Caitlin knocked at the front door of the house then caught herself and used the key to open the door. Even after a year of being back in the home she grew up in, some habits died slowly. The twenty-two year old woman looked around the entryway. She still remembered the day her parents had asked her to come back for what her mother had called “possibly an extended visit; we’ll explain once you’re here.”
As she entered the kitchen at the rear of the first floor, she gazed lovingly at the table, well-worn with dings and scratches on the surface — many of which she’d been the cause of when younger. Her mom and dad had been sitting over by the window, as they always did, and she’d taken her customary chair as well. She could still hear the conversation.
“Caitlin, dear, we know you’ve been trying to find something since you finished with school. And we’ve always supported you — please, always remember that.”
“Of course, dad. And I know you have. I’ve got some smaller jobs that are going well for me. Everyone in school was telling me, other students and professors alike, how it can take a while before you really get any sort of recognition, so it’s all just small busy-work until that happens.”
“Yes, love. Well, as you know, your mom and I have been thinking about really retiring and going somewhere warmer.”
Caitlin had laughed. “I think I’ve heard you both talk about that since my tenth birthday party!”
“We finally decided it’s time.”
“What?”
“You remember that young man, Raymond, who your dad hired way back? Last month, he bought the entire business. Ray already knows everyone working there, and he’s formed good relationships with the customers.”
“Wait! It’s already done!!! And you didn’t tell me it was happening!”
Her dad chuckled. “See, and this is why we held off on saying anything. It’s done and done. Ray has been pestering me about taking over for a couple of years. The look on his face when I called him in and asked him when he’d have the money to buy me out was just splendid. He never expected me to say yes. I wish I’d brought a camera in so I could’ve taken a picture.”
Still somewhat in shock, she could only ask, “So, now what?”
“Cait, you’ve heard us complain about how the winters have been starting to make us ache. It’s time for us to move somewhere warmer. We’re thinking of a much smaller place down South, maybe closer to the shore. Your dad can learn how to fish and I can learn how to paint seascapes.”
Somewhere inside, Caitlin felt her heart beginning to crack and break at the thought of needing to say “good-bye” to the house she’d known all of her childhood, even if she hadn’t been home nearly enough since she first left for school.
“But, with as well as the business was doing the past few years, we’ve got enough to view it as a bit of a fresh start. We’re giving you the house, dear.”
The emotional whiplash was daunting. “Gi-givin-giving me? … the house?” She was certain she’d misheard that.
“Yes, dear. Your mom and I always knew, ultimately, the house would be yours. This way, we just get to do it a few years earlier than might have happened otherwise. The house is fully paid off. You’ll still need to cover the power and such, but all of the major costs with owning a house here are taken care of.”
“Please, Cait. This really means a lot to us. Please? Come back home … and make it yours?”
“I – I – I don’t even know what to say.”
“For now, just spend this weekend and next week here? Get used to being ‘home’ again?”
She reached out to grab both their hands, tears forming at the corners of her eyes, “Of course, mom … dad.”
It had taken quite a bit of mental adjustment to think of it as “her” house. The mental effort to “move into” what had always been her parents’ bedroom was almost overwhelming. Occasionally, when talking with a friend on the telephone, she’d still slip and refer to it as her “parents’ room”, but she’d gotten much better in the past year. She knew it might take the rest of her life to legitimately think of it as “her” room all the time. She somewhat dreaded the thought of marrying and having children and accidentally referring to it as her children’s grandparents’ room. Hopefully, when the time came, she’d have raised them to be understanding and considerate.
Looking in the refrigerator as she contemplated what to make for herself for dinner, she decided she really wanted some meat tonight. When they’d passed by each other in the small town’s general store earlier, Mrs. Cochran had mentioned her son’s traps had been bountiful and they had far more rabbit meat than they could eat or even store, so she should come by and get some. Everyone in town knew Caitlin and, out of what she could only imagine was respect for her parents, made sure to check in on her regularly.
Heading back out, she hopped on her bicycle and pedaled there. She left the bike standing against the fence and walked around the Cochran house to the back door. If she’d tried to knock at the front door, Mrs. Cochran would’ve scolded her intensely, “Caitlin, dear. You’re practically family — to everyone around here. Just come ‘round the back like all the kids do.” Even at twenty-two, Caitlin was still just one of the “the kids” to the woman.
