The next envelope was the checking account statement, and the news there was no more encouraging. She could pay the bills, but the balance was getting uncomfortably low, and if she wanted to keep a decent safety cushion in their cash reserves, she wouldn’t be able to make more than the minimum payment on the credit cards.
Mary Dell knocked back the last swallow of Dr Pepper and smacked the empty can down on the counter in frustration.
How was she supposed to manage all this on her own? With barely a word of encouragement or appreciation from anyone? It was so unfair.
She started to sweep the pile of empty envelopes and paper clutter into the wastepaper basket but saw one more unopened envelope that had escaped her notice. She turned it over. It was from Quilt Treasures magazine. There was no window on it and her subscription was paid up, so she knew it wasn’t a bill. The return address said C. J. Evard.
Mary Dell had seen and opened many such envelopes in the past, but this time she was sure this wasn’t a rejection. It couldn’t be. Her quilt was beautiful, perfectly and precisely constructed, not so much as a thread out of place. She had never worked harder on any project. There was no way in the world that C. J. Evard could reject her, not this time. And didn’t it say in the Bible that God wouldn’t give a person more to deal with than they could bear? If that were true, then the envelope must contain the letter she’d waited so many years to receive. This letter must be the letter, because Mary Dell couldn’t deal with one more disappointment, not today. She was sure she’d reached her limit.
She clutched the envelope to her pounding chest, took a deep breath, held it, and said a silent prayer before finally ripping the flap open and pulling out a sheet of creamy, white stationery, folded thrice. She opened it.
Dear Quilter,
Thank you very much for your recent submission to Quilt Treasures magazine. While your work is interesting, it does not meet our needs at this time.
Cordially . . .
“No!” Mary Dell shouted and then, “Damn it!” And then a whole string of other words that, until that moment, she didn’t even know she knew.
But cursing did not make her feel better, nor did kicking the wastepaper basket across the room. That just created more mess that she was going to have to clean up because there was no one else around to do it for her.
She went into the kitchen in search of a MoonPie, thinking the taste of marshmallow and graham covered in chocolate might soothe her, but found the box empty. When she opened the refrigerator she discovered that she’d just drunk the last Dr Pepper. She did spy, far in the back, next to an open box of baking soda, half-hidden behind a jar of pickled peppers and a wilting cabbage, two bottles of Lone Star that Donny had left behind. Mary Dell pulled them out, opened one, and drank it quickly as she paced back and forth, from the refrigerator to the stove and back again, and again, and again. When that bottle was empty she opened the second, took one more turn around the kitchen and then, her mind made up, scrounged through one of the drawers for a pen and sheet of paper, sat down, and began to write a letter, scribbling furiously, pausing only long enough to take generous swigs of beer between sentences.
Later, she would be unable to remember the exact words and phrases she wrote that night. She wasn’t a big drinker to start with, and the combination of beer and prescription allergy pills clouded her good sense and her memory.
But Mary Dell recalled that she’d told Miss Evard that she wouldn’t know a good quilt if it walked in the door and bit her on the backside, that she lacked the sense that God gave gum trees, and that it cost her, Mary Dell, absolutely nothing to write these things because it was all true and since she was sure that Miss Evard wouldn’t read this letter, undoubtedly being too busy riding her high horse to read anybody’s letters, it didn’t matter anyway.
She did remember the last sentence word for word, and the way the words looked on the page, sloping sloppily down and to the right as it became harder and harder to make her pen behave.
P.S. Though I am paid through the end of the year, please cancel my subscription immediately—I’ve never thought your magazine, or the quilts in it, were anything all that special. On second thought, rather than cancel my subscription, just let it run to the end. I’ll cut the pages up for outhouse paper—that way, at least somebody will get some use out of it.
Cordially,
Mary Dell Templeton
When she woke up the next morning, when she really woke up, her slumber having been interrupted several times by Howard, who finally fell into a good sleep when dawn was breaking, it was past nine o’clock.
