Reconstructing Theo

By Shari Shallard
Literary Fiction

The first letter to arrive was addressed to Marian Winkle of Winsdale, Connecticut.

Marian’s letter never saw a post office because the postman made the strangely satisfying decision to let it ride on his dashboard for the 3.2 miles that stretched from the sender at Hyacinth Court to its recipient on Birch Avenue. There, he set the envelope with its unprocessed stamp into a faded black mailbox.

The Winkles had been away since Sunday and would not return for a few more days, so it was Lisa Turnkey, commonly referred to by the Winkles as ‘the girl across the street,’ who removed the envelope and added it to the small pond of letters and rolled newspapers on the couple’s kitchen table.

Lisa was being paid twenty dollars to bring in mail, water plants and turn on and off lights for an hour or so after dark. She took her job seriously and had choreographed an elaborate routine for the lights, conceived only after giving careful consideration to how a married couple – who were at that age where they might have young kids but didn’t, and who always smiled and waved when you saw them outside, and who arrived home from work every evening at nearly the exact same time in matching black Accords – would spend an average evening.

It started just inside the front door:

The tall and slim Mrs Winkle walks in, shaking her big dark curls and unbuttoning one of her cute jackets. The hallway recessed lights go on. Mr Winkle, just a touch shorter and wearing his khaki trousers, comes in the side door from the garage. (Lisa darted across the house for this.) The blue Ikea sitting room lamp goes on. They kiss hello where the hallway meets the sitting room. (Lisa stood very still for this.) He sets down the big realtor car-magnet that features his tanned smiling face; she moves to the kitchen, ignoring the sign because it embarrasses her a little. The pendant light over the island goes on. Mrs Winkle starts the kettle while Mr Winkle runs upstairs to use the toilet. (Lisa took the steps two at a time for this.) The row of round bulbs over the bathroom mirror goes on. (Lisa mimed a flush and a hand wash.) The row of round bulbs goes off again. Mrs Winkle appears from downstairs, two cups of tea in hand, leaving every light burning behind her.

Lisa had nearly half an hour of this, but some nights she simply turned on all the lights she could find and watched the Winkles’ biggest television for a while.

*

When the Winkles pulled into the driveway Saturday morning, Brian Winkle went straight to the kitchen and, despite it being barely eight-thirty, poured himself and his wife two short

glasses of Coke. They both preferred their soda room temperature, almost never with ice. Neither was a fan of coffee or tea.

They sat at opposite sides of the scratched-up oak table and Brian began unrolling newspapers, plucking the sports section from each one. Marian didn't have to sift through the mail for more than a few seconds before she noticed the neat handwritten words on the unprocessed envelope.