As she reached the door, Mrs. Cochran looked up from the sink inside the kitchen and waved to her, beckoning her inside. Once there, she rubbed her hands dry with the towel hanging from her apron ties and bustled over to her own refrigerator. “Most of the meat, we put in the freezer, but if I hadn’t seen you in town today, I would’ve had one of the kids take this over to you tomorrow or the next day.”
She pulled two paper-wrapped-and-tied packages from the fridge and put them into a small canvas bag hanging from a nearby hook. “Here, they should be really good. At least all of the others we’ve had have been. You know how to cook them, right?” Didn’t wait for a response. “Of course, you do. I’m puttering over you like a mama hen. Oh, speaking of which, you have eggs, right? Our chickens have been going crazy lately. I’ll have Joseph bring a dozen over tomorrow. Make sure you check by your back door, y’hear!”
Unable to get a word in edgewise, Caitlin gratefully accepted the package of rabbit meat.
“Do you have some vegetables to go with that? Pulled up some nice potatoes from my garden just this morning. Grab three or four from the bucket outside the door and take them with you. Also, some carrots or celery, yes?”
All Caitlin could do was swear she would take the vegetables with her and use them for dinner tonight. And, in her head, probably dinner tomorrow as well, since it was easier to cook food for two nights than just one.
“Is there anything else you need? I haven’t started the bread for tonight yet, but if you need some…?”
“No, no, really, Mrs. Cochran. I have plenty of food! I promise.”
“You’re sure?” After a nod in response, “Only if you’re absolutely certain.” The older woman paused in thought. “Oh, come by Sunday afternoon after church for supper with us? I’ll have some fresh pies by then, with the pears which have already ripened. They’ll be a little tart, but nothing that can’t be fixed with some love and some sugar.”
“Yes, ma’am. I’ll make sure to come by on Sunday. Looking forward to your cooking.” Caitlin felt a faint smile grow from the memory of many other Sunday afternoon suppers spent here and in so many other houses in the area. But, for tonight, she really wanted to just make some dinner for herself and see if she could fix some of the designs she’d been working on at home.
“All right, dear. You’re welcome to stay, of course, but you’d be likely to just sit there and stare at me while I finish up the dishes and start preparing for Mr. Cochran and my boys to come in and eat.”
“Understood.” She smiled much more broadly now, going back out through the door and pausing to grab the vegetables as instructed, loading them into the bag as well, before finally returning to her bike and heading back home.
Once back home, she stopped to open the mailbox and casually tossed the few things from there into the basket on the bicycle. It was almost always circulars or bills or some notice about when the town fair would be, or something similar. Rarely was there anything of any importance in there, so she wouldn’t look at any of it until after she’d eaten.
Inside, she took the gifts from Mrs. Cochran, placing one of the packages of rabbit meat in the refrigerator. Half of the vegetables went into a wicker basket sitting on her countertop for just such, while everything else landed on the butcher-block counter surface for preparation. The wood here was as well-worn as the kitchen table was — mementoes and a visual history of the years’ and years’ worth of meals which were started here.
With her stomach beginning to growl at the thought of food, she quickly got to the task of cleaning and preparing the vegetables for stove-top cooking. She also did the final cleaning off of the meat, getting it ready to be grilled.
An hour and a half later, Caitlin was full. The meat had tasted even better than she’d imagined and the fresh vegetables, seasoned only with some salt, peppercorns, and a few herbs she grew for herself in a window-box, had come out perfectly, even if she was the only one around to compliment her cooking. Satisfied with how well everything had turned out, she reached over to the small pile of mail she had haphazardly tossed on the table earlier.
Largely as predicted, the pile contained one bill — for the power — and two notices from some larger stores, in the next town or two, declaring how they were going to have clearance sales of one form or another this weekend. There was also a reminder from the town about the town fair was happening next month and everyone was welcome to have a table there, but you had to tell someone at town hall no later than the week before it started, so they could ensure there were enough physical tables (and table space) for all.
Buried under the small pile, though, there was one more item — a curiosity. It was an envelope, just like would be used for a regular letter. It had been laying face-down, so Caitlin could only stare at the back of it, slightly perplexed. Unlike a normal envelope, this one had some sort of weird striping or marks at the edges. She vaguely remembered how AirMail envelopes also had weird markings, but those were also much lighter, not regular weight envelopes and paper. And she’d certainly never received one of those in her lifetime.
