Maybe it was all in the delivery.
“Thank you so much for the incredibly thoughtful invitation, which I'm sure any girl would find nothing but charming, but I'm not interested in going to dinner with you tonight, not in a million years.”
The year Ben and I stepped into what once was Ida Stephen’s house it was like we stepped out of a time machine. Yellow fuzzy wallpaper covered the dining room like a blanket. The sage puffy carpeting flooded each room and touched the edges of the textured off white living room walls. The furniture was well loved and cared for and I was impressed how well it held up for the last 50 years. Long heavy mustard colored curtains lined each of the living room windows which I pulled back to let the sunlight shine through.
The light poured onto the coffee table that sat sadly in the middle of the room. It barely had a leg to stand on and it looked as if it had been taken out back for a beating it didn’t deserve. We soon discovered the cause of the tables broken legs and crooked frame when we opened the middle drawer. Stacks of decks of cards tiled the bottom drawer. Decks of all different colors, different sizes, some rubber banded together, and some in nice plastic cases, made my jaw drop to the floor. How many decks did a person need? Ben discovered a notepad that kept the score of the many bridge games and a pen to go with it.
In the far back corner of the drawer Ben pulled out a large stack of white cards. When I saw a smile stretch across his face I knew he found something good. It was photographs of Ida and her friends in the same house, with the same furniture, the same yellow fuzzy wallpaper, and the large lamp with the big fluffy lampshade was the same one that I saw in front of the coffee table in the living room. The photographs dated back to 1968. As we flipped through each photograph we were greeted with smiley faces of lively guests that Ida invited to her many Christmas parties, bridge card parties, and other gatherings that she had at her home. It was amazing to see into the life of Ida Stephens.
I wanted to know more about Ida. We carefully climbed down the stairs to the basement to find the strand of large colored Christmas lights still hung across the downstairs bar. I like to believe Ida left them up as to not let the memory of her last Christmas party in this place be forgotten. Behind the bar we found the walk-in safe that protected all of Ida’s treasures. A box of all the letters her husband, Emmett, sent her from when he fought in World War Two and souvenirs from the far away places that I imagine that her husband sent her when he was away. He, like many others, loved her dearly.
As Ben and I walked back up the stairs and continued going through the items that were left behind that once were Ida’s life, I found a peculiar item; a blue spiral notebook that was left in a side table drawer next to the sofa. Inside were pages and pages of addresses. Some were crossed out and some were crossed out labeled, “dead” or “moved”. After a few pages there was a new year written at the top of the page and a new set of addresses with the same markings and labels. At first I didn’t know why Ida kept this strange address book. Until I realized that it was her way of making sure she was sending all her Christmas cards to all her friends and relatives. It appeared to be very important to her because she was so organized.
I would have loved a Christmas card from Ida. After reading her letters, looking through her photographs, and admiring the gifts she left behind I can imagine she was a thoughtful, kind, generous, and compassionate person. The smile she shown in each photo warms my heart like I have actually have know Ida Stephens all my life. She is a friend that you wouldn’t let go of easily.
As the months went by Ben and I made Ida’s house our home. By this time Christmas was coming up and I found myself getting carried away with decorating the place. I remembered Ida’s Christmas notebook when I was decorating the side table that it was discovered in. It inspired me to write and send my own cards. I was looking forward to the cards that will be soon be sliding through our mail slot and pictured the spot I would display them all.
It didn’t take long until the first Christmas cards to be delivered through our door. I opened each one like an eager child on Christmas morning and read carefully over each one. Why didn’t I do this years ago? I admired the gallery of cards I have collected from dear friends and family and wondered if Ida felt the same warmth from her Christmas cards.
