Harris Barkley, bursting through the doors of Mr. Cole’s office, holds Robinson like a prized marlin for a picture in presenting him to Mr. Cole. Mr. Cole, though, is deep into the papers on his work; to busy to notice another crowning achievement for Mr. Barkley. Barkley is disappointed, so he merely wrangles the young man in his strong hold into the office chair across from Mr. Cole.
As Robinson sits, Barkley moves around the desk and whispers into Mr. Cole’s ear. While Robinson watches the sidebar between the two men he slowly begins to chew on a non-existent piece of gum. The lack of gum calls to attention his sticky shoes upon the linoleum floor. His attention quickly fades as he moves his eyes back across the wooden table to the two men whispering.
With the conversation ending Mr. Cole communicates he understand through a brief nod. Harrison Barkely moves back around the desk, standing soldier-like behind Robinson- arms pressed to his side, back straight and stiff, head and eyes focused on nothing particular. Robinson rubs his neck as he looks back at Barkley with a knowing look that his theatrics were not at all necessary. Barkley gave no indication as he stood there in his pose, while Robinson continued to slowly rub his aching neck.
Mr. Cole continues to work as he addresses Robinson, “It is now past five o’clock. You missed your afternoon meeting with my report, which would indicate to me you have taken a certain enjoyment in your work, however that enjoyment must not be in burning the letters as I also have been told that no smoke was seen coming from your furnace. Care to explain?”
Robinson leaned forward, clasping his hands together as if he was about to tell an uncomfortable secret to Mr. Cole, “I lost track of time down there. With the room being so dark its like being trapped in snow Mr. Cole. I couldn’t see six inches in front of my face. I even broke the lamp trying to find my way around.”
“And why were you burning the letters by hand?” Mr. Cole interrupted, still looking down upon his work, not once having truly looked at Robinson during this brief interrogation.
Robinson kept gaining steam as he talked. He found it easier to talk to someone when they were not giving them the full weight of their attention, “And the furnace- the furnace went out on me so I had to burn the letters by hand. I had to be careful because I had a lighter and I didn’t want the whole place-“
“Did you get it out of your system, Mr. Robinson?” Finally, Mr. Cole put down the pen from his paperwork and glided the glasses that sat upon his nose off, all in one singular motion, as if this was a practiced routine. Robinson was about to answer, but Mr. Cole continued on. He always continued on.
“You can admit you read a letter or a few of them. I understand. I know there is a certain allure that comes from being surrounded by mysterious packages and letters. There is that feeling, a certain indescribable sensation, that there is unfinished business to be had down there. And you, you have been chosen to be that person to put the pieces together. I know you believe that to be especially true given your family history.”
The words hang heavy in the air like a crane holding a steel beam. Robinson shot Mr. Cole an icy stare, his teeth grinding hard with that last sentence that trickled out of Mr. Cole’s tight lipped mouth. Robinson was met with a subtle gratifying smirk from Mr. Cole that vanished quickly from his lips back to his usual stern faced look.
“Mr. Robinson, we are a government institution-one of two Undeliverable Mail Center’s in the United States that is a huge responsibility to guard the privacy of those whose words and items were meant for a specific person. That person was not you, Mr. Robinson, as much as you may think it was. All we ask of you is to collect any items from the packages or envelopes that you recover and those items, if deemed worthy, will be auctioned off. That makes you a businessman Mr. Robinson; a treasurer for a country that right now, not only needs, but depends on you to make money for them. I know the mail and the post office are a dying entity in our time, but as long as it is going we will do our jobs, we will do our jobs well, and we will do it according to the guidelines that are set by the government.
Mr. Cole places a small, leather bound manual with the title- Undeliverable Mail Custodian Guidelines on the front cover in front of Robinson. Robinson picks up the manual, briefly thumbing through the pages before Mr. Cole continued.
“A lot of people, just like yourself, wonder why we have to burn the letters, right? The easy answer is-its our job. Let me indulge you in a story.” Mr. Cole standing up, walks with ease over to a framed picture of a postcard with a Wright Brothers original stamp emblazoned on the corner. He gently grabs the side of the frame and swings it outwards exposing a small safe. Quicker than Robinson could blink, Mr. Cole had the safe open and was delicately reaching inside the small hole.
