No Return Address

The letter had been in her box for two days. The mailbox had tilted dangerously under the burden of an enormous jasmine vine, and time had left it to suffer rust. She had seen the envelope lying in there, trying to look unassuming. It had been there again yesterday.

Still.

Quiet.

Waiting.

She cussed colorfully for an old lady, a lot like a sailor, her late husband had once said. When you want the goddamn postal thieves to steal mail, they are nowhere to be found. She left it one more day, hopeful.

A knock on her door pulled her off the sofa. Slippers, shuffling slowly, she braced on the door frame, pulling the heavy door open only as far as the chain allowed. A fresh-faced mailman handed the day's mail to her through the door slit, “Hey, Mrs. Cooper, I thought you might want this mail. You OK?”

“Yes, if it's any of your business,” she muttered, “You always go around personally handing people their mail?”

“Only the ones I care about,” he offered, saluting her as he turned to leave.

“Take this one back,” she hastily called out to him.

“No can do,” he eyed her raised brow, and added, “No return address.”

She eyed the letter spitefully, recognizing with certainty now the rolling script she had seen once long ago. The envelope was old, tattered, and worn-looking, like it had a hell of a time reaching her mailbox. For a moment, she wavered, then tossed it into the desk trash can, as if that alone might stop her life from changing.

“Why can’t an old lady just be left in peace?” she ranted, to no one, aiming a kick at the trash can. She felt faint for a moment, and her heart stuttered until she breathed again.

A week went by. Then another.

She had not emptied the trash, but stared at it from the sofa. It had made her miss parts of her favorite shows, until she couldn’t follow them, so she had moved the trash can a bit farther out of sight. Somewhat mollified that the letter was still in there, unable to magic itself free. But she hadn’t slept well. In her dreams, the letter was everywhere, on the mantel, on the bathroom sink, the kitchen counter by the coffee pot, and worse, on the empty pillow beside her. Almost every night, she got up, put on her robe and slippers, and peeked into the trash to see if it was really still there.

It was.

When she had to leave the house, which was rare, the first thing she did when she came in was check the trash.

It was still there.

It became almost impossible to get anything done. She’d make breakfast, clean up the counters, and then find excuses to pass by the trash can all day. Sometimes she went into the other room, picked up something random, and passed by the can. Pursing her lips, she’d glance away, letting it know she wasn’t interested.

Even on occasion, she added a piece of discarded junk mail on top of it with satisfaction.

She had even turned down bingo night.

She skipped her hair appointment, her usual grocery store run, and even her friend's retirement party.

Her friends called. “She was fine. She was too busy. Possibly sick. Too tired.” She stopped picking up.

Finally, she moved the can back to its previous spot in clear view of the sofa and left the TV off.

The old clock ticked, the refrigerator hummed, and the house creaked.

The letter sat in the can.

Her hair by this time had exploded into a profusion of tangled gray curls. She couldn’t concentrate on makeup or wardrobe selection, so the robe and slippers were what she wore every day.

Her daily crossword puzzle went by the wayside every time she tried to write in the answer she was spelling—l-e-t-t-e-r—no matter what the question.

There were some things she had to do, like pay bills, to keep the electricity on, cook something, so she didn’t starve, but the whole time she kept glancing at the can going by and checking to see if the letter was still there.

She had a quarter and decided to flip it heads or tails. Heads, she’d open the letter. She tossed the quarter. Of course, she thought, it came up Heads. She threw the quarter in the can beside the letter.

Finally, there was nothing in the house she wanted to eat. Her prescriptions had been filled days ago; if she didn’t pick them up, the pharmacy threatened to re-shelf them. She had stayed in her robe for so long that real clothes felt alien.

There was no fixing her hair, so she stuffed most of the rat-nest curls under a beanie hat.

And then she paced.

Every time she got to the door, she backtracked to the trash can, her heart beating faster, sweat beading on her upper lip, and she felt faint at the thought of leaving it.

It was ridiculous. She knew it.

Her mind had been worn out from the scenarios, playing on an endless loop. She had woken many nights feeling herself slitting the envelope open with her fingers, pulling the letter out in her dreams. Or seeing herself put it in the freezer, as if that could undo the damage. Or into the trunk of the car, out of reach, but no, that was too far away. Maybe she could bury it in the backyard. Burn it even— on the stove top.

In the end, it stayed in the trash can, as she hurried out the door on her errand. She didn’t look back at the house, knowing better than to test herself. Some things only had power if you gave them your attention, and she had almost drowned under the letter's spell.

Twenty minutes later, her scheduled housekeeper came and did the usual chores, leaving the house sparkling.

When Mrs. Cooper returned, the house carried the scent of lemon cleaner. The counters gleamed. The floors had been vacuumed.

She stood very still in the doorway, clutching the grocery bag to her chest, keys dangling from her fingers. The refrigerator kicked on, humming in the quiet.

She released a long breath, eyes sliding to the empty trash can. A sense of loss and disorientation—then relief—in her exhale.