you have a problem, but if you did, management would ignore it until you screwed up big time, then they would just fire your sorry ass.”
I was happy to get my job back, and I was looking forward to becoming a letter carrier. Sorting the mail for six to eight hours a day was starting to be a drag. It’s the same routine every day. I’ll probably have less aggravation as a carrier. I hear people complaining about the Post Office all the time, how letters are lost, or take too long to be delivered. But part of the reason mail gets misdelivered is because the address on the envelope doesn’t have a number, or it’s the wrong number, or there’s no such street in town, or the zip code is wrong or missing. Sometimes there’s no return address on letters like that, so the letter ends up in the Dead Letter Office, and if no one files a claim for that piece of mail it is eventually destroyed. I bet I see at least a hundred pieces of mail each and every day that don’t belong in our office. And it’s mostly the fault of the sender.
But things will be different when I become a letter carrier. At least when I’m out delivering the mail I won’t have a supervisor watching over me every second of the day. I’ll be able to see different people and places. I can even feed the squirrels. And it’ll be fun driving those little mail jeeps around. I owe it to Ugly O’Leary to be the best letter carrier in the world. I’ll be so good, customers will never have reason to complain about the Post Office again.
I felt so good about myself that I only stayed for one more beer because I wanted to go home and phone Nancy the good news. But when I got home and tried to call her she was neither at work or home, and no one knew where she was. I called Bill’s house. He was out with Susan. I was disappointed I couldn’t reach Nancy, but I was still riding high on my positive frame of mind. I would turn things around with Nancy. Positively.
I told my mom and dad about my decision to switch from clerk to carrier. They were happy for me.
“Yeah,” I told them, “it means I’ll be working during the day time instead of night. Plenty of fresh air and exercise. The Postmaster said he only asks the best clerks to be letter carriers. How about that?”
My mom and dad were impressed. Have I told Nancy yet? They couldn’t wait to find out her reaction.
I couldn’t wait either. But by ten o’clock I gave up trying to call her. Christ, it’s been three days since I’ve talked to her. When was she going to cut me some slack? Probably never. Why was she playing this game? If she really loved me, or didn’t love me, why didn’t she just let me know one way or the other? Maybe it was over between us. After all, we hadn’t been going out for that long. Maybe we were moving too fast. I never should have kissed her that first night in O’Leary’s. I should’ve waited at least until the second or third date. I don’t know of any couple who commits themselves so totally to each other at such an early stage in their relationship. Now that I had time to think about it, perhaps we should have given ourselves more time before we talked about marriage.
I layed in bed, listening to the faint rumbles of an approaching storm. I couldn’t kid myself. I loved her. We weren’t moving too fast; we were destined to be together since the time we were born. The fact that we didn’t meet until twenty-one years later only meant that destiny moved too slow. I wanted to marry her. I can make her happy, if she’d only give me one more chance. I could see it all: a ranch house in West Orange with a flower box beneath every window, a green carpet lawn, a shiny car in the driveway, an Irish Setter dozing in the sun, our children playing on the swing set that I spent all day Saturday putting together. I’m relaxing on a lawn chair, Rheingold in hand. Nancy’s hanging out the wash to dry in the warm Summer breeze. She smiles at me. She walks toward me, drying her hands on her cotton dress. She holds her arms out to me; love is in her eyes. I reach for her, but she pulls back. Her hands are on her hips, her one eyebrow is arched, she looks angry. She points a finger at me and opens her mouth to speak, but all I hear is a loud, frightening thunder clap.
I sat upright in a sweat. The window shade was flapping inward and rain was coming through the screen. I jumped out of bed and closed the window as lightning lit up the room.
I knew exactly what had to be done. Damn the torpedoes. The show must go on. A stitch in time saves nine.
I got dressed and drove the six miles to Nancy’s house. It was nearly midnight and raining hard. I ran to the side of the house beneath Nancy’s darkened window. I called her name several times, but the wind and thunder drowned me out. I looked around for pebbles to toss at her window.
I had seen the same situation in a movie once. The penitent lover stands under the window of his beloved throwing pebbles against the glass. She awakes and opens the window to see her sweetheart clutching his thoroughly wet jacket to his neck. Her heart melts. She cries out his name. He climbs the trellis and hangs on to her window sill. They embrace.
But I couldn’t find any damn pebbles. The Marshall’s lawn was too thick. There were plenty of storm blown twigs around, so I picked up a dozen or more and flung them at the window. I threw several handfuls but they were too light to make any noise against the glass. In desperation I ripped up a chunk of grass and dirt and threw it against the house as hard as I could. I ripped up another chunk, and another, and another. The mud and wet grass thudded against the clapboard siding until finally I saw the room light go on. The window slid open.
“Who’s out there?”
Oh, crap! It’s Nancy’s father!
“It’s me, Mr. Marshall! Mackenzie!”
“Mac? What in God’s name are you doing out there?”
“I’m sorry! I’m sorry, Mr. Marshall! I thought this was Nancy’s window!”
“Her bedroom is on the other side! Are you throwing something against my house?”
“Sorry!”
“Go to the front door, Mac, you idiot!”
I ran around to the front of the house. The hall light went on. Mr. Marshall came down the stairs, yanked the door open, and turned on the living room light.
“Are you out of your mind, Mac? Get in here.”
Nancy’s mother hurried down the stairs, tying the belt to her bathrobe.
“Aaron? What’s wrong? Mac, it’s you. What happened? Were you in an accident?”
“We were just about to discuss that possibility,” Mr. Marshall said.
“You’re soaking wet, Mac,” Mrs. Marshall said. “Come into the kitchen.”
“I have to talk to Nancy,” I said.
“Now?” Mr. Marshall said. “It’s past midnight.”
“I have to see her.”
“What is it, Mac?” asked Mrs. Marshall. “Is something wrong?”
“No. Yes. I just have to talk to her.”
“Mackenzie?”
We all looked up to see Nancy standing halfway down the stairs. She was wearing a long white nightgown. Her hair hung loosely around her sleepy face. I had never seen her more beautiful.
“What…what are you doing here?” Nancy said with a puzzled look.
I went up a couple of steps, my arms outstretched