The cards slowly became less frequent and I thought I wasn’t going to receive any more until…one slipped through with a name and address I didn’t recognized. It was from Ralph Graves. I knew I didn’t know anyone by the name of Ralph Graves so I asked Ben. He didn’t know anyone of that name either. The card was addressed to Ida Stephens. With a little hesitation I decided to open it. It felt wrong to open Ida’s card that was meant for her. It was a lovely card with a Christmas illustration on the front and a handwritten message inside, wishing Ida Stephens a very Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year. As I held the card in my hand and closed it back up a sad thought crossed my mind. Ralph Graves didn’t know Ida Stephens was deceased. Even though the card was not for me I decided to hang it up anyways with the rest. Ida would have loved it.
Christmas came and went and the next year I did the same thing. I decorated and sent my Christmas cards. I received cards from new friends and family that I never use to get cards from. I was enjoying the fun of getting mail that wasn’t junk for once when one day I found a card from the same address I didn’t recognize from last year. Ralph Graves. It was addressed to Ida Stephens so I opened it up for her like I did last year. It was another beautiful card with a new handwritten message inside, wishing Ida a Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year. It was sweet to me that Ralph would send her another card. So, I hung it up again like I did before.
Christmas came and went the same like last year and I followed my same routine. I decorated and sent my Christmas cards. This time I wondered if poor Ralph finally heard the news that Ida Stephens was no longer with us. Would I get a third card delivered at my door? This time every time a card slipped through our mail slot I would check to see if it was from our friend Ralph Graves. Still excited to receive cards from my friends and family, I was waiting to see if he would. The wall of cards was getting crowded and it seemed like I wouldn’t get a card from Ralph. He probably heard the terrible news. But to my surprise I received a third Christmas card to Ida Stephens from Ralph Graves. I opened it and it was indeed another thoughtful and beautiful Christmas card. At this point I almost thought to write back and say that your friend is no longer alive but I thought how ridiculous and weird that would be. I wouldn’t have the heart to tell him anyways.
As each new Christmas came every December, I started to expect a Christmas card from Ralph. He never disappointed me. Now Ida Stephen’s house is home to a new family. We left Ida’s photographs and the Christmas lights were still strung up in the basement. I wonder if Ralph is still sending sweet Ida Christmas cards? I wish I have sent Ralph at least one card back…maybe not.
The traveler was given a mission, and when she started out in the wood, her determination was as strong as her sense of purpose.
Both, however, waned in and out of strength the further she pressed into the thick of the trees.
It was a dark wood. Not at first, but so gradually she did not notice until her eyes ached from effort to peer through what dim light reached her through the canopy of branches. There must have also been a thick layer of cloud covering the sky for days on end, for each morning she woke up less able to tell the difference between day and night.
In addition to this obscurity of vision, the path was hardly ever obvious the further she traveled. She might experience a burst of determination when the path opened up before her, but it was always lost soon after when the brush closed in again, and when looking behind her she questioned whether she had ever seen the path at all or if it had just been wishful thinking.
Many days and nights of she trekked on, noting vaguely that the incline of the land was a general downward trend, but not paying much attention to this.
Then it rained.
And she slipped.
The path was unrecognizable–if it was the path–though she was pretty sure she was going in the right direction. But the incline of the land was much too steep, it was a hill, really, and when she slipped the first time she only tore herself up a bit.
But then she slipped again. And again. And again.
And the last time she fell for so long–her limbs flailing desperately for something to hold on to–she was sure she ended in some gully or hole. The slick walls of dirt on either side of her were much too tall to climb, though she tried. Over and over again she tried while tufts of dirt would break off in her hands and under her feet, sending her careening back down.
It was dark and cold and she was sore. Finding no energy left inside her, she put her head down and cried. Then slept. Then cried.
This went on for days, and even when the rain stopped she made no further efforts to climb out.
Then something came to her.
A small package wrapped in warm dry paper dropped to the gully from above. She opened it eagerly and found a small morsel shaped like the sun inside. She popped it into her mouth and let it melt. As it did, her insides were flooded with warmth. Though it was still as dark as ever in the pit, it was as if her eyes became shining torches through which she saw things with bright clarity.
