Chapter 8 #2
With the sight of the conductor reading his book without a care in the world, I knew there was no point in trying to figure things out.
Between Levi Lee, the guy who jumped off the bridge, and Wyatt with his gun—I already knew everyone in town was crazy.
The tram conductor just cemented that theory in my mind.
It dawned on me that I had been so caught up in watching the tram that the rest of the world had seemed to melt away and fade into the background.
Who Do You Love? by Bo Diddley was playing on the speakers the radio station had staked up around town.
In fact, I was close enough to AMOR that I could see its storefront.
It looked pretty innocuous—not at all like a lunatic was in charge of the place.
Then again, most lunatics do all they can to avoid detection, including living and working in “normal” places.
My focus shifted from the conductor, his reading, and the tiny tram, and I listened to the song playing throughout town.
It wasn’t so loud as to distract anyone from what they had to do as they went about their day, but loud enough that you couldn’t help but notice it playing.
As the minutes ticked by, the song came to an end, the last chords fading on the gentle summer breeze.
“You’ve been listening to AMOR, the most popular radio station in Possibly, Texas. All day long from 6am to 6pm,” the radio DJ announced. “That was Who Do You Love? by Bo Diddley. Next up—Who Do You Love? by Bo Diddley.”
So, this was a thing in Possibly? The radio station played a different song each day and they played it for twelve hours? Didn’t the citizens of the tiny little town get tired of that crap? Who wanted to hear the same song on repeat for twelve hours a day?
Another gunshot went off in the distance.
I only jumped a little.
Instead of waiting around to watch the conductor read or to listen to another round of Bo Diddley, I took off down Liberty Lane towards the teal clapboard building by the creek.
As I mentioned, the road wasn’t long, so I made it quicker on foot than I would have had I jumped on the tram and asked for a ride.
Before I knew it, I was coming up on the backside of the building, rounding the side, and approaching the front door.
Brown, heavy wood, just like the door on a house, greeted me at the front of the post office.
At first, I felt odd opening the door and letting myself inside since it looked so much like a private home.
However, I glanced over at the sign near the door that proclaimed this was indeed the post office, and the hours were from “6am to 6pm.” My hand found the doorknob and I pulled the door open, a blast of frigid air slapping against my skin as I stepped into the building.
AMOR’s song of the day was playing somewhere deep inside the building—towards the back up more upstairs.
The front room looked like it had once been a living room, except postal lockers had been installed to the left of the door, all along one wall.
A few more were across from the door, along with shelves that held mailing materials and paraphernalia.
The wall alongside the lockers and shelves across from the door seemed to be absolutely covered in papers and flyers pinned up with thumbtacks.
Every piece of paper looked vaguely the same at first glance.
Probably people advertising odd jobs or services.
It was probably integral to have side hustles when you lived in a town like Possibly and the nearest big town was at least thirty minutes away.
To my right, I found a large wooden counter, almost like one you’d see in an old timey train station.
Pens attached to chains stuck up from the counter and a round, matronly looking woman with a smile that could light up a room stood behind the desk.
She wore an honest to goodness postmaster’s hat, which was perched precariously atop a bundle of black hair.
The woman didn’t look quite old enough to be called “old,” but she looked older.
“Well, hello there,” she greeted me. “This is something new.”
“I’m sorry?” I asked, shaking my head to clear my thoughts.
The air was absolutely frigid in the post office. Instinctively, I wrapped my arms around myself and turned to approach the counter.
“Sorry, hon,” the woman said. “I’m going through the change of life. If I don’t keep it cold in here, I’d burn up.”
Well, that was information I didn’t need to have. But it explained a lot.
“O-oh,” I stammered, “yeah. No worries, ma’am. I just came to pick up the mail.”
“Well, I don’t recognize you.” She leaned against the counter as I approached the other side and I got a clear view of the shimmery blue powder over her eyes and the pinkish hue of her lipstick.
Crow’s feet decorated the corners of her mouth and eyes.
But her eyes sparkled with a friendly spirit.
The nametag on her chest proclaimed her to be ‘Sofia Salazar.’ “You new to town?”
“Uh, yeah,” I said. “I mean, I’m new, but I’m picking up mail for Jack Burke? I’m Jordan Burke. His son—stepson.”
“Well, I’ll be.” The woman clapped joyfully. “You do look like him!”
“Stepson,” I repeated blandly.
“How’s Jack doin’?” the woman asked as she bent down, disappearing behind the counter.
