips were trembling. I felt something sinking in my stomach. “Mom??” “Rasha…” I was almost taken aback when she suddenly ran to me and hug me close. Her sobs were heart-shattering. But I just froze in place. My eyes strayed to the open door to Grandma’s room. I didn’t have to go in there. I knew. I just couldn’t cry anymore. I just dropped the envelope from Aunt Mira… |
|
| The Envelope Nancy Effervescentlady@aol.com |
#13 of 21 |
| 1751 | |
| The first thing he noticed when he walked through the
front door was the quiet. There was always noise when he came home; either the
television or the stereo was playing. They were not just on, but playing loud
enough to hear halfway down the road. He usually came in the door yelling:
“Sheila, turn the damn TV down! I heard it blaring as I turned in the
driveway.” Sheila always bounced out of the kitchen, turned down the TV,
ran over to him, threw her arms around his neck, and planted little welcome
kisses on his face. He counted on a routine. Day in and day out for thirty
years this was his homecoming. “Thirty years, I can’t believe we
have been married that long,” he reflected. The second thing that Bart noticed as he sat his briefcase on the floor by the door and began to loosen his tie, was the stillness. The entire house was as quiet, dark, and still as a funeral parlor. The only bright spot was the light shining from the kitchen and the smell of food. “Sheila, it sure is nice to walk into a quiet house for once,” he said as he paused by the mirror in the hall. “Damn, still talk dark and handsome, as Sheila would say, even after thirty years of complete boredom; hair is still thick and dark, teeth all there bright and white, and a trim athletic form.” Bart turned away from the mirror and continued to the kitchen to see why she had not answered. Sheila was not in the kitchen either. Bart thought this a little strange as she always made a point of being there to greet him when he got home. “She must be at her sister’s, he mumbled under his breath. Then he laughed aloud at himself. “Why am I whispering?” He said aloud. “Well, at least she cooked before she left.” He followed the smell into the dining room. Bart paused at the entrance to the room in amazement. “Wow!” Bart said as he noticed the table covered in their finest linen and set with their best china and silverware. Tantalizing smells wafted out from under the silver cover of a warming dish at the head of the table making his mouth water. A crystal wineglass sat beside a bottle of champagne chilling in an ice bucket. Tall tapered candles cast a flickering light over the table. A single rose in a vase sat between them in regal splendor. Propped against the vase was a red envelope with his name on it. “Oh God, I forgot our anniversary!” “That can’t be it,” he thought shaking his head and pulling out the chair to sit down. “It is winter and our anniversary is sometime in the summer.” Bart pulled the champagne out of the bucket, picked up the corkscrew, opened the bottle and poured himself a glass. Bart had an uneasy feeling as he reached out for the envelope. Somehow, instead of looking inviting and romantic, the whole setup looked sad and lonely with just one place setting. Taking a sip from the glass, Bart pulled out the flap of the envelope. He pulled out the two pages, one slipped from his hand and floated silently to the floor. Bart shrugged his shoulders; “I will get it in a minute.” Bart settled back in his chair to read. My Dearest Husband, I love you. I have loved you since the moment I walked into the hall of the new school and saw you standing there talking with a group of girls and boys. None of you even noticed me. The group hanging onto every word you said and you caught up in what you were saying. I walked right past you and you never noticed. You never noticed me that year. We shared several classes and I usually sat as close to you as I could. You noticed me the next year though. I blossomed out. I grew taller, the braces came off and I developed a figure. I thought it would be nice to celebrate that first day that I saw you. I fixed your favorite meal and set out a bottle of champagne. Enjoy it all and then meet me upstairs. I will be waiting for you. Bart shook his head as he set the letter on the table. “Sheila is always so dramatic,” he thought as he lifted the cover off the plate. “She can sure cook though.” Smiling slightly he dug into the dinner before him. Sitting back replete from the T-bone, baked potatoes, and green beans, it startled him to realize that he had been home for at least an hour. He sure hoped Sheila had not gone to sleep waiting for him. Pushing back his chair and rising, he paused and braced himself on the table as he felt a wave of dizziness wash over him. “I must have drank a little too much.” Smiling he straightened as the lightheadedness passed. Bart picked up the wineglass and what was left of the champagne to take upstairs with him. “Sheila will appreciate that I left some for her.” As he left the room, Bart never noticed the second page on the floor that now had the imprint of his shoe on it. Bart paused at the door of the bedroom and shifted the glass to the same hand that held the champagne bottle. For some reason, this task was taking him longer than usual. He could not seem to focus or get his hands to work as nimbly as usual. Laughing as he finally accomplished the task, he reached out turned the knob of the door and entered the room. “I’m here, baby!” There wasn’t an answer from the still figure of his wife curled up on her side on the bed. Giggling and stumbling slightly now, Bart walked over to he bed and set the champagne on the bedside table. Bracing one knee on the side of the bed, he started to reach out and nudge his wife awake when he noticed another red envelope propped on his pillow. “Well, damn it, stay still!” He shouted as he tried unsuccessfully to