Back then, it had felt like the final blow, like he’d have to resign himself to a small, comfortable life of forgetting, until he no longer remembered he had anything to forget. Now he felt a flicker of hope, and he was determined to nurture its flame.
IT WAS ONLY EIGHT A.M. when Earl arrived at the office, but Josef Steinmetz was already there waiting for him. Josef had risen before dawn, having lain awake most of the night trying to think of a way to secure the missing loafers. As with all obstacles facing Josef, it was only a matter of methodically and logically thinking the problem through. Here was a problem: a misplaced pair of loafers. The proper solution had to be a simple, stepwise procedure. He had only to determine which tasks must be performed and then—the hardest part—order the tasks correctly to ensure success. Usually, thought Josef, when people fail it is because they don’t think things through in an orderly fashion, and thus don’t arrange the steps in the one proper building-block technique that will get the job done. Thus, Josef worried throughout the night exactly what he’d say to the postmaster and when, and what actions would be performed and when. The timing was so important.
Before Lena had so much as stirred, Josef crawled out from under their mosquito netting, dressed himself carefully to make a strong impression on the postmaster, and as the sun began its rise over the Atlantic, rowed his canoe the half mile across the lake to the little dock that marked the town of Figulus. Josef tied up his boat and stood outside the post office even though there was no lock on the door, because he thought it irreverent to wait inside a government building when there was no official on duty.
He waited two hours, sweating in the sunlight and afraid to move into the shade because the postmaster might show up at the wrong time and think he was loitering. Finally, Earl arrived and greeted him with a firm handshake.
“Pleasure to see you again, Mr. Steinmetz,” he said, and he showed him into the office. Earl wasn’t the slightest bit surprised that the man had returned the very next day; it only confirmed his belief in the significance of that first meeting. Wouldn’t it be a funny thing, he thought, if after all these years of pain and struggle, things’d finally fall into place on their own? It occurred to him that such an easy success might well make a mockery of his earlier efforts, but he decided he could live with that.
Josef was silent and uncomfortable until Earl walked around behind the counter and they could address each other as postmaster and postal patron.
“What kin I do for ya?” asked Earl, resting his big hands on the counter.
“I am here to make inquiry concerning a missing postal item,” said Josef, reciting exactly the line he’d rehearsed a hundred times on the canoe ride over and during his wait outside the door.
“Wellsir,” said Earl, “what might that item be?”
Josef grew flustered already, not having written this part of the script. He’d been so concerned about making the proper impression himself that he hadn’t anticipated the postmaster’s responses to his inquiries; already, there was a hole in his plan. He was angry with himself and paused, stone-faced, while he decided what to do next. He debated whether he should reveal the exact nature of his package. Though he had great trust in his fellow man, he didn’t think it wise to tempt the postmaster with a full description of the fine leather loafers a person can buy in the shopping district of Brooklyn.
“This would be a package,” began Josef, now with diminished self-confidence marked by a slight hesitation and an even greater formality in his tone. “This would be a package containing a pair of shoes, addressed to myself, Josef Steinmetz, and originating from the city of Brooklyn.”
Earl thought for a moment, stroking his chin. He wasn’t thinking about the package, because he knew right away he hadn’t seen anything that big come through. He was thinking that right at this moment he felt more like a postmaster than ever before. Or, more accurately, he felt more like a man playing the role of postmaster than ever before. The formality of this young man was like a gift of respect, far beyond what he received from his other postal customers. It made the whole transaction seem theatrical, and this brought Earl back all at once to his youth on the stage, a memory that previously had brought only the pain of his first failures. But now the fourth wall of the post office seemed to magically fall away and reveal a thousand pairs of eyes captivated by his remarkable and realistic performance as The Postmaster. It was a brief taste of the stage success he’d been denied in his youth. How sweet it felt to twist a past failure into something so satisfying. He was thankful for it, and for Josef Steinmetz, the supporting actor who’d made it possible.
