Chapter 4 #2
together as they discuss whatever is in his envelope, which he has begun to jab with his index finger. Sylvie, Blythe, and
Morrow watch the interaction intently, trying to ascertain what’s going on. The woman who is talking on the phone, however,
seems not to notice or mind the delay. She has gone on to launch into a list of the merits, and various sources, of protein.
Being of a certain age, Morrow knows that protein is important, but in her opinion, this woman has taken it too far. She feels
for whoever is on the other end of that call.
Sometimes Sylvie, Blythe, and Morrow give one another sympathetic glances, but they don’t speak, only expressing their impatience
by alternating their huffing and sighing. Once, Blythe, who is next in line, turns and rolls her eyes at Sylvie, like “Can
you believe this?” Sylvie smiles in response, pleased to be in on the joke. Usually young people don’t notice her at all.
Sylvie debates leaving. She could go over to the Food Lion and get the things they need for supper tonight, then come back
after the rude man is gone. She glances down at the envelope, sees Robert’s name there, the familiar address. She flips the
envelope over so she doesn’t have to look at it. She wants this done and off her mind. Then she can get on with her day. Or
she can try to. In truth, she doubts she will think about anything else for the rest of the day except what she is doing here,
in this moment.
Still, it has to be done. She agreed. She promised.
So she keeps her place, watching the scene at the front of the line a little more intently as she tries to discern what the holdup is.
She tries to make out what the man is saying, but her ears aren’t what they used to be and the two are less talking and more murmuring.
All she hears is his voice, the words like a hiss.
It’s pretty clear that he is angry. Someone should intervene.
Sylvie looks around the post office, trying to find a supervisor or . . . someone else to help. But there is no one, which
is different. Every other time she’s been in to mail something there have been at least two people taking care of customers,
and usually a third person who serves in some sort of support role. Sylvie wonders if perhaps there is someone in the back, if maybe she should try to let another worker—hopefully a superior—know there’s a problem up front.
“Do you think maybe we should check back there?” she tries to ask Blythe, but Blythe’s nose is back in her phone, her fingers
moving again. It amazes Sylvie how fast these young people are with texting. Sylvie can text, and she does. It’s the only
way she communicates with her granddaughters. But she’s nowhere nearly that quick at it. Sylvie still prefers a good old-fashioned
phone call. But she realizes she is one of the few who does.
She rises up on her tiptoes, trying to peer at the back of the building, but it is useless. From where they stand, she is
not tall enough to see beyond the section where the clerks work. There is a half-wall partition blocking her view, but she
can make out some sort of shipping area behind it. Sylvie sinks back on her heels, her arches protesting as she thinks again
about walking out, her grip tightening on the envelope anew, as if she can squeeze the life out of it. She’s being silly,
obviously. There is no life in this envelope. Which is sort of the point.
“Surely he’ll move along soon.” She says this sort of loudly, boldly, hoping the man will hear her and take the hint. She
would like that very much.
The man does not appear to hear, but Blythe does, looking back and nodding before returning to her phone.
“I’m thinking of saying something,” Sylvie says to Blythe’s back. Then she tries to get the attention of the woman on the
phone behind her, but that woman doesn’t notice because she is still deep in her very public private conversation.
Morrow, who would like to get this errand over with so she can go home and maybe even have a glass of wine with her lunch—she
feels she has earned it—chimes in, “You probably should if it’s been a while.” Morrow is the last person in line; she has
been there for the least amount of time. But she is in favor of moving things along.
“It’s been more than a while,” Sylvie answers. “I debated leaving, but I don’t want to have to come back, you know?”
Morrow nods.
Sylvie looks nervously over at the man and Nadine, still locked in what seems to be a heated conversation. “So you do think
I should?”
Morrow and Blythe, who has looked up from her texting again, both nod. They watch as Sylvie leaves her place in line and bustles
up to stand right beside the agitated man. It is a little too close if you ask Morrow, but she isn’t getting involved. She
is a bystander and a bystander only.
“Excuse me,” Morrow hears Sylvie say to Nadine, completely ignoring the man standing there. “I was wondering if perhaps you
have someone else who might wait on us?” Sylvie gestures to her fellow line mates, though the woman talking on the phone remains
oblivious. “We’ve been waiting quite some time and, well, we all need to be getting on with our day.”
“Yes, certainly,” Nadine says, looking down at the man’s envelope as she speaks. “I’m sorry,” Nadine says to Sylvie, then
looks back at the man. “I guess you’d better go now.”
In response to being dismissed, the man steps back from the counter, indignant.
He sways before regaining his footing. His nostrils flare as he breathes in and out, in and out, like a bull who just spotted the matador waving his cape.
The noise is loud in a room gone quiet, his face a question mark as his head swings to the left to look at the women in line, then to the right to look at the doorway, then back at Nadine.
“When I call you later, you’d better answer,” he growls.
Watching this, Morrow now understands that they were not discussing the mail, that he is not a customer. She sees him snatch
up the envelope they appeared to be arguing over and stalk off. But when he does, she keeps her eyes on Nadine, who appears
to be about the same age as the man. She’s probably not much older than Morrow’s own son, a recent college graduate, now off
in the world of “adulting,” as he calls it. Adulting, he tells her, is not as much fun as he expected it to be. Morrow tried
to tell him that all those years when he was so anxious to grow up. Now he has, and now he knows.