The Mailman

Chapter One: Spoiled Milk

The floor was a disheveled pile of memories. A trail of time-worn photos and crumpled drawings pointed to the center of the room where the ghost of a woman sat limply on her knees, staring at the ceiling hopelessly. Paralyzed by pain, Stephanie Briggs barely had enough strength to open her eyes, let alone sit up straight. With each slow, rhythmic circle of the ceiling fan, a new thought interrupted her sanity: What kind of mother am I? How could I not know? Why did he do this?

Suddenly, the ocean of confusion raging against her skull found a way out. Her eyes stung with bitter tears. She felt as if she didn’t deserve to cry; as if she didn’t deserve to feel anything after what she had done.

A harsh knock at the door reminded her that she was not in hell - yet.

“What do you want?” she spoke into the door, leaning on it to catch her breath.

“Is this the Briggs residence?” the stranger on the other side of the door inquired with genuine curiosity. Stephanie peeked through the spy hole again. The man was carrying a package and, behind him, she noticed the contorted shape of a blue and white truck. She watched him pitifully observe the hateful graffiti and rotten egg splatter decorating her front porch. “I’ve been given specific instructions to make sure a ‘Stephanie Briggs’ receives this in person.”

Slowly, she unlatched all seven locks, and opened the door with a sigh. He took two steps back. “Yes, I’m Stephanie. Lately, my mail has been stolen or ruined so I just wanted to make sure no one had a chance to do that this time.”

“That sounds fine to me. Sign here.”

“So what happened to Bill?”

“The last mailman? I think he transferred.”

“I know you’re lying. He’s been my mailman for the past twenty years. Where is he really? Did my son- di he...” tears stopped her words. Uncomfortably, the mailman looked for the right words but found none. The awkward silence was interrupted by the tearing of paper. She opened the package to reveal a small black book. Her trembling weathered hands hugged the mysterious book to her chest as if she were reuniting with an old friend. Slowly, she hobbled over to an armchair by the window that almost perfectly matched her old-fashioned floral nightgown and sat carefully.

Contrary to her portrait painted by gossip and media, the frail elderly woman standing before him certainly didn’t look evil or abnormal. Before approaching her door, he noticed the mailbox had three signed handprints painted on the side; a wilted flower garden lining the house; and an American flag waving next to windchimes on her front porch. Inside, the decor was aged and sentimental. The walls were lined with faded family photos, cheaply printed paintings, and peeling yellow wallpaper. It was almost July, three months after the incident, and she still had the Christmas tree fully decorated by the brick fireplace. It reflected a conservative mother and wife living in the past who deeply cherished tradition, never colored out of the lines, and was extremely out of touch with modern invention. It made him wonder what her life was like before the tragedy, about her only child and husband.

Struggling to undo the cover, Stephanie dropped the book on the floor, spilling its contents.

“Here let me help you,” he knelt to gather the pages. She refused him, but to no avail. Trying not to look at them, he quickly shuffled them inside and probably out of order, but one page fell out catching his eye. It appeared to be a journal entry with a penned portrait on the front and a painted observation of somewhere in nature on the back. As he turned to give her the book, he slyly tucked the page under his belt fully aware that her poor vision would not notice. “Why are you still here? Why are you helping me? Don’t you know who I am?” He stood up, “You’re a sweet old lady with apparently unpleasant neighbors.” She laughed not from amusement, but exhaustion. People only saw her as one of two things these days: a helpless old widow or a cursed mother. Both were true, though she prayed every day it was not. She started coughing uncontrollably.

“Can I get you some water?” he did not know what else to say.

She stared blankly out the window across the table as if no one else was in the room. “May I?” the mailman pointed to the kitchen sink. No Response. He took that as a yes. After dodging roaches and washing the dust off, he found a glass, but the water was not working. “Mrs. Alcorn, did you know your water was off?” Again, no response. Just the sound of pages turning from in the other room. He opened the fridge to look for other options, which were scarce. An pungent odor filled the room. With one hand he held his nose and with the other he examined the expiration date on a milk jug. It was 2 weeks and a day old. Behind the milk, he noticed a moldy birthday cake with the name “Nathan” and the number 16 inscribed under it, both in blue icing.

“It was the day before his birthday when it happened. He was going to spend the night at a friend’s house, but he never came back,” her sudden shrill voice startled him causing him to jump and hit his head on the fridge. Massaging his head, he closed the fridge and noticed a case of water bottles on the counter next to it. He brought one to her. Tears were streaming down the vacant expression on her face. Walking into the room from the kitchen gave him a chance to observe new things. Deflated balloons littered the ground, streamers were taped to the doorway and ceiling fan, and there were presents at the end of the table. In the shadow of the Christmas tree, there were peculiar heaps of money scattered in and out of a bag hiding in the shadow of the Christmas tree.

He had been avoiding it, but now he was face to face with reality. He just rummaged through the fridge of a sociopathic killer and stared into the innocent eyes of his mother, intruded his memories, his home. Why did he come here? He told himself that he wanted to help, but was that the truth? His father told him he wouldn’t make it as a journalist, because his conscience always got in the way. Suddenly, he felt nauseous. Here he was, disguised as a mailman deceiving this old woman obviously tortured by grief, confusion, and the hate of the public, who were also acting out of grief and confusion. What a vicious cycle he was contributing to, and for what - the approval of his father, an anointing from his boss, a pat on the back from his fiancé? Maybe his father was right, but everyone was counting on him to bring home the coveted story of Nathan Alcorn’s life, an inside look into the 16yr old serial killer.

“I know why you're here. My vision isn’t that terrible.” He swallowed anxiously. “I’m an animal in a zoo now to you people. Everyone wants to understand how the monster was made; how he was raised; who his friends were; what he was like as a child; and if he was always the way he is portrayed in the media and by the nature of his cruel crimes.” He didn’t know how to respond. “If you come and visit me every day, bring me my mail, fix my water, I will tell you exactly who Nathan Alcorn was. Write truthfully, tell the world what I have to say about my boy, and after I die you can have Nathan’s college fund of $20,000. It’s nothing but paper to me now, but perhaps it can afford my family a better ending.”