by Laura Miller
Love,
Your Uncle Les
I finish and carefully set the letter onto his—my—desk. And I let go of a lungful of air. I can feel my eyes burning as I desperately try to hold back tears—tears that have been a long time coming. I squeeze my eyes shut until I can’t feel the burning anymore. Then, slowly, I open them back up and catch sight of a blurry rolodex. I blink the remaining tears away and move my hand toward it.
I flip through a few of its little white cards, and I notice each one is handwritten. There’s a first name and four numbers below the name. And for the first time in a while, I laugh. I flip through some more—all first names, all followed by four digits. I’m guessing these were written before cell phones. And it’s clear, they weren’t written for anyone who doesn’t know the people of this town by their first names.
My eyes leave the rolodex and move to the old rotary phone on the desk next to it. My mind goes back to my uncle sitting right here in this chair, talking and smiling, that black receiver to his ear, his feet propped up on his desk.
Next to the phone is a big, white coffee mug that reads Wyandot County’s Best Newspaper in black letters painted down its center. I feel my grin widen, just as I hear that little bell above the door in the front of the tiny building clanging back and forth. It’s rigged up to the doorframe by a ruler and baler twine—always has been.
I pick up the letter, fold it and slide it into the top drawer before making my way out of the office. And when I look up next, my breath catches in my chest.
“Eben.”
“Savannah?” It’s a question, I think. But then again, it’s not.
I make my way to the door and throw my arms around him. It takes him a second, but he eventually puts his arms around me, too, and we hold each other for several, long heartbeats.
He smells good. He’s still wearing the same cologne he used to wear in high school, and something about that makes my heart happy.
I pull away from him, and his eyes quickly roam over me. And I’m not too ashamed to admit that I like that they do.
“Wow, I, uhhh...,” he begins. “Sorry, I wasn’t expectin’... I just expected...” He stops and takes a breath. “Hell,” he says, with a little grin playing on his face, “I don’t know what I was expecting, but I, sure as hell, wasn’t expecting you.”
I fall back on my heels and feel a comfortable smile pushing its way to my face.
“Salem Ebenezer.” I just look at him, taking him all in.
He exhales. “Savannah Catesby.”
I do notice he doesn’t call me Vannah. It’s weird, but it has been...
“Has it really been six years?”
He seems to think about it for a second, and then he nods. “It has.”
“Well.” I bow my head before meeting his same beautiful light eyes again. “You look...great.”
Immediately, a bashful air takes over his face, and if I’m not mistaken, I think his cheeks get a little red, too.
“So do you,” he says.
It’s definitely Eben—a grown-up Eben, but Eben, all the same.
“You’re here.”
I nod. “I’m here.”
“Since when?”
“Since today,” I say.
He slowly bobs his head, as if he’s still just taking it all in, too.
“Well, what brings you back?”
“Um,” I mumble, and immediately my eyes fall to the old, faded brown carpet. I start to shrug as I look around the little room. “He left it to me.”
“Oh.” He quickly drops his gaze. “I’m sorry. Yeah. Of course.”
“Yeah,” I breathe out. I really don’t know what else to say.
“He was too young,” he says, under his breath.
I nod. “Yeah, he was.”
He looks up at me, and our eyes meet. “So, are you here for good then or...?”
I suck in another big breath and then rest my hand on the back of an old desk chair. “I’m here for now, at least.”
The truth is I hadn’t really thought too much about it. I found out that Uncle Les left the paper to me only a few weeks ago. In that time, I quit my job, packed up my life. And now, I’m here.
I watch him bob his head a couple more times, as if my answer is the one he expected.
“Well, uh, it’s good to finally see you again.” His words sound sincere. And I don’t know why, but that seems to comfort me a little, as if leaving my job and home and my family and friends might have been okay, as long as I got to hear Salem Ebenezer say those words. But at the same time, he also seems distant—not like the Eben I left here years ago.
“Yeah,” I agree, gripping the chair tighter. “It’s good to see you, too.” I wonder if he knows how much I mean that.
It’s quiet again. And I’m trying to figure out why it feels so strange to be in the same room with him. Maybe it’s because it’s been so long. Maybe it’s because of the way we left it. Or maybe it’s because of the way I left it.
“Uh, did you...?” I start to ask. I point to the piece of paper in his hand. I didn’t know what else to do with the silence.
“Uh, yeah,” he says, shaking his head, as if he’s shaking something off. “I did actually come here for a reason. I don’t usually wander aimlessly into buildings.” He smiles effortlessly. “I have a classified.”
I nod, and my smile naturally widens. I’m not sure how much I can handle today, but I’m pretty sure I can handle a classified—and just maybe one from Salem Ebenezer, as well.
“All right,” I say, looking around the front desk for a form. I shuffle through some papers and come out with last week’s board of aldermen meeting minutes and a stack of printed cartoons. “Uh, here.” I turn over the minutes and slide the page toward him. “You can just write down your contact info and information about the item on this. I’m sorry. I don’t know where any forms are.”
“Oh, it’s fine.” He takes the paper and grabs a pen from behind his ear.
