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.