Picking it up, but still just looking at the back of it, she felt slightly entranced. She gave herself a quick shake of her head to bring her back to reality and then flipped it over to see who it was from.
And that’s when the sense of mystery deepened.
There was no return address.
The postage stamps in the corner weren’t in English, but had been stamped for delivery.
And, while the envelope had the correct delivery address — hers — it wasn’t addressed to “Caitlin Tucker”. It was to “Charlotte Galford”.
This had to be some sort of mistake or a joke or something similar. Her mother’s name wasn’t Charlotte and her maiden name certainly hadn’t been Galford. On top of which, to the best of her knowledge, the house had been newly built when her parents first bought it, so there never could have been a “Charlotte Galford” living here.
That still didn’t explain the postage, though.
Dismissing that, she wiped her butter knife clean on her napkin and used it to slice the envelope open. That done, she reached in and yanked out … a letter.
Unfolding it, she quickly realized it was a real letter — hand-written and with a small smudge mark on the corner of the page. Now thoroughly perplexed, she began to read.
My Dearest Charlotte,
I am abjectly sorry for not having been able to write to you for several months.
Months??? Caitlin had never received a letter like this before, so she read on.
As I told you last time, I was finally able to find work. It’s dock-side, and is little more than loading and unloading ships. It’s hard work, of course, but you know me — that’s never bothered me before and certainly isn’t bothering me now. There seems to be even more supplies going through the port.
There were a few paragraphs describing the ramshackle boarding house the writer was living in, and the poor quality of the food the boarding house provided. Then, at the bottom of the page,
I know the promises we made to each other, running around together when we were young children. I still mean to keep to mine, and hope you have not lost that space in your heart for me.
Know always you are the first thing I think of every morning and the last thought in my head before I sleep.
Faithfully yours,
Owen Gibbins
And … that was all there was. Caitlin slumped back in her seat, wracking her brain. She’d never known an Owen around here and if there was any sort of Gibbins family, she’d never heard of them.
Putting the letter down on the table so she could clean up, she resolved to investigate this tomorrow.
The next morning, Caitlin made herself breakfast — some eggs, gifted to her not by Mrs. Cochran, but some other local family. While she cooked, she tried to picture herself as she must have appeared, now — complete with slippers and a light house-coat. A slight smile and giggle escaped as she realized she had started to take on the image of her mother she’d always seen when she was a child, sleepily coming into the kitchen after the smell of food woke her.
With that quiet personal reflection over, she finished cooking, ate and then cleaned up, quickly washing her silverware and dish and cleaning out the pan she’d used. That done, she took the mysterious letter and envelope with her back to the bedroom so she could put it into her small handbag.
Dressing quickly, she took the handbag with her outside. It was a beautiful day, with the sun shining down and only a few wisps of cloud in the sky. To investigate the letter, she knew she wanted to start at the Post Office but realized she might need to make a few other stops, town hall perhaps and who knew where else, to dig into this.
The beginning of a plan taking shape in her mind, she hopped on her bicycle and pedaled along the gentle roads for the ten minutes it took to reach the Post Office. Leaving her bike just outside the door, she stepped in and was greeted by a young man standing behind the counters who waved at her.
“Hey, Caitlin. Haven’t seen you here in a bit. I don’t think we’re holding anything for you. Do you need to send a package off?”
“Hi, Jeff.” They were both about the same age and had even shared some classes together when they were both very young. “Is the Postmaster in?”
“He’s out checking on some of the routes. Is there something I can help with?”
“I … I have no idea. I received this weird letter yesterday. It was to my address, but to a name I’ve never heard of before. And the postage looks foreign or something. Plus, there’s no return address. I’m confused, but curious.” She smiled at Jeff. “So, I figured I’d swing by and ask if he knew anything.”
“Heck, I’ve been around here as long as you have, and since I’ve worked most of the routes, I might be able to figure it out. Let me have a look?”
“Sure,” as she came to the counter and handed the envelope over.
“Charlotte Galford? Who the heck is that?”
“See! That’s my question. The letter says it’s from some young man named Owen. Owen …” She pulled the letter out to show him since she didn’t remember the full name. “Owen Gibbins, right there.”
“Weird. Mind if I take a quick read of the letter?” That said, he quickly looked it over before going back to look more closely at the envelope.