Her head was pounding, and her tongue felt like sandpaper. Whether her hangover was the result of the beer she’d consumed, the pity party she’d thrown herself, Donny’s old allergy pills, or some combination of the three, she couldn’t say, but she was paying the price for it now.
She stumbled into the kitchen in search of water, aspirin, coffee, and breakfast, hoping to find all four before Howard woke. As she was pouring water into the Mr. Coffee machine, she glanced over to the kitchen counter.
She didn’t see the letter.
Forgetting coffee and everything else, she rifled through the papers that were still on the counter and searched the floor, thinking it might have fallen off when she’d gotten up the night before. No luck. She searched the wastepaper basket and the trash can under the sink, digging frantically through eggshells and the heap of sodden black coffee grounds she’d just emptied out, holding out hope that the letter was hidden under the soggy, disgusting mess.
But it wasn’t.
She wiped her fingers on a towel, leaving a smear of egg yolk yellow and blackish-brown grit.
“Dear Lord,” she said aloud, “I couldn’t actually have mailed it. Could I?”
As if in answer, she heard the distant rumbling of an engine and the spinning of tires driving too fast for a gravel road as Wanda Joy Cleary, the crankiest mail carrier in Texas, sped away with Mary Dell’s letter stashed inside her mail truck.
Mary Dell put a hand to her pounding forehead.
“Oh, no!”
CHAPTER 33
As soon as Howard woke up, Mary Dell got in the car and drove to the post office, hoping she wasn’t too late to intercept the delivery of her foolishly and hastily penned letter.
The Too Much, Texas, post office wasn’t an actual building but a small room in the back of the Tidee-Mart, fronted by a single-window counter, partially covered with wire mesh: a one-woman operation. Wanda Joy Cleary, the postmistress, kept short hours that could change without warning, depending on her mood.
Back in the sixties, some enterprising young congressman who was trying to make a name for himself as a cutter of government waste had proposed closing this and a number of other rural postal outlets, but things didn’t work out quite like he’d planned. The residents of Too Much, patriots all, were all for cutting wasteful government spending, as long as the waste in question was cut out of somebody else’s community, and it didn’t take them very long to make this clear to the young lawmaker.
Maida Simpson, Wanda Joy’s mother, who had also been postmistress in her day, started a protest campaign that involved mailing boxes of horse dung to that up-and-coming congressman. The population of Too Much didn’t even add up to six figures, but the amount of manure required to make a stink isn’t as much as you might believe. The congressman got the message. Too Much got to keep its post office. And Maida Simpson got to keep her job, which she passed on to her daughter upon her retirement.
When Mary Dell walked up to the counter and rang the service bell, Wanda Joy was not in a good mood. Of course, no one in town could remember ever seeing Wanda Joy in a good mood, so ringing the bell probably made no difference in the tenor of their exchange. But the second she pressed down on the metal clapper, Mary Dell knew that she’d made a mistake.
Wanda Joy, who was sorting mail with her back to the counter, was clearly visible through the metal mesh window. When Mary De
ll tapped on the bell, the postmistress’s shoulders jerked. She turned her head briefly to scowl in Mary Dell’s direction, then went back to sorting, ignoring her for a good seven minutes.
Wanda Joy was never seen without a piece of gum in her mouth, not since the day that she’d read an article that said chewing could help relieve feelings of hostility. The speed and pressure with which Wanda Joy chewed her gum was generally a pretty good indication of how hostile she was feeling. As she walked to the counter, she was chomping on a Juicy Fruit at a pace of approximately ninety-seven chews per minute.
“There was no need to go bangin’ the bell. I’m not deaf, you know.”
Mary Dell hadn’t banged the bell. She’d barely tapped it, but figured there was no point in arguing, not if she wanted to get her letter back.
“I’m sorry. You had your back to me, so I thought maybe you didn’t know I was standing here.”
“I knew,” she growled. “But I was busy doing something else. I’m only one person, you know. I’ve only got two hands.”
“Of course you do. I can see that.”