get the envelope. On the third try, he snagged it and ripped open the flap. It did not dawn on him that through all this commotion, his wife had not moved. He pulled out the sheet. I knew you wouldn’t read the second page! A gurgle sounded in his throat as he toppled over face down on the bed. The detective picked up the page from the floor under the dining table and placed it in an evidence bag. The couple’s children had called after they had not been able to get hold of their parents for three days. He began to read: Bart, If you are reading this, it will be the first time in our marriage that you have paid attention to me. It will also explain what is upstairs. If someone else is reading this, please tell my children that I love them, but I am just too tired. I should have realized and somewhere in the back of my mind, I think I did realize that I was another notch on your belt. If it hadn’t been that your parents were so old fashioned and that I got pregnant; you would have never married me. I hoped that you would come to love me. I think you did grow comfortable with me, but that was all. For the first twenty years, things were okay. I had the children and the life of a homemaker. I enjoyed it. I poured all of my pent up love into them. I noticed, but could live with the fact that I didn’t get much attention from you except when you were hungry, thirsty, or horny. I adapted and learned how to fix things around the house and not bother you with any problems. However, I didn’t notice how isolated I had become until about ten years ago when the children all grew up and moved out. I tried many times to talk to you about it. I tried to tell you how unhappy I was and I even offered a solution. I wanted to get a job. I didn’t need a career, just something to get me out of the house and around people. Some contact with the outside world. You wouldn’t hear of it. No wife of yours was going to work. I was supposed to devote the rest of my life to you and your needs. That might have been okay if you had just a few times noticed my needs. Bart, I have become a non-person. For so many years, everyone knew me as mom, the children’s mom, or as your wife. Sometimes I wonder if I even have a name. Nobody uses it, not even you. I probably wouldn’t mind you not using my name so much if you had used an endearment instead. However, I didn’t even rate that. If it wasn’t just a plain “hey bring me a . . .” It was simply left off. Do you even know what my name is anymore? I know. I sign it on the checks to pay the bills. When it dawned on me one day that I wasn’t a person anymore, I lost all hope. I had no name, no personality, no friends, no children, no siblings, no parents, and no life beyond you. I am too tired and too old to start over now. I have no appreciable skills to try to support myself. I can’t live like this anymore. Remember how I used to tell you that I needed the television or stereo on because it was just too quiet. Do you understand now? Did you notice how quiet the house is when you are alone? It resembles a funeral parlor, doesn’t it! If you didn’t read this, I will know that you enjoyed your dinner and I will greet you in hell with the normal hugs and kisses all over your face. If you did read this, I hope you learned something and pay attention to the next lady that you marry. I know that you will remarry. You can’t live with the silence as you have made me do. Till we meet again, Your loving wife Sheila The detective handed the note over to the crime scene investigator. “We will know more after the autopsies, but it looks like a murder/suicide,” he said. “I’m finished here. I think I will get my wife some flowers and take her to dinner. Sally will enjoy that.” |
|
| The Envelope rainflower@xtra.co.nz |
#14 of 21 |
| 329 | |
| He sits and folds the papers ready for the
butcher’s meat. A daily feature fixed into a wicker-basket seat. I’ve wondered since I met him how life led him to this street. I pass him every morning and I cast a friendly glance but he pretends he doesn’t see my amiable advance; I’ve seen the number on his arm and that’s not there by chance. “We’ve all of us a past,” he sighs when I start to suppose. “But most of it is better kept to tell to them as knows.” A cobbled beam outlines a drip which momentarily glows. The traffic eases and the daily business drifts away. The air is cold, the street is dark but something makes me stay. I’m caught by our connection, must hear all he has to say. We stand before each other and we utter not a sound. Uncomfortable, untutored I begin to shift around and then he slips a paper out and drops it to the ground. It’s not a piece of paper but an envelope well worn, yellowed, stained and wrinkled, somewhat dog-eared, burnt and torn; I know it speaks of history in lands and times forlorn. I pick it up and hand it back and never say a word. Caught in time’s embrace we both feel awkward and absurd. But I know he is waiting for the moment to be heard. I help him move his table, we fold up his canvas chair. Our breathing steams and mingles in the icy evening air. I catch his eye and briefly see a flicker of despair. He opens up the packet with a gently shaking hand. Inside a lock of hair lies wrapt around a golden band. “It’s all the buggers left of her!” He knows I’ll understand. And understand I do, it haunts me every road I take. The trembling hand, the voice, the look; I simply cannot shake the feeling that my int’rest was perhaps a sad mistake. But as I travel down the years I come to realise the old man was a metaphor for all that I despise; and yet I can’t escape the desp’rate hope within his eyes. |
|
| The Envelope lee10@host365.com |
#15 of
21 Runner-up |
| 1655 | |
| Harry was whistling in the shower. The day was warm,
there was a sense of spring in the air and he felt good. He cleaned his teeth,
then drew a smiley face in the steam on the mirror above the sink. He
