Three days from retirement, the white-haired postie rolled the Grumman off the pavement and applied the brakes. Angie Wickham leaned out the side window and with a thumb and forefinger unlatched the weathered lid. She then lifted an official government envelope from a reinforced plastic bin with the same demur as one would a dead black widow. After camouflaging the envelope within a folded Target add, Angie hastily slipped it into the mailbox and snapped the lid shut. No one heard her whisper: “When you care enough to send the very best, this is what you get back–in spades.”
Gemma stood at the living room window and waved. “Angie never waves. I wonder if its a regulation.” The Grumman motored from the shade of the scarred sycamore and backfired. Like the government, it needed a tune-up.
Official DOD policy bulletin: In place of in-person notifications, the Pentagon has determined that high casualty rates temporarily necessitate the mailing of condolences to bereaved families. Our apologies.
Once read from top to bottom, the harbinger of bad tidings lay on Gemma’s aproned lap. She clicked on, muted the television, and sat alone for hours watching nothing.
“Can I change channels, Ma?” asked Lance, as he charged in from the bus stop and let the screen door slam behind him. Gemma looked comatose. “Mama, what’s wrong?” As Lance reached for the tuner he saw the official correspondence; one sorry phrase leaped off the page and grabbed him by the throat. ‘We regret to inform you that Captain Conor O’Dwyer was killed in Herat, Afghanistan, on . . .’ Now he knew. Gemma pushed the quilt aside, arose, and shut off the television.
“I’m going to bed, son. Isabelle is sleeping over at Kaitlin’s tonight. You’ll find leftovers in the fridge.”
Lance watched his mother shuffle into her bedroom and close the door. Tears welled up in his eyes. I’m glad Isabelle isn’t home. He locked the front door, checked the windows, and shuffled to the screened-in back porch where he stood and listened to the night. Turning back toward the kitchen he stopped again and held his breath. Something heavy was being dragged across the snow.
Lance wiped his eyes, unlocked the door, flipped on the floodlight, and peaked into the yard. “Uncle Albert!”
“Land sakes! You startled me, boy.”
“I startled you? Why are you out here wandering around in the dark? Where’s your torch? And did you hear about . . . ”
Albert snarled, “Wasn’t out for a moonlight stroll, if that’s what you’re getting at. Shut off the durn light, will you? I run out of potatoes, so I’m borrowing this bag from your root cellar.”
“Let me help you. It looks too heavy to get over the stile.”
Albert bristled. “No, no! I got it, boy. It’s cold out here. You go on in and get to bed.” Dragging the bag behind him he added, “Thanks anyhow, Conor.”
“Conor?”