Mr. Cole pulled out a box that he placed upon his desk. He opened up the box, keeping his eyes transfixed on Robinson, as the young man looked on with a keen interest. Even Mr. Barkley looked on with an interest at the prize Mr. Cole was about to unearth to them.
Carefully, Mr. Cole unwrapped the contents of the box to expose a letter that lay pressed safely within the confines of a clear vinyl sleeve. Unlike the manual, Mr. Cole gently escorts the letter to Robinson, like a mother passing off her newborn. It was that delicate and loving.
Robinson looked at the letter, which was in pristine and mint condition. There was no fading or yellow marks upon the white envelope. The corners were pressed and the letters stood out boldly; no smudges or a hint of the ink running from the exchange of countless hands touching it. Only a blotchy stamp marked in red declaring “Old Stamps Not Recognized” that ran underneath the original stamp of George Washington made the letter unsatisfactory for Robinson. To the beaming Mr. Cole that fact was unimportant, for this was a letter that Mr. Cole had purposefully kept in immaculate condition, as if it were a museum piece on display, to display to a select few.
“Did you every think you would be able to hold the actual words of Abraham Lincoln in your very hands?” A surprised Robinson looked up on the smirking face of Mr. Cole. Robinson had to hand it to the guy, he had a way of capturing your attention to make his point. Mr. Cole was the lion tamer who cracks his whip, not just to gain strength and power, but to gain the attention of everyone under the big top. He certainly had Robinson’s attention right now.
“This letter is just a reminder of what our job is here at the UMC. A letter from Abraham Lincoln, himself, when he was in office. The stamp he used was outdated. Not recognized by the union during the Civil War because they changed their stamps. Some postman had the gumption to uphold the postal law on the President. Unbelievable, right?”
“So how did it end up here with you?” Robinson said as he studied the handwriting of Lincoln on the letter.
“Interesting question and the answer is this-” Robinson cringed at his question, wishing he could take it back. Mr. Cole had led him down this path and Robinson had followed. In this game of chess, Mr. Cole was an expert and Robinson would always two steps behind. Mr. Cole took some measured breathes before diving in with his grand finale.
“Lincoln is one of the most renowned letter writers of his or any other generation. This letter was written to his wife, Mary, during the Civil War while Lincoln was about to give the Gettysburg Address. But, as I mentioned before, during the Civil War the Union changed its postal stamps. This stamp, the portrait of George Washington, was not a regulated government stamp- Lincoln had used an old stamp. This letter, like millions of letters before it, was put in the undeliverable mail pile to be burned.”
“So how how come it wasn’t burned?” Robinson asked, finally looking up at Mr. Cole and handing the letter back over to him.
Mr. Cole took the letter and placed it back in the box. He then turned his attention back to Robinson for the final act of his show.
“A young man, much like yourself, had taken it upon himself to personally look over each and every letter he came across. That is how he knew this letter was different; this letter was something special. He recognized the name of Mary Todd Lincoln and the address of the White House. He thought better of burning the letter; instead he took the letter home, never opening it up, but with every intention of delivering the letter himself to the widow Mrs. Lincoln. So he ventured out to make right what he had found and to deliver the letter and its words to its rightful owner. The letter, nor the boy, made it to the White House. The boy was found beaten to death; robbed of all that was on him. This letter included. See, Mr. Cross, we are the keepers of the gate. Our job is to bury the past and let the course of time play out as it was intended. If things are intended to happen than so be it, but it is not our place or our duty to interfere with fate. Understood”
An agitated Robinson re-positions himself in the chair, feeling his time in the office would be quite long with this retort’ “I understand everything. I understand some kid was murdered trying do good. Now his death and Lincoln’s words are nothing more than a prop for show.”
Mr. Cole had to restrain himself as he shot an irritated look at Robinson, “You little prick. You know why that kid died? He died because he was doing something he was not intended to do. This letter, for whatever reason, was not to be delivered. None of them are supposed to be delivered for better or worse.”