A buoyant swelling replaced the hollowness in the pit of her stomach, and without hearing it, she could sense there was a song all around her.
She got up.
She had a vision that if she traveled along the gully, she would come to a ledge she could crawl up on and continue her journey. So she followed her vision, her energy partially restored.
Hours and hours she continued in what she knew was the wrong direction, but was now convinced by her vision that it was only temporary to find a way out.
After hours of travel, however, with no change in steepness of the sides, all of her previous aching returned, and true darkness settling in fast, she gave up once again, questioning her decision to head this direction in the first place.
The next morning she awoke to a similar package at her side. She once again partook, and this time a voice spoke out loud into the air, “Keep going and you will find a way.”
Bolstered once again, she continued on.
But after a second full day of travel she once again fell exasperated onto the floor of the ravine and this time felt even worse than before she ate what was given to her.
A third day the process repeated. She temporarily regained her sense of purpose, remembering her mission, but the effects wore off as before and after walking all day she tried climbing out in frustration only to fall so hard on her back the wind was knocked out of her.
The next morning when the package was delivered, she did not take it. It was worse, she decided, to be so disappointed by the end of each day than to just sit and make her home here in the dark slimy pit. The crushing realization that her vision had not come true was much more disheartening than had it not been given to her at all.
After one whole week of nothing changing, she rethought her options. Though it came in waves, it was this small delivery of hope that kept her going, and without it she was sure she would fail.
At least while it lasted and while she could, she would embrace the vision, sing the song, and believe there was a way.
In this form, she carries on.
There was never enough time. Jesse scanned the email from his editor again, discouraged at the amount of notes remaining. The publisher had given him an ultimatum for the revised manuscript: January 3rd. Today was New Year’s Eve.
Jesse had covered a lot of ground before Christmas, but after the chaos of the holiday, he felt the trail had gone cold. Now, five days into a solitary stay at a vacation rental, he paced the kitchen at twilight while a pot of coffee brewed.
His teeth hurt. It was one tooth, really, radiating a dull ache that grew steadily sharper. Jesse wanted to tear it out of his skull. He stopped pacing and pressed his palms to the countertop. He tested the molar with his tongue, and winced.
When he booked the property, he had imagined waking up to a lake sunrise through the bay windows in the living room. But every day was the same stale gray. The layer of clouds hovered uniformly formless, the cabin adrift in time and space. The solitude had backfired.
The doorbell rang. Startled, Jesse considered who it might be. No one he knew, that was certain. He started toward the entrance, unsure of how to answer as a guest. He unbolted the door and swung it inward.
“Hello,” said a very short man. His mouth hung open on the ‘o’ like there was more, but there was a long pause.
“Hello,” offered Jesse. Another pause. The man wore brown carhartt overalls and a classic checkered flannel shirt that matched his bomber hat. Beady eyes gleamed underneath heavy gray eyebrows. A tangled beard crawled up his cheeks. A gremlin of a man, Jesse thought. “I’m Jesse, I’ve rented the house this week.”
“Of course, of course,” said the man, nodding. “I’m just working on the fence.” He gestured toward the end of the long driveway. Jesse noticed a small pile of two-by-fours.
“You work for the rental company?”
“Of course, of course,” said the man.
“Well, I’m sorry you have to work so late on New Year’s Eve.” Jesse emphasized these last words and raised an eyebrow.
“No time like the present.”
“Certainly,” Jesse said. A gust of wind howled through the doorway, and he narrowed the opening. He could see whitecaps on the lake. “Do you need something?”
“No sir, no sir, I just wanted to let you know. I didn’t know anyone was staying here today, you see.”
“Thanks,” said Jesse, and he began closing the door.
“Time is money,” said the man as he started down the driveway.
Jesse wrote and rewrote long after dark. A strong wind beat against the bayside windows. He occasionally watched the small man work. As far as Jesse could tell, he made little progress, measuring and re-measuring boards that he strung along the ground. Each hour, the weather grew more violent. But the man outside kept sorting. Jesse texted the number of the rental company, inquiring about the maintenance. He held his jaw. It felt inflamed.