“Well, I should hope so. You’ve got two eyes in your head, don’t you? People come in here and bang on that bell like there was some sort of emergency, like the building was on fire or something. Startles the bejeebers out of me. How would you like it if somebody went around ringing bells at you all day long?”
“I see your point, Wanda Joy. It won’t happen again.”
“Well, I should hope not.”
Wanda Joy pulled a metal wastebasket out from under the counter, spat her gum into it, took a fresh piece out of the breast pocket of her blue blouse, unwrapped it, and started chewing again.
“May I help you?”
“Yes,” Mary Dell said as she jiggled Howard’s umbrella stroller back and forth. He had just begun to fuss; the motion of the stroller sometimes soothed him. “I wrote a letter last night and changed my mind about mailing it. I’d like to get it back.”
“Why?”
Mary Dell’s personal correspondence was none of the postmistress’s business, but Wanda Joy wasn’t chewing nearly as quickly now. Perhaps she was warming up to her.
“It’s just that . . . well, I never should have written it. That’s all. To tell the truth, I almost don’t remember writing it. Not most of it. I sure don’t remember mailing it.” Mary Dell chuckled. “But I guess I must have because I couldn’t find it anywhere.”
Wanda Joy’s chewing slowed to an almost bovine pace. Her forehead creased with curiosity.
“You don’t remember writing it? Or mailing it? Did you fall and hit your head or something?”
“No. Nothing like that. It’s just that . . . well, I was upset last night. Somebody wrote me a nasty letter. Actually, it wasn’t even a nasty letter, it was just a form letter. But this was the fourteenth time and . . .
“Anyway,” Mary Dell continued, deciding that Wanda Joy, who was an active member of the strictest Southern Baptist congregation in the county, didn’t need to know about the allergy pills or the two bottles of beer, “I’ve changed my mind. So I’d like my letter back.”
Mary Dell held out her hand. Wanda Joy narrowed her eyes and chewed her gum a little faster.
Just then, Howard started to howl. Mary Dell tried jiggling the stroller back and forth more vigorously, but she knew it was no use. When Howard started to cry like that, it would take more than a little stroller jiggling to calm him down again. She’d fed him before leaving the house, so he shouldn’t be hungry already. Maybe his ear was still bothering him. Or maybe he didn’t like Wanda Joy. She couldn’t blame him for that.
Wanda Joy pushed herself up on her tiptoes and peered over the counter to the stroller below and the screaming infant sitting in it. She squinted, peering over the tops of her glasses. “Something wrong with him?”
Mary Dell felt her jaw clench. “Not a thing. He’s absolutely perfect.”
She unbuckled Howard from his stroller and picked him up. “Wanda Joy,” she said, raising her voice so she could be heard over the baby’s screams, “are you going to give me my letter or not?”
“No.”
“Why? You haven’t sent it out yet, have you?”
“No. Matter of fact,” she said, turning her head toward the table behind her, “it’s sitting in that stack right there. But I can’t give it back to you.”
“What! Why not?”
Wanda Joy cracked her gum. “Because,” she said smugly, clearly enjoying her power, “it doesn’t belong to you anymore. The minute that letter went into my mailbag it became property of the United States Postal Service. I can’t give it back to you. That would be mail tampering, which is a federal offense.”
“Oh, come on, Wanda Joy! You’ve got to be kidding. It’s my letter! I wrote it, and if I’ve changed my mind about mailing it, I don’t see how that concerns you or the federal government! Besides . . .”
Mary Dell’s protests fell on deaf ears, not that it was very easy to make herself heard over Howard’s cries, but Wanda Joy wasn’t listening anyway. She turned her back on Mary Dell and returned to the task of sorting the mail.
If Mary Dell could have reached through the service window and grabbed her letter, she would have. If not for that metal mesh covering on the window, she might have been able to do just that. Her letter, addressed to C. J. Evard with purple ink in a somewhat wobbly, inebriated version of her own handwriting, was sitting right there in plain sight, mocking her. Mary Dell was convinced that Wanda Joy had placed it on the top of the stack just to frustrate her.