“I have never heard of anyone named Charlotte, or Owen around here. And there certainly aren’t any Galfords or Gibbinses in this town.” He stared at the address on the envelope. “The handwriting is so clean and crisp. I’m sure Miss Hart, back in 2nd grade, would’ve loved to see someone write like this.”
Both shared a laugh at the memory of their teacher. “Is she still teaching at the school? She was young enough while we were going.”
“Yeah, she is. Although she’s Mrs. Lockwood now.”
“No! She and Mr. Lockwood got married!?”
“Yeah. Couple of years ago. That sly fox gym teacher! When he wasn’t running all of us ragged on the fields with football, he was courting Miss Hart. Looks like he finally convinced her.”
“Wow … All right. I was also going to go check at Town Hall and now I guess I’ll need to stop off first and say ‘Hi’ to our old homeroom teacher and ask if she has any memory of this Owen or Charlotte.”
“Good luck! I’ll ask the Postmaster when he’s back later. He may also want to take a look at that postage, so he might ask if you can bring it back later or tomorrow? I can give you a call after I’ve talked with him?”
“Sure! My number is in the book. Let me go check this out further before too much of the day goes by.”
“All good, Cait. Wait ’til I tell my mom about this. You can be sure she’ll invite you over for dinner some time soon so you can tell her about this.” His voice softened, “You know she’s still hoping about us, right?”
Caitlin smiled somewhat wistfully and put her hand on Jeff’s forearm. “It’s fine. Yeah, we tried to be an item for a bit, but we both knew we were better off as friends and not anything more. One of us would’ve driven the other crazy before or after a wedding. Don’t you have your eye on anyone now?”
He smiled back and raised his finger to his lips, “Shh… Becky and I haven’t told anyone we’re seeing each other yet. When the time is right, we want to surprise my mom and her parents.”
“Your secret is safe with me. My best to your mom!” A pause. “And to Becky.”
The rest of that day and all of the next were spent trying to learn more about the mysterious letter — who it was really from and to. No one at town hall had any records of anyone by either name ever living in town. Mrs. Lockwood (née Hart) was thrilled to see Caitlin, even introducing her to a classroom full of rowdy seven-year olds as one of her students from long ago, and “look how much of a lovely young lady she’s grown into”.
However, she, too, had no idea as to the identity of the unknown man and woman. Before Mrs. Lockwood was able to lament at length about how none of her students had ever possessed handwriting as clean as that shown in the letter, Caitlin thanked her and excused herself.
Similarly, when she asked at town hall, there was no record of either family or anyone by that name.
Upon opening the door at home, the phone began to ring and she raced to answer it, discovering it was Jeff from the Post Office, asking her if she could bring the envelope back at about the same time the next day as when she’d been there earlier. The Postmaster had been puzzled about it, and wanted to examine the envelope and postage for himself. Caitlin agreed and, before they both hung up, he reminded her it was likely his mother would extend an invitation, so she should make sure to know what her schedule was like.
Thinking of how else to proceed, since it seemed likely the Postmaster would be as unable to answer the question as anyone else, she realized it might be worth contacting some of the nearby town’s Post Offices and town halls and resolved to do so tomorrow. She had other work to do, and went to what had once been her father’s den, but was now a workspace for her.
The next day went largely as expected. The Postmaster had never seen such postage before, but it had come in with the regular deliveries and was otherwise acceptable for delivery to the destination address. She’d cycled away, leaving him scratching his chin. Similarly, none of the nearby Post Offices or town halls had ever heard of either family before. A few days later, when talking with her parents, comfortably enjoying their retirement, she raised the question of the letter and both her mother and father said they had no idea about it.
With all obvious and easily-accessible resources used, Caitlin couldn’t think of any more simple and quick research she could do. And, anything more complex was highly likely to involve a much greater investment of time or money, neither of which she felt comfortable doing. So, with a sigh, she put the letter into a file and let it nestled away in her filing cabinet, remaining a mystery.
As the summer season deepened and the weather grew still warmer, Caitlin resumed her normal daily routines. Every few days, she would find herself drawn back to the letter, pulling it out from the cabinet to read it again. Her fingertips would brush gently against the inked words on the page, as if she could feel the emotions of the otherwise-unknown Owen Gibbins.
Unbeckoned, an image started to form in her mind of this stranger who’d written what was clearly the only way he could display his feelings towards the equally-unknown Charlotte Galford. “Ah,” she would think to herself, “what would it be like to have a suitor such as this handsome and dashing young man.”
