And so the post office was again a community gathering place for the local rubes, philosophers, and more than a few community wags, especially on cold winter days and rainy spring days when there was little work to be done in the fields.
Before he was even across State Street, John was spotted by the ever-increasing crowd milling about the post office, most obviously in an angry mood, and—like any crowd in a democracy—they were looking for someone to vent their anger on, and John was the obvious target. He took a deep breath and pressed on.
Several tried to waylay him, and he turned on his most disarming smile.
“Hey, whatever it is, my daughter is caught up in it too. Let me talk to Mabel, and I’ll be right back out,” he announced while trying to slip his way through the crowd.
Even as he spoke, he saw Ernie of the infamous Franklin clan clattering up in his battered four-wheel-drive off-road vehicle. Word of the draft notices was spreading like wildfire, and he wished Mabel had called him the moment the morning mail delivery from Asheville had come in so he could’ve prepared a response. He spotted his old neighbor and friend Lee Robinson in the crowd and hurried over to him.
“Lee, if you could ask folks to just wait outside,” he implored.
Lee’s ancestors had settled the valley over two hundred years earlier, and four of them had fought in, as Lee said, “the War of Southern Independence.” For John, Lee was the embodiment of this precious valley, representative of all that was best of its traditional, down-to-earth character, a man of moral strength and a cherished neighbor. His son Seth, who was a couple of years older than Elizabeth, had kept a watchful eye on her like an older brother and had passed along his approval of Ben, the boy Elizabeth had fallen for who became the father of her son, while Lee’s youngest daughter had been Jennifer’s best friend. Both he and Lee harbored the hope that perhaps someday the two would notice each other in a different way.
Lee nodded and John motioned for Elizabeth to stay with his friend as he went into the back of the post office.
Mabel held the place down on her own. There was no more door-to-door rural mail delivery service, of course; folks had to come into town to pick up the occasional letter or notice that came from the outside world. There had actually been something of a celebration at the office a month earlier when a letter had arrived all the way from Indiana. It was a mystery how it had even gotten through, addressed to Abe and Myra Cohen from their daughter, a student up at Purdue. She had survived the Day, married, and Abe and Myra were now grandparents of twins.
On the Day, so many families had been cut off from children attending distant colleges, husbands and wives on business trips, elderly parents off on vacation. Only a handful had made it back in the days and weeks afterward. To have been down in Raleigh or Atlanta on the afternoon of the attack had placed so many beyond the pale, never to be heard from again. So on any day when word spread that a delivery had come in from Asheville, the post office filled up with those still holding hope of news from the distant outside world.
Beyond being the postmistress, Mabel had learned to be a professional counselor, as well as a shoulder to cry on when the mail slot was again empty. Word from distant loved ones, news of the outside world, a place to gather and share local news and gossip—this was Mabel’s domain; she offered a place to share moments of happiness, to console in sorrow, to offer encouragement, and to hope that at least some of the old traditions still worked… and she cherished it all. But not today.
Before he could even get one word in, Mabel authoritatively held up her hand. “Yes, John, I know—perhaps it was a mistake letting those letters out before tipping you off. Maybe I should have called you first before sorting and sticking the letters in mailboxes. It wasn’t until your daughter opened it here that I even knew what it was, but by then, it was too late; word was out.”
John sighed, looking at the hundreds of small postal boxes from Mabel’s side of the world inside the mail sorting room, morning sunlight filtering through the tiny glass windows, illuminating the darkness within. The blue-tinted envelopes were in more than a hundred slots.
“Pull them out,” John said. “I need time to deal with this.”
Mabel shook her head firmly, a withering glance telling him he had overstepped when it came to her august employer, the USPS.
“John, you might run this town even after you’ve resigned from that martial law routine, and in general, folks agree with nearly everything you’ve done. But not in here.” She braced herself up to all of her five-foot-two-inch frame and looked up at him towering over her. “I used to be an official employee of the United States Postal Service, and by heaven, I was proud of that. Remember that book some years back and the wretched movie made afterwards about how the postal service reunites America after a disaster like the one we had for real? That stupid movie was something of a cult favorite with us postal workers… Folks used to joke about us and our job—‘going postal’ and stuff like that. But we did make things run, and damn it, John, don’t get between me and my work now, or you’ll have the United States Postal Service to answer to!”
She nearly shouted the last words.
“Okay, Mabel, I’m backing up.”
“And remember this for good measure: I am required by the law that used to exist to ensure the proper posting of mail without censorship, and please don’t try to stop me.”
John gazed at her, ready for a frustrated retort when she pushed that final point in, but she defused the moment by exhaling nosily and then offering the flicker of a friendly smile.
“Sorry, John. Now that I know what is in those envelopes I’m as upset as anyone. One of them is addressed to my son-in-law. Just like you, there are times I hate the job I have to do, but I do it anyhow, the same as you.”
John made the gesture of stepping forward again, leaning over to offer a friendly kiss to her forehead and she gave him a hug, the situation defused.
Even as he stood there, he saw one of the glass doors opening. It was Ernie Franklin, elbowing his way past Lee Robinson, and sure enough, seconds later, there was an explosion of expletives from the foyer.
“Now I got to deal with it,” John finally replied, wearily shaking his head, looking back down at Mabel.
She sighed, reached out, and took his hand. “Hey, I’m just the messenger, as they used to say, so don’t shoot me.” She hesitated, now a bit embarrassed, because in his former career, which was essentially that of dictator, he had indeed shot more than one person. “Sorry,” she fumbled, red faced.
He smiled. “I know what you mean, and no insult taken, Mabel. It used to be a popular metaphor for the bringer of bad news—and this morning, it is bad news.”
“My God, John. I owe you everything for what you helped to do with George, pushing the town to release some antibiotics for that last bout of pneumonia. But I’m sorry—if things are to one day work out, I have to do my job, the same as you do.” She hesitated, gulped, and stepped back slightly. “I can’t stop you from pulling those envelopes out of the mailboxes, but if you do, you will have lost my respect, John.”
How could he respond to that challenge? And now more and more of the mailboxes were being pulled open. Ernie was continuing his expletive-laden tirade and whipping up a potential explosion, right in the lobby of the post office.
“Well, it’s already out there, Mabel,” he replied, pointing to the boxes.