It worked. Mary Dell was frustrated and angry. It was impossible for her to lay her hands on that letter or Wanda Joy, so she did the only thing she could do. She smacked the service bell as hard as she could.
Ding!
Wanda Joy’s shoulders jerked, just like before, but she didn’t turn around, just kept sorting the mail at a deliberately slow and infuriating pace.
Mary Dell smacked the bell again.
Ding!
Wanda Joy spun around and glared at her.
“Stop that!”
“Give me back my letter, and I will!”
“No! I already told you . . .”
Ding! Ding! DING!
Glaring and with her jaw working as fast as pistons on a Ferrari, Wanda Joy stormed to the counter, reached overhead, and pulled down a grimy-looking white window shade with the word “CLOSED” written on it in red marker and underlined—twice.
Mary Dell didn’t care. She smacked the bell again and again, the musical ping of the bell punctuating Howard’s cries. It was a pointless gesture, she knew that. No amount of bell banging was going to change Wanda Joy’s mind. That letter was as good as delivered. C. J. Evard would read it, and she’d be left looking like a fool, again. Not that she ever had or would meet C. J. Evard, but she didn’t like looking foolish, not even to strangers.
On top of that, she’d probably ensured that her own mail would never be properly delivered again. Wanda Joy was not going to forget this anytime soon, but Mary Dell deserved to be heard! It was so unfair! Everything was just so unfair!
Behind the counter, a door slammed. Wanda Joy left the building, exiting through the back. Mary Dell brought her hand down onto the bell one last time, cupping the top of it, causing the tone to turn flat. Her defiance quickly gave way to deflation, and she was left standing at the counter, staring at the shuttered window, and feeling foolish.
Howard was still crying, and Mary Dell shushed him, bouncing him slightly in her arms and patting his back.
“There, there, darlin’.”
Mary Dell felt a gentle tap on her shoulder. It was the store clerk, Bob Mayfield, the same man who’d been so amused during her run-in with Marlena Benton. He didn’t look amused this time. He looked concerned.
“Miss Mary Dell, are you all right? Is there anything I can do to help you?”
“I’m fine. Sorry to make a scene, but that Wanda Joy . . .” Mary Dell stopped herself. Ther
e was no point in getting worked up again. “Anyway, I apologize. Next time I come in, I promise to buy my groceries and leave. No fuss.”
“Oh, that’s all right,” Bob said with a twinkle in his eye. “It’s more interesting when you come in, Miss Mary Dell. Sort of livens things up.”
CHAPTER 34
Dealing with Wanda Joy would have knocked the wind out of a lesser woman, but Mary Dell was not so easily felled. She decided to regroup and make the most of her day.
After all, she reasoned, the chances of C. J. Evard actually reading that letter were slim to none. Obviously, the editor left that sort of thing to low-level secretaries or mail clerks. If not, Mary Dell wouldn’t have gotten all those form letters.
Well, she’d learned her lesson. That was the last time she’d ever waste time submitting patterns to a big magazine. No matter what Grandma Silky said, the world was clearly not in need of a quilting legend at this time, at least not a legend cut from Mary Dell Templeton cloth. Quilting was fun, she told herself, a nice hobby. But she’d been foolish to think it could ever be more than that. Her ranch, this town, this life—this was what she knew and probably all she ever would know. And really, what was so bad about that? There were a lot of people who would have loved to trade places with her. The only thing that mattered now was Howard. She had to care for him and provide for him and, given the limits of her experience and education, making a go of the ranch was the only means she had of doing that.
Howard was still tugging at his ear, so Mary Dell drove over to the pediatrician’s office to see about making an appointment. Her timing couldn’t have been better. There had been a last-minute cancellation, so Dr. Nystrom, a kind and grandmotherly woman in her early seventies who had been Mary Dell’s doctor when she was little, was able to see them right away.
Between Heaven and Texas Page 18