Then, as if ashamed of herself for thinking this way, she would carefully place the letter back into its envelope and, once more, put it into the filing cabinet — attempting to seal it away.
Two months had passed since that first letter had arrived, with no more information about the mysterious sender, intended recipient, or any of the strange circumstances surrounding the letter’s appearance.
The day before, while she’d been on her bicycle on her way to the store, Mrs. Davis had waved to her from her yard. Pausing to walk her bike over and return the greeting, Mrs. Davis had immediately offered Caitlin a small package of several ham steaks.
“One of our pigs, poor Wilma, injured herself real bad last week. She was such a nice girl, too. Couldn’t bear to see her hurting like that, so we made it quick. But now, we’ve got even more meat than we could possibly use. Oh, dear, the freezer is full to overflowing as it is, and I still don’t know what we’ll do with all of it.
“Please, would you be a dear and help take a few of these off our hands? I don’t want to even think of needing to throw them away … wouldn’t be right to treat Wilma like that. You’d be doing us a favor.”
With a plea like that, Caitlin hadn’t been able to refuse and had graciously accepted the small package once Mrs. Davis returned from her kitchen with it. She’d had chops and ribs from the Davis’ pigs many times, and her mouth was already just beginning to water at the thought of what was certain to be a juicy ham steak.
Caitlin had hopped back on her bike and gotten ready to leave, Mrs. Davis chimed in once more, “Oh, and would you like to come by for supper on Friday? The corn and green beans are both full and ripe and seem to be especially good this year.”
As always, Caitlin had found herself utterly unable to refuse this sort of generous hospitality. After agreeing to be there, she’d finished her trip to the store and, upon returning home, placed the steaks in her refrigerator — already thinking of using one of them for a mid-day meal the next day.
Knowing she would be having a larger lunch than typical, Caitlin skipped breakfast, only making herself some fresh coffee. Her mother had left the small powered percolator with the house and it remained in use, a steadfast work-horse in her kitchen providing for her as part of every morning and every evening.
After getting some work done in the morning, lunch was a sandwich made using one of Mrs. Davis’ ham steaks, cooked in a pan on her stovetop. This, combined with some lettuce and a few slices of tomatoes, went onto some bread sliced from a loaf which had been gifted to her by Mrs. Mitchell this past weekend. Even a simple lunch like this, when eaten in her kitchen, looking out the window at the pleasant landscape, was always a pleasure. As she sat there, gazing out, she questioned, as she often did, why she’d ever felt a compulsion to leave.
Finishing her sandwich, and as she was about to drink the rest of the water in her glass, she heard someone knocking at the front door.
“Coming!” she shouted, although it was uncertain anyone would hear at this distance. She pushed her chair back and walked through the house to open it, finding herself staring at, “Jeffrey Scott! What a surprise!”
She realized he was in his postal uniform and then looked behind him to see the postal bicycle, bags still loaded with mail to be delivered. “What brings you ‘round?”
That was when she saw he was holding a small collection of mail for her.
And, on the top of the few things he was holding, face down, was … another strangely colored and marked envelope.
“Hiya, Cait. Another one of these came through. Same address and everything else as last time. The Postmaster held onto it for a couple of days so he could take some pictures and ask some of the other guys if they’d ever seen anything like this. No one had ever seen it, but everyone just said, ‘It’s in the system so just process it and stop asking.’ He couldn’t justify holding it any longer, so he asked me to come out and special deliver it, along with his apology.”
Caitlin took the offered stack of mail. “It’s fine. Not like I was waiting for it anyway.” She felt herself growing slightly warmer at the thought of how often she had read and re-read the first letter. “Does he want me to bring it by after I open it up?”
“Naw. Unless there’s some sort of clue in there with more information. I think the County or State Postmaster might’ve chewed him out a bit over it. ‘Least that’s how it seemed from the little bit of his side of the phone call I heard. I figure he’s just going to ignore anything else strange that comes through, so long as it’s handed over properly with the other stuff coming here.”
“Please thank him for me? Tell him for me it really was no trouble at all.”
The two stood there a moment, both unsure of quite what to say.
“What about you and Becky? Told anyone yet?”
“Oh, yeah. Um … we told both my mom and her parents.” He rolled his eyes some. “The three of them have already gotten together and are talking about who gets to pick the names for the babies and in which order.”