Mr. Cole leaned over the desk almost as if he was going to climb over it, which Robinson did not think would be out of the realm of possibility-“This is no prop, it’s a cautionary tale. When people go outside of themselves, outside of fate, outside of what is expected of them. They end up losing. They end up dead. The screams Mr. Barkley heard, well, we have heard those cries before. The last man in your position, Mr. Thomas, drove himself crazy over the letters. Now take the night to think of what it is you want to do- Do you want to obsess over things you can’t control or do you want to guard the gate? The choice is yours.”
Mr. Cole straightens up and fixes his suit to lay straight. He sits down in his chair, picking up his pen to continue his work. As if not skipping a beat Harris Barkley grabs the shoulder of Robinson to usher him out of the door. Robinson continues to look at Mr. Cole and the lost letter of Abraham Lincoln that lies upon the desk.
“Lets go.” grumbles Barkley as he pushes Robinson toward the door. Before Barkley can throw Robinson out of the room a voice quickly and agitatedly arises from behind.
Mr. Cole wagging his pen is looking up coldly at Robinson-“Mr. Barkley, be so kind as to check out friend here to make sure he has not removed any contents from the room.”
Barkley grunts approvingly and begins to pat down and empty the pockets of the young worker. When he takes out the keys, an interested Mr. Cole asks, “Let me see those keys. Check the shoes, as well.”
Robinson controls his breathing and his disapproval at the method of these two men. He feels more like he is in line at the airport rather than a professional employee of the post office. Robinson hands his shoes to Barkley while he closely watches Mr. Cole inspect his key ring- matching up the keys to a list that was taken when he entered the building.
“You got anything, Mr. Harris?” A very subdued and disappointed Mr. Cole despondently asks.
“Gum, sir.” Harris exposes the bottom of Robinson’s right shoe to show a sticky wad of gum plastered on the bottom of the shoe. Robinson peels it off the sticky substance and plops it into his mouth. He cringes at the dirty, metallic taste, but hides his displeasure away very quickly.
“Thanks. I’ve been looking all over for that. Still has its flavor. Waste not want not, right?”
Mr. Cole and Barkley look on at Robinson with disgusted looks about their faces. What they just witnessed was enough for them to stop their scare tactics and send him on his way. Quickly.
Mr. Cole and Barkley hand back the miscellaneous items to Robinson. Robinson quickly stuffs his belongings into various crevices of his pants. Robinson begins to leave when Mr. Cole stops him again.
“I think you are forgetting one last thing.” Mr. Cole looks over Robinson before throwing him his keys. “I think you will be needing these back. Now, be on your way.”
The two men watched Robinson disappear to the outside. Once out of sight Mr. Cole looked to Mr. Barkley in a knowing way.
“Keep an eye on him Mr. Barkley. He doesn’t quite believe, yet. But he will. He will.”
“I’m on it” Barkley said to Mr. Cole as he left the office in the direction of Robinson Cross.
Once outside, Robinson tightened up his jacket in the face of the cold, grey night that was falling upon him. He continued to walk quickly away from work and when he went a round the corner he looked behind him for any surprises in the form of Mr. Cole or Barkley. When he determined that he was alone, Robinson removed the dirty wad of gum in his mouth; his spit filled with warm dust and dirt. After he had thoroughly cleansed his palate, Robinson looked at the wad of gum from his hand.
Inside the muddy, spittle riddled piece of gum hide the key. Paul’s key. Robinson ripped away the gum from the key as best that he could. The key lay in his palm not bearing the resemblance of the polished key he had taken out earlier that day. However, Robinson was glad that he was able to save the key. No matter the condition.
Now it was time to deliver the key to its rightful owner.
But a pressing feeling lay upon Robinson as he put the small key away into his pocket. Across the street an old man stared at Robinson. His eyes were small little marbles placed upon a very haggard face. The man’s scraggly white beard made him look crazy, more menacing than deranged. The man kept his eyes locked upon Robinson, making the young man feel very uncomfortable.