“Are you Sofia?” I finally asked, though I had seen her nametag.
“One and the same.” Her muffled response drifted over the counter.
“Oh, okay,” I said, still hugging myself. “Uh, Jack’s fine. But I just got here yesterday. He said to tell Sofia, the postmaster, to let me have his mail. So, that’s why I’m here.”
Sofia—the postmaster—stood up from behind the counter, a couple of envelopes clenched in her hand.
“Not much today, I’m afraid,” Sofia said. “Hardly worth the trip down here—Jordan, was it?”
“Uh, yes, ma’am.” I reached out and took the envelopes from her. “It just takes a few minutes to walk from his house to here. I mean, the town isn’t…big…is it?”
Sofia slapped the counter and cackled.
I just grinned tightly, wondering if Sofia was like Wyatt and would produce a gun to start shooting up the place like a mad woman.
“A truer statement’s never been stated.” Sofia agreed. “Possibly proper—whatchu see when you cross Susurrus Creek is about what you’ll get. You gotta drive out a couple miles past Jack’s place to find most the people around here.”
“Oh?”
“Most Possibilians live in the housing developments out on highway 12,” Sofia continued, straightening up her counter as she prattled on. “About a hundred of us actually live here downtown. Some keep to themselves, though, so don’t bother goin’ ‘round countin’.”
“Okay.”
“The planning board doesn’t really allow for much development down here by the creek anymore,” Sofia said. “They don’t want to ruin the natural beauty of Possibly.”
“Makes sense, I guess?” I shrugged.
“I’m sure Jack’s told you all about it,” Sofia flitted her hands in front of herself. “In his own way, of course. I’m probably wasting your time.”
“No,” I said, though I didn’t really feel like hanging around to chat, “it’s no big deal. I guess it’s good to know about the town I’m staying in, right?”
Sofia grinned widely.
“Right.”
“Well,” I said, “uh, thanks.”
I shook the envelopes at her gently.
“Anytime, Jordan,” she replied. “I always have Jack’s mail set aside, so you just come right in and I’ll have it ready for you.”
“Thanks,” I said again.
Sofia gave me another smile and she was back to straightening things under the counter—probably other stacks of mail waiting on Possibly residents to pick up.
As I turned and stepped away from the counter, my eye caught the wall of tacked up flyers, and I was compelled to see what exactly people did for odd jobs in Possibly.
Sofia continued to work behind me as I shuffled over to the wall to check things out.
To my surprise, the first piece of paper my eyes landed on was a letter.
“Dear Shirlene,” it said.
Not wanting to get into other people’s business, I tore my eyes away and looked at the paper next to it.
“Dear Shirlene,” that one said.
The next paper was addressed the same way.
And the next. And the next. My eyes flitted around and I quickly determined that the entire wall was plastered with letter’s to “Dear Shirlene.” Why were there a bunch of letters to some woman named Shirlene pinned up, absolutely covering one of the walls in the post office?
“Tragic, isn’t it?” Sofia’s voice came from right beside me.
I jumped and turned to find her standing next to me. Apparently, as I had been checking out the letters, she had rounded the counter to look over the letters as well. Her blue eye-shadowed lids were focused on the wall of letters, sadness etched on her face.
“I’m sorry?”
“The letters,” she said.
“They’re all to…Shirlene?”
“Yeah.” She sighed dreamily. “We get a new one every few days. Well, a few times it’s been a week or two between letters, I guess.”
There had to be dozens if not a hundred or more letters tacked to the wall. There looked to be more than one layer of them.
“Shouldn’t you, like, deliver them to her?” I asked the obvious question. “Instead of plastering them on the wall for everyone to read?”
“Well, that’s the thing,” Sofia said. “There’s not a single Shirlene in Possibly. Someone has been writing her love letters for over a year—maybe two now—and she doesn’t even live here.”
“Can’t you send them back?” I asked as I leaned in to look more closely at a letter.
My heart beats with a desire it feels will never be fulfilled; only Shirlene can quench its thirst.
Definitely love letters. Somewhat spicy love letters.
“They never arrive with a return address,” Sofia explained. “They’re always addressed to ‘Shirlene.’ I’m hoping Shirlene will eventually show up to claim them. Maybe she can make heads or tails of everything. Right now—well, they’re just up there waiting.”
“Should you have even opened them?” I asked.
Wasn’t that, like, a federal crime? Opening people’s mail?