“Nosir,” said Earl, with a confidence that shone in the strength and depth of his drawl, a drawl straight from his diaphragm, “I ain’t seen such a package come through here.”
Josef stared at him like he’d forgotten a line, and Earl thrilled with the nervous energy this gave to the scene.
“No way of telling where that package is,” laughed Earl. “Them folks in New York are liable to’ve shipped it off to Persia for all we know, and it’s a funny thing to me that they don’t more often.”
“What about the carrier,” said Josef, his plan collapsing in on him, his voice on the verge of cracking. “Can you not ask him?”
“Well, he don’t like folks all that much, I guess. He drops the mail off after midnight, in the back there, and then he skips out of town ’fore anyone kin talk to him. T’tell the truth, I ain’t never seen ’im,” and he held up his hand like he was taking an oath to that effect. “Nosir, I reckon that’s a dead end, there.”
Josef looked down at his feet, at the pair of shoes he’d worn for three years. How pathetic they looked now when he compared them with the image of his uncle’s gift. He felt defeated and embarrassed and could think of nothing more to say, so he went to the door slowly, head hanging, his brow breaking a sweat.
Something made him stop. His best laid plans had crumbled before his eyes, but he owed it to Uncle Mordy, if not to himself, to take some sort of action. And then there was Lena to think about. Only yesterday, she’d begun to make progress in adjusting to their new home. She’d worked in the grove! That thought alone filled his heart and restored a little of his confidence. But he knew her faith in him had been shaken by her experience here. How could he face her after this? If he couldn’t even get the postmaster to locate a missing package for him, how was he to tame the subtropical wilderness into a livelihood for himself and his wife?
He stopped in the light of the doorway. Then, looking up at the postmaster, approached the table again.
“Can I not leave a note for this carrier, perhaps on the back wall, where, as you have stated, he drops the mail?”
“It’ll be dark out there,” said Earl. “And I ain’t even sure the fella can read.”
Josef thought some more, determined to maintain eye contact. “If I were to supply you with candles,” he said, “perhaps you could . . .”
Earl admired the man’s determination. He was reminded again of his younger self, which saddened and exhilarated him all at once. This here’s a man who gets things done, he thought. Maybe when I was younger if I’d just stuck with it . . . But maybe that don’t matter now, maybe I kin ferget about that.
The importance of the moment made him pause. What if he were to make the wrong move and destroy everything before it had even begun? It would be just like me, he thought.
“Hell, don’t pay no mind about the candles,” he said, finally. “I’ll jes set my oil lamp out there. Course, I still ain’t sure he can read, but there’s a risk in everything, way I see it.”
Josef nodded, bursting with the satisfaction of a task fulfilled. Earl brought out a fountain pen and sheet of paper from under the counter, and Josef wrote slowly, choosing each word carefully, taking a full fifteen minutes to complete it. Earl could only watch with amazement and admire the man’s penmanship.
Dear Postal Officer,
My dear uncle, who raised me like his own son, has r
ecently passed from this earth. But some weeks before his death, he sent me a pair of fine leather shoes in a box from Brooklyn. This package has never arrived. Please, could you check if it has been misplaced or misdelivered. My uncle was not a rich man, this is the one treasure he could afford me, and it is more precious to me than a chest of rubies or a team of strong mules. To aid in your search, here is the address from whence the package came. If found, please deliver to this postal office.
Your Faithful Customer,
Josef Steinmetz
Josef unrolled a piece of scrap paper from his pocket and copied down his aunt’s address. And then, with a nod, he passed the pen and paper back to the postmaster and exited out into the morning, leaving Earl in an odd state of anxiety and excitement. And, of course, with a rousing applause ringing in his ears.