His own toil was restless, with menial results. At midnight, he poured himself a glass of champagne and sank into a chair by the window. He still saw the faint spark of a headlamp down at the end of the driveway. He raised his glass to the stranger outside. “You and me both.” Tiny pellets of ice rattled against the window. He made sure the door was bolted, and drained a second glass of champagne before crawling into bed.
Jesse dreamed of teeth. They pelted the windows in a hail, trying to break in. He cowered behind the sofa, but he could feel his own teeth being drawn toward the windows with a magnetic force. They burned hot, and then unbearably cold. He dug his nails into the back of the sofa but couldn’t get a grip on the canvas. His whole body slithered over top of the sofa, pulled along mouth first. The hail of teeth on glass tripled in volume. The windows chipped, and then cracked into a giant spider web. His body was hovering toward the window when they finally shattered.
Jesse woke, uneasy. The house was quieter than before, but he had a vague sense that a noise had stirred him. He lay perfectly still, staring at the ceiling. Nothing.
He felt for his tooth. It was gone. At first he felt shock, but as he adjusted to the vacancy, there was tangible relief. He could faintly taste blood, but nothing seemed to be bleeding presently. Had he swallowed it in his sleep?
The doorbell rang, with a long beat of silence between the two tones; so slow it sounded off key. He tensed every muscle as the sound sank deeply into the empty house. He fumbled with his phone on the night stand and shined its light around the room without knowing why. He checked the phone: 2:23 AM.
He had received a text from the rental company soon after he had gone to bed: “We do not perform property maintenance while guests are on site.” Jesse lay for another moment in the silence and began to imagine the other side of the front door. He shook himself, threw off the blankets, and dressed. Every lightswitch in the house seemed to dodge his fingers as he made his way down the hall. Tall panes of glass flanked either side of the front door, columns of black. He finally made contact with a switch, and the porch light filtered through the frosted windows.
There was a peephole. Jesse’s heart beat quickly. He put his face to it and closed one eye, but saw no one. He began to unbolt the door, but then stood on his toes and looked through once more. Finally, he opened the door.
The stoop was empty, and the wind had died down to a whisper. A mix of snow and ice covered the section of driveway he could see, which quickly faded into black. To his right, a wall of pine branches made lazy figure eights.
There was a gleam of light by his toe. He knelt and found a dime. He picked it up and studied FDR’s profile. 2017. After one more half-hearted glance at the driveway, he shut the door. He bolted it. He tried to wedge a chair under the handle, but it wouldn’t fit right.
Jesse set the dime on his night stand, turned on the light, and crawled back under the covers. He ran his tongue through the gap in his teeth.
To his surprise, he woke late the next morning. For a moment he thought the sun had cast a warm glow into the room, but it was the bedside lamp. He paced the kitchen while a pot of coffee brewed. Another gray day revealed a few upright two-by-fours at the end of the driveway. He rubbed his jaw, which felt much better with the extra room. When he sat down to work, the words seemed to align of their own accord.
"Fate doesn't hang on a wrong or right choice;
Fortune depends on the tone of your voice."
-Ben Folds
It matters a lot what you say. Words carry weight, I've always known that. But what I more often fail to act like I know is that what may matter even more is not what you say, but how you say it.
Sarcastic or sincere?
Flippant or eager?
Annoyed or patient?
Arrogant or humble?
These things are uncovered by babies and children before they can attribute meaning to words. They can detect the subtlest change of intent in your delivery.
The universal language.
What this means to me is that unless I learn to be an excellent actor, I can't get away much with "putting on." I have to actually be sincere, eager, patient, humble if I want to sound like I am.
It's sparked from outside myself, ignites deep within me, then spreads all over everything.
...It also means that erring on the side of caution I shall over-use emojis in all my texts.