The Letter

The Letter

Walking up the three sets of stairs to get to her apartment, she looked at the envelope in her hand and wondered who it was from. Lights flickered to life in the stairwell as the late summer sun set.
   Her address had been printed and there was no return-address. The stamp looked… international, she thought. There was no text on the stamp, just a number.
   She had to put the envelope away when she reached her floor to fish her keys from her purse and open her front door.
   As soon as she entered she heard sounds of shooting and a young man’s voice. “Die already!”
   She sighed.    One glance into the kitchen was enough to know he had not gone grocery-shopping, nor had he done any of the chores she requested he do.
   “Hugh!” She kicked off her heels in the hallway next to his dirty sneakers. The shooting continued. Not, she admitted to herself, that she had expected anything else.
   As she was cleaning up the kitchen, checking cabinets to see if she still had enough food to make a meal, her thoughts drifted back to the envelop in her back pocket.
   She opened the fridge. Six eggs and half a packet of sliced salami left. She sighed. She’d have to get creative again.
   “What’s for dinner, aunt Mara?” The gangly youth hung in the door opening. His fat glasses almost on the tip of his nose, so he had tilted his head up to be able to look through them and actually see her.
   His shirt had stains of indetermined nature on it, his jeans sagged and he was wearing two different socks.
   “How was school?” she asked, grabbing the eggs from the fridge. She slammed the door. He didn’t flinch. “I hope you like fried rice, ‘cause there’s bloody well nothing else to eat.”
   He had the good sense to look contrite. “I’m sorry, auntie.”
   She inhaled deeply, about to give him a good scolding, then exhaled defeatedly. It would do no good. He would get uppity with her, she’d get even more mad, they’d both start shouting. It would end with slamming doors. And still they’d have nothing better to eat.
   “I did take down the laundry,” he volunteered.
      “Did you fold it?” She asked, measuring rice in a cup.
   Silence.
   Plucking the letter from her back pocket she gave it to her teenage roommate. “See what you can find.”
   He took it greedily. He loved puzzles. “Can I open it?”
   “No.” Taking the last clean pan from the designated cabinet she filled it with water and dumped the rice in.
   “Please?” He sounded so sweet her teeth almost burst.
   “Privacy, remember. I pretend not to know what you’re doing in your room when the door is closed and you don’t read my mail.” She lit the stove and put the pot on, before going back to the sink to wash a skillet.
   He sulked, but pushed his glasses more firmly up his nose and turned the small white rectangle over and over in his hands.
   “It says Miss M. J. D. Douglas-Snyder,” he murmured.
   Most people assumed, that because she had a double last name, she was married. If she had to register somewhere, she always chose the more obscure Ms.
   “And the stamp is Canadian.”
   “How do you know?” She grabbed the envelope back, looking at the little square in the corner.
   Hugh made his exasperation known with a sigh. Tapping the stamp, he said: “Canadian flag?”
   “Oh.” She gave him back the letter, turning to the stove, wondering who she knew in Canada, or who she knew that was on holiday there.
   The answer was: nobody.
   “Why don’t you just open it?” Hugh leaned against the counter now, still turning the little white rectangle over and over in his hands, but more ponderingly than before.
   She shrugged. “I guess I could.”
   “You’re weird.” He stalked from the kitchen. Sounds of gunfire erupted in the livingroom.
   The rice pot boiled over.
   Cursing, she turned down the fire and looked at the white bubbling mass. At least she hadn’t let it burn.

~