Chapter 4
WHEN JOSEF RETURNED to his house, he was jubilant with good news. From what had seemed like certain defeat, he’d stolen a victory. He’d made a plan, and when his plan broke down, he was able to think on his feet and adapt. Adaptability! That’s what pioneer life is about, he thought. His Uncle Mordy and Aunt Lois had certainly adapted to life in Brooklyn. And think of all those West-reaching pioneers, adapting themselves daily to the harshest imaginable environments as they marched across the continent. Compared with their accomplishments, Josef’s victory was small indeed, but it was a start. In no time at all, he thought, I’ll fit in like a local.
He burst through the door like a new father, only to find his wife covered in mosquito netting. She was sitting at their dining table eating soup, her head and shoulders draped in the netting she’d taken from their bed. It covered her soup bowl as well, so that she had created a small, bug-free dining room for herself. When she saw Josef, she dropped the spoon and flipped the netting back over her reddened face.
Josef felt a sharp pang of betrayal. He knew she hadn’t been out to the groves yet today. She was retreating again. He saw another side to it, though, because he had to. Two steps forward, one step back, he thought. My bride must set her own pace. He smiled at her.
“You, too, are learning to adapt,” he said.
“Forgive me, Josef,” she said. “But the bugs! They are little vampires! We never had such bugs in Brooklyn, and I’m afraid I don’t have much more blood to give them.”
“But dearest,” said Josef, “they only desire something sweet!” He laughed at her, and she tried to smile, though she was already dreaming of her boat ride back to Brooklyn.
“Think of it this way, Lena. The more bugs in here, the fewer will be in our orchard, and the better our trees will grow. I say, Come in here, bugs! Make your homes in my bed for all I care!” And with this his exuberant mood got the best of him, and he pushed open the door and yelled out at all the bugs that still dared to linger in the morning sunlight. “Step right in, my friends! My glorious little bugs! My grasshoppers, my katydids, my armored scales and citrus mites, my ants, thrips, and aphids, my woolly whiteflies and mealybugs! All my buzzing little friends without shelter! Come in here, I say, and nourish yourselves! Drink of my blood, eat of my flesh! You’re welcome, one and all!”
Lena, who had cringed at the very mention of these bugs, now squealed in terror and yanked Josef’s arm back from the door. She shut it tight and slammed down the latch.
“You mustn’t do that, Josef. You mustn’t! I have worked all the morning to rid this house of bugs. I have swatted them with the broom and batted them out of the air. I have brushed and inspected every inch of our bed. You mustn’t let them in!”
“But dearest,” he said, approaching her. “Our grove—”
“I don’t care about the grove!” she shouted, backing away.
“You can’t mean that, Lena. I know you don’t. The grove is our future. Have you seen it today? I believe our trees grew three inches in a single day. Why, our grapefruit trees are nearly to my shoulders!”
He stepped toward her and she retreated again. When he persisted, she picked up the mosquito netting and held it between them.
“How long are we going to remain here, Josef? When those trees are fully grown, will we leave then?”
Josef laughed. “Lena, you act as though you know nothing of horticulture, and yet I presented you with four books on our wedding day, each dealing with a particular aspect of citrus growing.”
Josef continued to move toward her, and Lena continued to retreat, mosquito netting still raised at arm’s length.
“I didn’t read them, Josef. I tried to read one, but it was so horribly boring I fell asleep.”
“Darling, you disappoint me.” Josef smiled to mask his hurt. To him, those books were like fairy tales whose theme was the romance and partnership of their married life. He couldn’t imagine how they might bore her. “Perhaps it’s difficult for you to see the beauty in those books. But that’s okay. It is always better to learn from experience. I’ll be your teacher. I’ll show you all you need to know, and as our trees grow to maturity, so will our love.”
Lena started to cry now. “But I don’t want to go in the grove again, Josef. I never want to leave this house again unless it’s to go home.”