The old man unlocked his gaze to look up and down the street. To Robinson’s surprise the old man began to hustle his way over in Robinson’s direction. The man was old, but he definitely moved well.
“Hey, kid come here. I want to talk with you. Come here, kid.” The man began to shout.
Robinson wasted no time in moving in a direction away from this oncoming lunatic. Who is this guy? Is this one of Cole’s men that keeps an eye out for him? Did this man get a glimpse of the key? Questions stormed upon Robinson’s head as he began to move frantically away from the old man. The man kept on with his pursuit causing Robinson to ditch his quick walk and break out into a sprint.
Robinson ran and ran until his lungs gave out and he could run no more. He didn’t know where he had run to, but when he looked around he saw no old man charging after him. Though Robinson had stopped the theories and conjectures of his mind did not. Did Mr. Cole have guys on the outside? Did Mr. Cole know he snuck something out and this old man was there to retrieve it? The questions were endless.
But right now, Robinson needed to remember what he had and what he had to do. He closed his eyes and saw the address printed on the front of the envelope-772 Winchester St. St. Paul, MN. The flash of remembrance was bright, as bright as the light he endured in the hospital room. Winchester St. was only a few blocks away from his house. He could take the bus from here, wherever here was, to the address.
Robinson walked a few blocks to a bus stop. Once there he checked his location and coordinated the bus route. In his rush to get away from the old man Robinson had cleared about 5 miles in the opposite direction from his place. I guess all those years of cross-country running still paid dividends.
Back then, in his high school days, Robinson could run and run and run for times and distances unknown to anyone. Especially himself. He never followed in a pack or ran the ascribed race routes; rather he ran alone and ran off the trail. A more adventurous method Robinson figured. Running was an activity to get lost in and enjoy; your thoughts just sweeping by like the scenery. It was not a competition for medal or prizes. The prize, Robinson thought, was time to yourself. When he ran he would just keep on running. I guess old habits are hard to break.
Still winded, Robinson sat alone in the back of the bus staring out the window. Robinson began to picture the look on Paul’s face, after all these years, when he would present him with the key. Robinson began to wonder what words would accompany the presentation of this key. He began to play out various scenarios in his head. He worked on a small speech that he would give that sounded well rehearsed in his head. The words faded away when the old man began to board the bus.
Robinson had not noticed that the bus was taking them back down the same street he had left the old man chasing after him. The old man seemed lost in his thoughts, much like Robinson had been, seeming to be playing out a scenario in his head. Robinson slouched down and crawled towards the back exit. He kept a visual record of the old man as the old man got on the bus was the moment when Robinson hopped out of the back. The old man moved towards the back of the bus, while Robinson turned his back to the bus and down the street. As he walked he heard a wrap on the windows as he turned back to see the old man had spotted him, but he was to late as the bus pulled away from the curb and down the street.
PART II
The grey night turned black as Robinson finally made his way to the address of Paul’s mother’s house. The house was small and quaint. The corner house in the beginning or end of a wave of suburban houses that stretched on and on in the autumn chill. Paul surveyed the darkly, quiet house when a man appeared from the back yard, trailed by two garbage cans. The man dragged the garbage cans to the front curb, positioning them just right. Could this be Paul Cooper? Could it be this easy? Case solved on his first crack? Paul moved stealthy across the street.
“Excuse me, sir. I was wondering something.” Robinson asked from a good distance away. The man, mid-forties with sleepy eyes and two day stubble across his chin, looked up, a little startled, to respond to Robinson.
“What is it?”
Robinson cleared his throat, a rush of nerves racing through him as he asks, “Are you Paul Cooper?”
Before the man can answer a light turns on at the front porch. A small and attractive lady comes walking down calling to which Robinson assumed was her husband. “Jack, I have one more thing for the recycling.”
Disappointment straddled Robinson’s face when he heard the woman call out the name Jack. I guess this won’t be as easy as I thought, echoed throughout Robinson’s head.
The woman stopped short at the sight of Robinson as the man she calls Jack moves up the cement path to receive the recycling bag. Upon grabbing the bag Jack turns back to Robinson to answer bluntly, “No. There is no Paul here.”
