A Single Letter, Sally Spratt [psychology books to read .txt] 📗

The mail truck rambled down the old coast road, carrying a single letter. The last stop at the end of a long day for Hank, the letter sitting on the seat next to him, was postmarked Hollywood, California. Written in a neat masculine script was Angela Monroe’s name and address. He gently lifts the envelope, rubs his fingertips across the embossed return address; feeling the heavy-weight linen, he knew was expensive. Being the postmaster he had sworn an oath not to read personal mail, postcards were okay, but he couldn’t read what was in the ominous envelope. He knows though, from the embossed address, the letter is from Angela’s fiancé. Angela, he adores her and cherishes her from afar, they have known each other their whole lives but she is rich and, well, he’s the postman. Angela with her long flowing auburn hair, her pale skin and full lips she is a natural beauty – Hank dreams of her every waking moment.

Hank is postmaster of the tiny town of South Lubec, Maine, not to be confused with its’ less than friendly neighbor, North Lubec. South Lubec is barely a speck on the Maine map. To find it one needs a magnifying glass to locate it on the northern border of Maine a hop, skip and jump from New Brunswick and a cold swim to Nova Scotia. Hank loved being the postmaster, as his father and grandfather before him, had also loved the job. It wasn’t a very demanding job, and it did come with the benefit of never sitting behind a desk. He got to see the changing sky, the churning seas and every now and then, he got to help a neighbor. Last month, Mrs. Nuembaugh was trying to get her old jersey cow back into its’ stony pasture, but that old cow wouldn’t budge. It just stood in the road, chewing its cud and with big brown eyes looked back at Hank and his beat up old jeep. Hank with his animal wisdom and cunning ways, not to mention the apple from his lunch, was able to get old Betsey the cow back into her pasture. As a thank you Mrs. Nuembaugh gave him an entire apple pie, which he saved and ate that night for his dinner.

Hank fondly recollects the days when he and Angela used to sit in the tiny one room school house. She often had the seat in front of him, as the seating arrangement was set by grade; Angela was a grade below, her seat closer to the teacher. He spent many days dreaming about touching one of her long braids, or the soft lace on the collar of her dress. This he could never do for fear of rejection or scorn. He would pick up things she hadn’t noticed she’d dropped, a pink ribbon, a stubby pencil, a hankie and a note to one of her friends. He kept these little mementos in a tiny box, its’ lid secured with a rubber band. Occasionally when no one else was around he takes the treasures out, examines them and thinks of his beloved Angela. As carefully as he takes out the treasure he places them back into the box and returns it all back to its hiding place. As they both grew older, Hank continued to dream of Angela. If he managed to talk to her it was usually a barely audible sound, he often sharpened her pencils for her. Several times a week he carried her heavy load of books, walking several paces behind her as she walked with her group of friends. The girls giggling and laughing occasionally look back at Hank and breaking out in laughter again. It wasn’t too long before he was carrying all of their books, he didn’t care, he was carrying her books, and that was fine with him. His mind shifted back from the old school days to the letter; he selfishly hoped the letter from Angela’s fiancé is a curt goodbye, a Dear John letter. Maybe the heavy linen paper was a sorrowful goodbye, describing how the fiancé had found a new love, a woman he loved more than Angela, and that he was to be married to before the end of the month. Hank felt a pang of guilt, knowing that a letter like this would hurt Angela deeply. Maybe he could be the one to comfort her and console her.

He remembered his senior year, his final year of sitting behind Angela. Of course by then, she was so busy with her school friends, boys and her social obligations, she barely noticed Hank. She never asked him to carry her books anymore, the chauffeur picked her up from school or one of her boyfriends drove her home. He wanted so much to ask her to the senior dance, held in North Lubec. With so few students, it only made sense to combine the senior activities. This year, it was North Lubecs’ turn to host the senior ball. Hank finally got up the courage to ask her, he waited outside the school, under the giant elm. He stood in the shade, looking up in the wide entrance of the school, waiting for her to appear. She came out, arm and arm with her best friends, their heads tilted back in laughter. A bolt of fear passed through him, he hadn’t planned on her being with her friends, but of course she would be. He made a few steps forward, out from the shade of the tree, his face burning and his cold palms damp with sweat. “Hi Angela,” muttered Hank, barely able to lift his chin. “Oh Hank, we’re on our way to buy our dresses for the dance, I am going with Lou! Can you believe that, Lou?” Hank, smiled and nodded, “You’ll have a fun time Angela.” “Was there something you wanted?” “No, just saying hi, see you around.” He walked away from the group; shoulders slumped, kicking at blades of grass. He was angry at himself for waiting too long to ask her. He should have known that there’d be others who would ask her; after all she was the richest and most beautiful girl in the county.

He rounds the final bend in the quiet coastal road and sees Angela’s cottage. She is working in her garden with a large floppy hat protecting her pale skin. She is gracefully cutting roses and placing the delicate buds in an oblong basket she has hooked over her arm. She looks up as she hears the sound of the mail truck; she drops her basket and clippers and runs toward the mailbox. “Hi Hank, I am so glad to see you today,” Angela gushes. She has a little bead of sweat her forehead which she wipes away with the back of her hand, leaving a smudge. Hank tips his hat and nods, “Why I am fine Miss Angela. You only have one letter today.” He places it in her tiny hand, hoping she doesn’t notice his hand shaking. “See you next week Angela.” Hank’s chest puffed up with pride, he actually spoke to her, two full sentences without a stammer. With a little more practice, he might be able to ask her some questions. Maybe, he’ll be able to talk about her garden or her watercolors. His thoughts drift off to the two of them sitting on the rocky beach watching a storm rolling in, he comforting her with an arm around her shoulder. Angela barely muttered a response she had already turned away and had begun tearing open the envelope. Hank turns the mail truck around, it takes him three tries and he grinds the gears. Embarrassed he heads back down the coastal road toward town. He watches in his rearview mirror and he sees Angela jumping up and down, waving her arms and running into the house. He rounds the bend and that is the last time he sees his love Angela. He reaches up into his visor, grabs the little box containing a pink ribbon, stub of a pencil and a note Angela had written to one of her friends, and tosses it out the window.

Text: Please do not copy any part of this book without my consent.
Publication Date: 04-12-2010

All Rights Reserved