He struggled to keep his composure. Part of him wanted to lash out at her, and part of him wanted to cry. Instead, he remembered his victory earlier this morning. She needed time, that’s all. In time she could not fail to see the pleasures of adaptation. He’d think of a way to get her out of the house again, and then she’d see that their new world wasn’t such a bad place after all. Yes, he’d let her wear the netting. She could make a dress of it if she wished! But soon that shell would peel away, and she’d emerge in all her glory as a strong-willed pioneer woman. She’d fit in just like he did.
“Okay, my love,” said Josef, “you needn’t come out of the house until you wish to. I won’t pressure you.”
Lena, too, had decided to give in a bit, having thought with some regret about the sound of her words.
“I will try,” she said. “I don’t wish to fail you.”
Josef kissed her on the cheek. They embraced lovingly, with the mosquito netting pressed snugly between them.
For lunch, Lena served Josef some pumpkin soup. As she ladled it into his bowl, he noticed that she seemed more at peace with the bugs that swirled around her.
“Would you like to hear about my meeting with our postmaster?” he said.
“Of course, Josef,” she said. “It was selfish of me not to ask you.”
“The postmaster was hesitant to aid me at first,” he said. “But I pressed the issue and he heard me out. I devised an ingenious plan to contact the mail carrier himself, as he is apparently a mysterious and reclusive fellow. We’ll hear from him now, I’m sure of it.”
“I’m proud of you, Josef,” said Lena. And she was. The strength of his optimism and his innocence charmed her thoroughly and reminded her of how she’d felt for him back in Brooklyn. In the days leading up to their marriage she seemed to have felt love for him all the time; now, sadly, such feelings made themselves known only after she’d purged herself of the anger and fear and discomfort that overwhelmed her in her new home. She smiled, but gave a shudder that caused her to spill some of the soup.
IN THE DAYS that followed, Josef remained unable to lure his wife into their budding citrus grove, so he decided to read to her from his horticulture books. In the afternoons, he’d come in from the grove and describe to her the progress of their plants and what he’d done to help them grow. Then he’d read aloud passages from his books, the same books she’d found so boring. But Josef was patient with her and paused, perhaps more often than was necessary, to explain what he’d just read. He hoped that by hearing these books read by the voice of a loved one, Lena would begin to take an interest in their contents. He didn’t know that the only thing keeping her awake was her annoyance at having everything explained as though she were a small and not very clever child.
The exception to their little routine came once a week when, shortly
before daybreak, Josef would dress in his cleanest suspenders and paddle across Lake Worth to the Town of Figulus Post Office, where he’d wait for nearly two hours until the postmaster showed up.
“I am sorry to trouble you,” he’d say to Earl, introducing himself each time as “the man with the missing loafers,” though of course Earl remembered his face and his name, but was all too pleased to adopt Josef’s formality for the sake of the performance. Josef even gave in once and provided the postmaster with a few details about the elegant and shiny leather and the fashionable style of the shoes. He really had only a vague idea what the shoes might look like, but a few typical details, he felt, would make the shoes seem more real to the postmaster and make the search for them seem that much more urgent.
Earl looked forward to these meetings with Josef for their theatrical quality. He felt as though he was slowly erasing his early failure on the stage. And if he could erase one failure, then why not all the rest? Perhaps he could finally start over and one by one erase all the great failures of his life. He had no idea how this might happen, but he knew that for the first time in years he felt a real sense of hope.
“I am still awaiting word of my misdelivered shoes,” Josef would say, straightfaced and staring with his wide, dark eyes.
“Wellsir, that carrier shows when he shows, if you know what I mean,” and Earl would laugh good-naturedly with his hands folded before his belly, reveling in the continuing saga of these missing shoes. “But that note’s still hanging out back there, if you care to look.”
“No thank you, sir. That won’t be necessary.” But Josef would leave the office and walk in the opposite direction so as to circle around behind the building and cast a sidelong glance at the increasingly weathered, curling scrap of paper that now seemed to make light of his solemn request.
The Legend of the Barefoot Mailman Page 5