“What about a Mrs. Cooper”
“Listen, we have lived here for the last five years. No Cooper lives here, okay? Now beat it kid.”
Robinson remembered the letter had been postmarked three years ago. Paul must have put the wrong address down on the letter. But how would he not know his own mother’s address. It didn’t make sense to Robinson.
Jack stuffs the recycling into the bin and continues back up the path to hide out from the cold. He puts his arm around his wife and begins to gently usher her towards the house when she spins away. “Honey, who is this? Excuse me who are you?”
Jack looks very annoyed by his wife’s gesture. He stands there staring up to the sky in a questioning way. The blonde woman, with her soft blue eyes and sweet voice, make Robinson a little more comfortable as he steps closer into the light.
“My name is Robinson. I am delivering something for a Paul Cooper. I was told, or maybe better I thought that he lived here. Maybe even his mom or family member?”
The woman frowned at the question. Jack, however, felt his previous answer sufficient and this kid standing on the street harmless. Jack begins to open the screen door to head inside, but asks what he feels like is an important question, “Is it drugs? We don’t want that around here.”
“No, its not-” After hearing the word “no” Jack disappears into the house. Jack is either very trusting or his question was just for posture. Either way Jack was gone, leaving Robinson and the young housewife on the street alone.
“I’m sorry, but Jack’s right. Your friend Paul does not live here. Or anyone else. We bought the house a few years back. The realtor told me the woman moved away. That is what he told me at least.” She wrinkles her nose a little as if something were funny before wrapping her arms around herself for warmth. The deft touch of cold nipping at her exposed white neck. Looking at her Robinson had the sudden urge to grab her by the hand and hold onto her. There is something about a woman standing in the cold that arouses a man’s need to provide.
“He wasn’t my friend. I just found something of his that I wanted to return to him.” Robinson jiggled the key in his pocket as he watched the woman provide him with a sign.
“So it is drugs?” she stated with a new found warmth.
“No, its nothing like that.”
“Then what is it?”
“I can’t say.”
The frown returned, as she looked Robinson up and down trying to figure out this kid with one knowing glance. “So its a mystery?” She states, hoping to get something from him.
“It appears that way. I found a letter of his and the address was this. No return address. I was hoping it would be easy, but-“
“Nothing ever is-” she whispered into the wind. Smiling once again at Robinson. “So are you a postman or something?”
“I’m not a postman, but I do work for the post office. So I guess, and I would lean more to this myself, I would say I am- Or something. Maybe more as a curious party.”
“Well, like they say, curiosity killed the cat.” She laughs at her joke. Robinson grins foolishly, trying to steady his mouth, but with no luck.
“So I’ve been told” Robinson says through a broad grin.
Jack angrily pushes the screen door wide open. He stares at the two smiling out in the dim light of darkness before he yells out, “Molly, stop talking and get inside. Dinner won’t make its self.”
Molly stares darkly back at her husband before he retreats back into the house. Her eyes turn back to Robinson, but quickly spiral down towards the ground. Her face becomes red and the warmth of her eys have now been replaced with anger and resentment.
“I have to go.”
“Yeah, sorry to keep you out here for so long. I don’t mean any trouble.”
“No trouble at all. Jack just likes his dinner.”
She turns and walks into the bright light and warmth of the porch. Robinson watches her go when she quickly turns back around toward the dark street. “Thanks for the talk. I hope you find what you are looking for.”
“Thanks. We will have to do it again sometime.” Robinson replied. He puckers his lips at the last syllable drops out of his mouth. He looks up at her, but the porch light makes it hard to see her reaction. Robinson begins to backpedal away in embarrassment. What a fool, he thought of himself.
“What is your name?” The woman asks, taking a step down from the porch towards him.
“Robinson.”
“Well, Robinson, maybe I will see you around.” In the darkness that surrounds Robinson can only see the sweet warmth of Molly’s smile as he nods slightly and disappears into the darkness. With the cold crawling up his back Robinson has one more card in the hole to play in hopes of finding Paul.
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