His action pulls me back. In fact, I might not have ever thought again about him and his habit of keeping a pen or a pencil behind his ear, if it weren’t for today. And that thought kind of makes me sad.
He starts jotting down some words, and I tear my stare away from the side of his head and focus on his face while he’s not looking. His jawline is squarer than the last time I saw him, I think. And he’s got facial hair—a dark five-o’clock shadow. But his eyes are the same dusty shade of brown.
“It’s been a good eight years,” he says, looking up.
I quickly force my eyes to the counter again. “What?”
“My old Chevy.” He haphazardly points in the direction of the parking lot outside. “I’m finally selling her.”
“Oh,” I say. I look out the window and notice his old truck, and immediately, I smile. We have a lot of memories in that old thing—a lot of memories I haven’t thought about in a long time. And I know it’s crazy, but for a second, my heart hurts at the thought of someone else driving around with our memories.
“Eight years? That truck was nearly new to you last time I saw you. Has it really been that long already?”
He stops writing, and his eyes find mine. “It’s been a while, Savannah.”
His words sound sad, maybe even a little angry, but I’m probably just imagining things.
I look down at his left hand, and I notice he’s not wearing a ring. I close my eyes and slowly let go of a breath. Him being married would definitely have meant too much time had past. And honestly, I don’t know if I would have been able to handle that much.
When I open my eyes again, he’s looking at me.
I panic slightly and clear my throat. “You said you’d never sell it.”
“You remember that?” He seems genuinely surprised.
“Yeah, I do.”
He lets go of a low chuckle. “Good memory.” I watch his hand as it taps the surface of the desk once. “Yeah, well, there was a time I didn’t think I’d ever sell it. But I guess there just comes a
day when you’ve just got to move on.”
He looks at me with an even expression, as if he wholeheartedly meant for his statement to have a double meaning.
I clear my throat again and try to busy myself by shuffling around some of the papers on the desk. “Well then, I guess we’ll try to get it sold for ya.” I look back up at him and force a smile.
At the same time, he glances down at the sheet of paper and then sticks the pen back behind his ear. “Well, I think that’s it.” He slides the information my way, along the desk’s surface.
I give it a quick once-over, noticing his phone number is still the same.
“How much do I owe ya?”
“Oh,” I say, shaking my head. “It’s on us.”
“Naw.” He pulls out his wallet.
“No, really, it’s fine,” I say, resting my hand on the hand holding his wallet.
I notice his jaw tighten at my touch, and I quickly take back my hand.
“Um.” I try my best to recover. “Even if I wanted to, I wouldn’t know what to charge you right now anyway.”
He narrows his eyes at me. “You sure?”
“Yeah. Positive.”
“Well, thanks.” He stuffs his wallet back into the back pocket of his faded blue jeans.
“It’s nothing,” I say.
He steps back but doesn’t bother turning. “It’s good that you’re back.”
I smile without even realizing I’m doing it. I’ve been trying to tell myself that all morning. But it sounds so much better coming from his lips, for some reason.
“In fact, you’ve probably forgotten how fun this little town can be,” he adds.
I laugh an honest laugh. “Maybe.”
He turns and makes his way to the door.
“Eben,” I say, regaining his attention.
He slowly turns back toward me.
“We should catch up.”
His eyes meet mine. It’s only one, momentary look, but it’s so very cryptic. I can’t tell if that’s a yes, a no or a hell no.
I’m a little sad that he doesn’t seem as excited to spend time with me as I am to spend time with him.
But eventually, he nods and gives me a small smile. “And thanks again,” he says, tipping the bill of his cap, right before he slips outside.
The little baler-twine bell sings, alerting me he’s gone. And I breathe out a long, unsteady breath.
“Salem Ebenezer,” I whisper to myself. It’s been a long time.
My eyes fall to the page on which he scribbled the classified: 1968 Chevrolet C-10 1/2-ton pickup with custom trim. Original 327 V8 with 3-on-the-tree transmission. A little rust in the rockers, but great body. Runs well. 200,000 miles.
His name and number follow. I hear the truck start up outside, and I see the sun’s glare from its windshield bouncing off the big front window. I don’t know how he has the heart to sell that old truck.
I know I don’t.
I glance at the piece of paper one more time, and then I fold it in half. And then I fold it in half again, and I stick it into the back pocket of my jeans.
Chapter Twenty-One
Savannah
(23 Years Old)
Day 6,573
I hear the bell ring above the door. I’m in the back corner office going over everything with Jan—Jan, the secretary, the graphic designer, the ad specialist, and right about now, my everything.
“I’ll get it,” Jan says, starting to stand.
I’m sure tending to everyone who walked in the door was her job, too—up until today.
“No. I’ll take care of it. We need a paper out this week.”
Jan smiles and sits back down, and I make my way to the door.
“Hi,” I say, before I can even see the figure standing behind the front desk.
“Hey.”
I immediately recognize the voice.
“You know, we should really stop meeting like this,” I say, as he comes into view.
He laughs and dips his head. His laugh is just how I remember it—low, even and authentic.
