The Mailman's Funeral

The Mailman’s Funeral

By Krysta Walker

On the day of the mailman's funeral, mamma spat on his grave. I suppose that was when I knew. Or maybe I knew long before. Maybe I’ve always known. How’d he'd wink at me and shoot me a quarter every time he delivered our packages. One year, on my birthday, he gave a card with five one hundred dollar bills inside. Grandma said, one night as she sat in our kitchen helping my mother make dinner, that our old mailman, Mr. Gabriel, had never winked at anyone and that he sho' nuff never gave nobody a card filled with hundred dollar bills on their birthday. Maybe that's when I knew.

               Anyway, I was sad to see him go, sad to see mamma so sad. I guess that was when daddy knew too. I don’t think he wanted to know, but grandma used to say that you can’t stop knowledge once it starts flowing into your brain.

               Sitting there at the funeral, I saw realization change the color of daddy's face. I saw years of lies redden his forehead and force his eyes over to my face. I watched as his eyes settled over all the features that never quite resembled him but did resemble someone else; the mailman.

               I wondered if he would spit, just like mamma had, but for different reasons I guess. He looked like he would, his mouth all puckered and the red on his face deepening. I wondered if he would hit me. He never had before, but if he would, this would be the time. It was never too late to start as Grandma always said. He didn’t spit though and he didn’t hit me. He always had a pretty tight handle on himself.

               I think later on that night he hit mamma though. I'm sure he did. Just as I am sure she hit him back. But at the mailman's funeral they both just stood there next to each other.

               It was 97 degrees that day. Mamma had forced me into a sweaty purple velvet dress with long black sleeves. I could feel a heat rash developing on my lower back where the velvet was the itchiest. I didn’t scratch it, though it itched like the dickens. It didn’t help that I was thirsty. My throat felt like it was splitting in two.

               I would peek over at my mother ever so often, wondering whether or not to ask for a drink from the bottle of water she kept in her purse. I decided against it every time. At that point, she seemed to forget that I was there. She'd mutter to herself ever five minutes or so. Things I didn’t quite understand.

"Idiot...you promised...stupid...promised."

I remember thinking that her words reminded me of something. A hot Saturday that I was forced to stay inside. The mailman dropped off the mail and an extra letter for my mother. I read it over her shoulder and could only catch a few words.

"Elise...soon...promise....swear...leave....promise."

               A lot of the words were hard to read, he had very small handwriting, and before I could get any further, my mother snatched it away and sent me to clean the basement.

That’s what I thought of when she muttered at the funeral. I couldn't understand her, but felt that I wasn’t supposed to. So I pretended not to hear.

               Daddy didn’t though. Every time she muttered, he'd get more and more frustrated until he finally popped and hissed at her:

"What in Sam Hill are you murmurin' about, Elise!?"

One of the ladies in the front row shushed him and he simply went back to stewing in his fury.

               Lord I was so thirsty. But I knew if I left the pew, I’d get in trouble. Mamma might rise out of her stupor just in time to see me slip away and switch me across the back of my legs with her purse strap. I couldn’t risk it. So I stayed in the seat getting dryer and dryer, mamma cried harder and harder, daddy got madder and madder and the mailman, my father, got deader and deader.