Both laughed at this thought. “It’s what future grandparents do, I guess, right?”
“Seems like. Since this is all good, I need to get on with the other deliveries, Caitlin. I’ll make sure you’re on the list for an invitation. Promise!” Jeff turned and walked back to his bicycle to continue work.
Turning back inside, Caitlin closed the door behind her and left all but the new letter sitting on the small side table next to the entrance. Captivated, she gazed at it as she slowly returned to the kitchen. It looked almost identical to the first envelope — as she could tell from having spent far too much time staring at it and contemplating its origin and writer.
She used a clean knife to carefully slit open the top of the envelope, the folded tab whispering to her as the fibers of the envelope paper separated to reveal the contents. The address was, once again, identical to hers, and still addressed to “Charlotte Galford”.
“Oh, Charlotte, you are a lucky girl, you are.”
Gently tugging the contained single page from the envelope, she carefully unfolded it, noting the same ink and what was clearly the same handwriting of the words. There was yet again a small smudge mark, this time in the middle of the page, and it seemed ever so slightly smeared for some unknown reason.
My Dearest Charlotte,
I have been busy since last I wrote. Work at the docks had slowed down some, but I was lucky enough to find another job. The pay is somewhat better and I’m not hauling cargo around all day, every day. Instead, I’m now working in a fishery.
What this means is that every day, the fishing boats that come in, dump their loads off for us to process. There’s a long line of us constantly grabbing the next fish to clean it or gut it or something else and then pass it on to the next man for whatever happens after. So long as I’m careful with a knife, I also don’t have to worry about having a bunch of cargo drop on me.
Oh, I guess I shouldn’t have told you that or you’d be worrying about me from before.
I reek of fish every night, but since I’m making a bit more, I can pay the extra to use the bath three times a week and still have some to save up. Also, since we’re allowed to take some extra fish home with us, I can share those with the boarding house lady. She’s good at cooking the fish, but I still miss the steak with potatoes and carrots that Ma’ used to make. Just like I also miss Ma’ and Pa’, but that’s all in the past now.
Don’t fret yourself about me. I’m good here and I still do mean to keep my promise.
Thinking of you always,
Owen Gibbins
With a small sigh, Caitlin relaxed in her chair at the kitchen table, contemplating, once more, the hard-working young man who appeared only in letters and, occasionally, in her dreams.
Summer heightened and then faded into Autumn, the surrounding area changing colors as it did. Then, as always, came Winter and then back to Spring so the cycle could repeat.
It had been just over a year since the first letter had arrived. There had been a few more, approximately every month and a half to two months, documenting Owen’s life wherever he was, and always professing his feelings about the woman, Charlotte, who was clearly the love of his life. With every new letter, Caitlin would eagerly read the new contents and then retrieve all of the earlier ones, reading them together. She continued to be drawn towards them, even when they hid in the filing cabinet, pulling them out late in the evening, to reread the carefully written words.
Today, the most recent one arrived and she followed her own personal “ritual” for opening and reading it — using a clean knife and sitting at the kitchen table to carefully open and read it.
Surprisingly, this one seemed to be written very hurriedly and the letters were almost … sloppy.
My Dearest Charlotte,
I don’t have much time to write this and send it off. I hope you’ll forgive me for this. The recruiters came through earlier today. With everything that’s been going on, I … I just couldn’t say No.
I signed up. I’ll only be a lowly Private, but I’m fine with that. After all, I grew up squirrel-hunting, so I certainly know how to point a rifle and pull the trigger.
I guess it’s different if it’s not just a squirrel at the other end, though.
Tomorrow morning, they’re throwing us all on a bus to take us to boot camp. Some of the other guys I worked with at the warehouse, or at the fishery, or on the docks are going also. Means there’s a few of us looking out for each other from the start. The old timers said that was important — having someone to watch your back, s’long as you did the same for them.
It could be a while before I am able to write again, since I expect right after training, we’ll be shipping out.
When I said before, when we were younger, I knew you weren’t quite sure if I was joking or not, so I’ll say it plainly now. Once I’m back from this, I plan to return home. And when I get there, I’m coming straight to your door. Soon as you open it, you’ll see me there, on one knee, holding a ring for you.
It is my dearest wish, when that day happens, you will say Yes as soon as you see me.
