the Postmistress (2010) by Blake Sarah

Author:Blake, Sarah [Sarah, Blake,]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2011-01-14T19:19:33.734000+00:00

1941

The Postmistress

WAR WAS COMING, everyone said it, though it was hard to believe what they said. Outside the windows here, gulls and swallows divided an undivided sky; the clear blue draped over a flat green sea, day after hot summer day. June had opened her throat wide and wider, and it was honky-tonk all the time. Tourists poured off the Boston boats into the throng along Front Street, mixing with sailors on shore leave walking in packs. The sunstruck beaches popped with parti-colored umbrellas while the turrets of navy boats crenellated the horizon far off in the bay. "Anyone back there?" a man called from the lobby. Iris jumped and looked at the clock. "Coming," she answered. If there was a psychology of summer people it was this: though they were out here on vacation, way out on the tip of the American world--sunstruck, hungover, or stupid with lying in--they responded to the morning as dogs to the sound of their master's voice. Alert and bright, they trooped into the post office with letters and cards, wanting to get the work of their vacation out of the way in the morning. Then the rest of the day could go to the dogs. The rest of the day could slip easily as the evening sun into the surrounding ocean. Iris stood in the window dispensing stamps and postal orders, directing newcomers to the town hall, nodding and counting and looking up for the next person in line to step forward. Yes, one could reach the back beach by way of the dunes. But one ought to carry some water. About a mile and a half. Yes, it looks like it's going to be a scorcher. The summer people came and went like froth at the tip of the wave, and she listened as one half-listens to the symphonics of chickadees and a crow. Out the back window, she heard the deep grumble of engines. "Will it rain again, do you think?" "Your guess is as good as mine." "Come now, Miss"--the old man's eyes glanced past her shoulder to her name printed next to the Post Office Department mandate stuck to the bulletin board--"James. You ought to know the weather." "Sorry, sir." Emma did not look at the old man as she passed. Neither did she look at Iris. She concentrated on getting to the box, reaching for the key in her bag and inserting it carefully in the lock. She could have risen on her toes to see whether there was the angle of a letter inside, but she always used the key. Iris watched her turn it and open the door and put her hand in, though by now she'd know that her hand would come out empty. She closed the door back upon the box and turned the key quietly again, and now she would know it was another day--the fourteenth day--without a letter. "Hang on," Iris called out quietly. Reluctantly, Emma stopped where she was, a few feet away, and turned around.

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