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ou were expecting.
Expecting.
I just loved the sound of that. Anticipating that something new and different would happen. Wasn’t that the definition of expecting?
There’d been an unpleasant sensation lingering around me, ever since the visit to the psychic, that perhaps trouble was closer now than Minneapolis. I felt that perhaps someone had come for me that day. But when I told Adrian about the strange ending to my meeting, he said it confirmed that the psychic was a crook, and that she had panicked, unable to tell me my future. I liked this explanation better, yet now, driving to the post office, it sounded rather ludicrous.
I parked my car and stepped out into the sweltering day. My just-washed hair, still a bit damp in the back, became hot with sweat as I walked down the street, and then turned quickly chilly as I entered the air-conditioned post office.
“Hello,” I sang to the woman behind the counter. We’d been seeing a lot of one another since the fence went up. I wondered if she noticed anything different about me…
“Oh. Hello. How are you doing today, Mrs. Corbis?” She never sounded sincerely happy to see me.
“Just fine. And yourself?”
“Good. Thank you. Here you go,” she said, handing me a single letter.
No. Please, No.
I made no move to accept it, so she pushed it at me, her bony fingers forcibly sliding it across the counter. “This is all I have for you today. You’re going to have to get a P.O. box if you don’t install your mailbox somewhere we can reach it.”
I ignored her and carried the letter to the car so I could have some privacy.
I got in and locked my door. I reached in my handbag and put on my sunglasses. They always make me feel a little invisible and safe.
I looked at the letter for a long time, holding it by the edges, not wanted to touch it. The same handwriting. A generic stamp. A Minneapolis postmark. It seemed obvious that this letter was evil. I felt like the woman at the post office should have followed me, knocked on my car window, had some police officers with her and a finger pointing at me accusingly. But she was still inside, having an average, forgettable day, and here I was, seemingly also having an average, forgettable day. And until I opened it, it was just some letter.
I did the math in my head. This letter was postmarked on Friday. I had gone to the psychic on Saturday. Today was Monday. Could the person who sent this letter have been here in Savannah on Saturday? Well, yes. Or no.
I was going to tear it open with my fingernail, but I hesitated and instead pulled the keys from the ignition. I stuck the tip of one into the edge of the letter and carefully tore an opening across the top seam of the envelope. Nice and tidy. Still I could not bring myself to look inside. I just knew there was going to be something really bad inside. I set the letter on the passenger seat and started the car; I realized it must be well over a hundred degrees in there, considering I had the windows up.
I pointed the vents at my face, lifted up my sunglasses, closed my eyes. I breathed in the cool air, and when I began to feel a little better my right hand, a free agent, a crawling thing with a mind of its own, reached over to the seat beside me and retrieved the letter.
Yes. Yes. You can do this. Because you have to.
And I looked inside. My stomach twisted and turned. While I had feared I would find out something horrible about Jeb’s whereabouts, what I did not expect to find was a picture of just Jeb’s head, swollen and unreal, resting on a picnic table. It was so surreal that at first I thought it was a trick. I looked at it, momentarily puzzled at what I was seeing, not quite getting it. The reality of it then clicked, registered, and I grabbed my stomach. I turned the picture over, as shocked and disturbed by the strange sunny setting as I was by the macabre image.
I guess this guy must not have many neighbors, I thought, holding my stomach. I feared my baby was being ruined.
Obviously taking matters into my own hands had gone too far. I called Adrian, barely able to speak.
“Honey,” I choked on my words.
“What’s the matter? What’s wrong?”
“Come to the post office.”
“I’m working on a painting.”
“Come right now.”
“Are you serious? I’m busy.”
“Come right now. Come right now.”
He changed. His voice changed and his demeanor changed. Somehow, he understood everything now. “Stay there. Wait for me. Don’t do anything. I’ll be right there. Just stay where you are.”
I put the picture back in the envelope and put the envelope facedown on my lap. I didn’t want it near me but also did not want it out of my reach. I tried to make my breathing come out evenly, brushed my tears away, afraid someone would see me crying hysterically and try to help me.