“I was just dropping by the ad I had been working on with Jan,” he says. “I added a couple things, and...”
“Is that you, Salem?”
He peers back into the other room, as Jan’s voice echoes through the narrow hallway.
“Yeah, it’s me. I brought the ad back.”
“Thanks, dear,” Jan says. “You can leave it with Savannah. We’ll get it in next week.”
“All right. Thanks,” he says to Jan. And then, just like that, his attention is back on me.
“Well, how’s all the sortin’ through everything coming?”
“It’s coming,” I say, trying not to sound or look as frazzled as I feel.
He rolls up the piece of paper and then unrolls it.
“Is it for the lumberyard?” I ask.
“Hmm?”
I eye the page in his hand. “The ad.”
“Oh.” He glances down. “Yeah.”
He sets the piece of paper onto the desk, but it stays rolled up. I watch as he tries desperately to straighten it.
“It’s fine,” I say. “I’m sure we can read it all the same.”
He lets go of the ad, and it curls up into a tube again.
“Do you work there now?” I ask, even though it seems pretty obvious with the Ebenezer Lumber sewn in orange thread onto the pocket of his navy shirt.
He nods. “Yeah. I actually went to school for business. I do most of the buying these days.” He shifts his weight to his other leg. “You know, Dad’s tryin’ to make that early retirement, and as soon as I know my way around all the movin’ parts, I’m pretty sure the only place we’ll see him is fishin’ on the lake...or on some golf course somewhere.” He pauses to laugh under his breath.
“Golf? I didn’t know your dad played golf.”
“He took it up a couple years back.” He looks up at me now. “He’s awful, but he loves it.”
I lower my eyes, and at the same time, try to conceal my smile. “Well, that’s all that matters, I guess.”
“Yeah,” he says. “His golfing buddies would beg to differ.”
I laugh, and this time, I don’t even try to hide it. But all too quickly, there’s a silence that fills the space between us. My first instinct is to fill it, but I don’t have the slightest idea of what to fill it with.
“Well, I should probably get goin’,” he says, patting the surface of the standing desk. “I only snuck out to drop that off.”
“Yeah,” I say. “Of course.”
“I guess I’ll be seeing ya around then.”
I nod my head once. “I guess you will.”
“And you’re right, we should catch up.”
“Yeah,” I agree.
He smiles and then turns and slips through the heavy, wooden door, cuing the baler-twine bell.
When he’s gone, I take the rolled-up page and go back to Jan.
She’s staring at me as soon as I make it through the doorway to the little corner office.
“What?” I ask.
“You two have history?”
I drop my gaze and try my darnedest not to grin. “You could call it that.”
“I’d call it more than that, but that’s just me.”
“What?” I try not to look surprised.
“Oh, don’t think I didn’t hear the words you two were sayin’ in those long pauses out there.”
I start to laugh. “I almost forgot how this town worked.”
“What do you mean?” Jan feigns hurt.
“Really,” I say, “the only thing I’m concerned about right now is getting a paper out this week. ...And maybe getting a new phone for the office. The last place I saw a rotary phone was in an antique store in Asheville.”
Jan smiles, takes the ad, pushes up her glasses and goes back to her computer. “Then, a paper you will have, Miss Catesby.”
I let go of a thankful breath.
“But you might want to have a
conversation with that boy...sooner than later,” she adds.
I give Jan a questioning look.
“I don’t even want to know what that means.”
“Okay, but don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
I keep a curious eye on Jan. But I’m not worried. I know Eben. In fact, there’s not anyone in this town that knows him better than I do.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Savannah
(23 Years Old)
Day 6,575
I sit down onto the couch and bring my knees up to my chest. I’m tired. I’m tired from moving. I’m tired from trying to get this place organized. I’m tired from trying to get caught up with everything at the paper.
I rest my head back on the couch and close my eyes. And just when I do, I hear a loud bang come from the kitchen.
I quickly lift my head, as adrenaline sprints through my body.
I’m trying to place the sound, when it comes to me.
It’s water—gushing water.
I jump up and run to the kitchen. It looks normal. Nothing’s out of place. But I still hear the water. It’s coming from under the sink.
I throw open the cabinet.
“Shit.”
Bending down, I close my eyes and reach for the valve that shuts the water off. As I do it, cold water sprays into my face.
“Shit, that’s cold,” I gasp.
I get the valve turned off, and the water stops, but my face and my sweatshirt feel as if I’ve just run through a sprinkler.
I stand and wipe my eyes with a dry part of my sleeve.
I want to cry, but I laugh instead.
Of course. Of course this would happen tonight.
I grab a towel from a drawer and start soaking up the water from the floor of the cabinet. And when I get most of it up, I drop the wet towel into the sink and think for a second.
I remember the guy who always fixed our plumbing when we lived back here. I think he’s retired. But he had a son, who I went to high school with, and I think he was going into the business. I wonder if he’s still here.
Salem’s the first person I think of that would know that. I go back into the living room and grab my phone.
It feels kind of weird sending him a text, but then again, it also feels pretty normal, too.