You are always in my thoughts and in my heart,
Owen Gibbins
The trees were changing colors again, after the passage of Spring and Summer. Every day since the letter announcing Owen had enlisted, Caitlin would rush out to the mailbox, hoping to hear more. She didn’t know of any wars or anywhere he might have been sent off to fight, so it hadn’t made sense to her. Consequently, she held out hope for news and whatever else might have happened to him.
Today, just as the season had shifted, there was another strange envelope sitting in the mailbox. Grabbing the small stack of mail, she ran back inside, tossing the rest of the stack onto the small side table before dashing into the kitchen.
After slicing the envelope open, she turned it over to look its front and was suddenly surprised. Rather than the cleanly handwritten name and address she’d always seen, she discovered the entire thing was badly typewritten. The G of “Galford” was shifted slightly and had landed heavily.
Sitting at the table, she pulled the letter out and discovered it, too, was from a typewriter, not the expected handwriting of the usual sender.
Miss Charlotte Galford,
It is with deep regret and a heavy heart that I write to inform you of the loss of Corporal Owen Gibbins. He made the ultimate sacrifice in the line of duty. Please know that Owen’s dedication and commitment to this unit and his fellows will always be remembered and honored.
He displayed exceptional courage and selflessness, embodying the true spirit of a hero. His commitment to this unit, and to his fellow soldiers, saved the lives of not only myself, but many of his brothers in spirit if not by shared blood.
My thoughts and condolences are with you during this difficult time. All of us understand the loss of Owen brings immeasurable pain and sorrow, and we extend our deepest sympathies to you. We hope you may find some solace in the knowledge that he served with honor and made a significant contribution.
There was more, but Caitlin couldn’t bring herself to read it. She slumped back, letting the page fall to the table as she started to cry.
The middle-aged man walked into the front of the nursing home and up to the main desk. All of the staff knew him by now and all admired how he returned, faithfully, every week, if not occasionally more often.
“How is she doing today?”
“She’s … troubled … again. She pulled the box of letters out and has been sitting by the window in her room reading them over and over.”
“Oh. Yeah. Let me go see her. I know how she gets when she’s like this.”
Measured steps through the hallways brought him to a now-familiar door. He took a deep breath to steady himself for what he expected after he stepped through.
A quick knock on the door, followed by a called “Yes?” from inside, and he opened it. Inside, an older woman, hair long since turned to grey, sat in a comfortable chair at a small table next to the window. She was wearing a long house-coat and her eyes were puffy and red, with clear signs of tears having streaked down her cheeks.
“Mom. It’s Saturday. I came by to see if you’d like to go out for dinner tonight?”
“Owen? Is that you?”
“No, mom. Dad’s gone. It’s Jeff … Jeffrey … your son. Remember?”
“Jeffrey? Have you and Becky finally told anyone?”
“Yes, mom. Becky and I have been married for several years now. You were at the wedding, remember?”
His mother, Charlotte Caitlin Gibbins (née Galford), was not able to be distracted by him when she was like this, though, and turned back to the window, her hand resting on a small stack of letters on the table … letters his father had written to her, from before and shortly after they’d married. And, of course, the one from the very end. He always wondered if his mother read the same words which actually appeared on the pages.
Backstory / Author’s Note
Now that you’ve gotten through reading the whole story (hopefully), there’s a bit of an interesting tale regarding the process of writing it. When I first got the vague idea of the story, it was just a “mystery letters arriving” story where the main character wound up falling for the one who was sending the letters. And the original plan was for the story to end with the arrival of the final letter.
For some reason, as I sat down to start writing, something in the back of my head was whispering to me how I needed to spend a lot of time filling the pages with what I have described as “fluffy Americana word porn” (as you saw). I had no idea why, but, honestly, once I started going down that path, I was enjoying it a lot.
And yes, all of the story up to the end was basically written – including the comments about Jeff and Becky, etc. … no clue why I’d thought those were important at the time, but poof there they were.
Finally, as I closed in on the ending (before I’d reached it), the same voice whispered to me, “The story doesn’t end that way. Here is how it really ends.”
I pondered that thought for a few moments and proceeded to go, “Oh? Oh… Ohhh… FUCK!!!” And then I had a bit of a cry for five minutes or so. After I had dried the tears, I wrote it that way. And suddenly, all of the reasons for the previous word porn made a lot of sense. In retrospect, it’s clear, at least to me, how the story winds up having a lot more emotional impact this way.