couldn’t remember when he’d last felt this cheerful. His wife, Janice entered the bathroom. “Why are you making that god-awful row at this time of the morning?” she grinned and grabbing a wet flannel, she slapped it across his bare backside. “Get out, woman!” he laughed, “and leave me in peace.” Janice grabbed the damp towels from the floor and headed for the door. “I’ll deal with you later,” Harry shouted after her, “just as soon as you’ve sorted out the washing, cleaned the house and made my breakfast.” He started to whistle again, glad it was not a workday. The delicious smell of bacon cooking flooded the house as he was combing his hair, tempting him to rush. He smiled at his reflection. It’s going to be a good day, he thought. He passed his son’s bedroom on the way downstairs. The door was firmly shut. The boy, a typical teenager, hadn’t come in until 3am and he wouldn’t surface until teatime at least. His daughter’s bedroom door was ajar, a sign that she’d stayed over with her boyfriend again. A small grey cloud hovered above Harry’s head momentarily and his whistled tune wobbled but he remembered the lecture Janice had given him only last week. “She’s twenty-four, for heaven’s sake and they’re getting married in six months,” she’d argued. “So stop getting on at her or she’ll leave and move in with him altogether. Is that what you want?” Harry sighed. Janice was right. He didn’t want to drive a wedge between himself and Becky so he kept his mouth shut. It wasn’t her fault she was no longer a little girl. “Anyway,” he recalled Janice saying, “remember when we were her age? Remember what we got up to? Our pair are saints compared with us!” Harry did remember. He started whistling again and the small grey cloud evaporated. Passing the front door on the way to the kitchen, he stooped to pick up the post from the mat. “Junk! Junk! Junk!” he sang, shuffling the letters and skimming each unwanted item down the hall. One envelope felt thin. Curious, he turned it over to read the address. ‘MR.ROBERT CROSS, 12 STORNAWAY, CLAYBRIDGE, LINCOLNSHIRE.’ And Harry stopped whistling. He stopped breathing. He stopped thinking. The envelope was just that. It was too thin to contain anything. It didn’t need to. The message in the address was as clear as day. Harry’s breathe returned, each gasp ragged and laboured. He was unable to think straight but that didn’t stop him feeling again, with a vivid intensity, the fear that had accompanied his first days on the run. He’d been warned. “Cut all your ties with your past,” they’d said. “Contact no one. Not your friends, not your family, no one.” Harry had done as he was told. It had been hard at only 18 years of age to cut himself adrift from the people he’d grown up with and in particular from his mother. She’d died not knowing whether her son was alive or dead. But he’d never returned to see her. He had not even telephoned her because they’d also said, “If you contact any one from your old life, Punch will find out and will get the information from them that will lead him to you and he’ll send that person to the grave as payment.” So Robert Cross had ceased to be and Harry Towns was born. For years he’d moved, from place to anonymous place, until he met Janice. He was twenty-eight when he finally put down roots and became just another commuter living in a suburb of a large city. To be on the safe side, Harry avoided crowded places, claiming he was claustrophobic in a crush of people, “to the extent,” he told Janice, his new fiancée, “that even shopping is difficult.” The wedding, in an ugly, city centre, registry office had been a quiet one. Harry had managed to rustle up a couple of people from work to attend so that his lack of real friends was not too apparent and the day had gone off surprisingly well, with no one wondering why the groom appeared to be so anxious. Harry had entered the witness protection programme in a hurry when Howard Punch had amazingly been found not guilty of murder, despite Harry’s eyewitness statement and for the next twenty-odd years Harry had been looking over his shoulder, aware that Punch and his henchmen would be searching for him. It had only been in the last year or so that Harry had finally relaxed and begun to enjoy life unreservedly. He’d even accompanied Janice on the occasional shopping trip. ‘MR.ROBERT CROSS, 12 STORNAWAY, CLAYBRIDGE, LINCOLNSHIRE.’ There was no mistake. Harry realised he’d been fooling himself when he’d thought he was free of his past. Here was the proof of his stupidity. Punch had caught up with him. It had to be Punch. Harry was caught by this brief revelatory second in a state of shock that seemed to stretch to fill a lifetime. His thoughts skipped like a stone thrown across water. He was unable to catch any one idea to pin it down into coherence. “Do you want this breakfast or shall I feed it to the dog?” Janice shouted from the kitchen. Harry started. He looked towards the sound of the voice but was unable to take in what had been said. He looked down at the envelope, grasped tight in his clammy hand. The envelope was white. It was pristine but despite its virgin appearance, it was not innocent. It was like holding a ticking bomb. He turned it over. There was no postmark. Harry staggered. He felt sick. He needed to sit down. No longer aware of his surroundings, living in a sudden nightmare, Harry moved by instinct to his study, to the one place where he could think without being disturbed by members of his family. Janice appeared at the doorway to the kitchen. “Harry?” she queried. “What’s the matter?” Harry waved her away. “Nothing,” he muttered. “I’ll be there in a minute.” He closed the study door in her face. Harry’s study wasn’t a big room but it was spacious enough to contain a couple of easy chairs, a bookcase and an antique, leather-top desk. A matching red, leather chair stood at an angle to the desk, | |