Vast and iconic, the white--columned James A. Farley post office branch is always extra--crowded in December, not just with -people mailing holiday cards and packages but also with hordes of Good Samaritans. This is where Operation Santa Claus began over a century ago, with -people picking up letters from needy children and anonymously buying gifts for them.
The tradition is going strong on this rainy Manhattan Saturday. Casey has to weave past crowds of do--gooders to join hundreds of customers on the long line that snakes toward the ser-vice counter.
No one amid this chaos is likely to question—-or later remember—-a plain brown--paper--wrapped package.
It takes nearly an hour to reach the counter, but that’s just fine. There’s a redheaded woman standing just a few -people ahead in the line, her long hair a tantalizing reminder of the pleasures that lie in store very soon . . .
As a child, even during the hardest years, Casey was always anxious for Christmas. But that giddy anticipation was nothing compared to this.
Another stand--in might be necessary after all. Not here, though. That would break all the rules of the game, rules that are there for very good reasons.
If something were to go wrong now, then none of this will have any meaning. Casey’s efforts will amount to nothing, and a guilty woman will go unpunished.
I couldn’t bear that. I can’t take any chances. I have to stick with the plan, follow the rules, wait it out.
It’s the redhead’s turn to step forward to the counter. As she moves out of reach, Casey fists fingers that long to grasp that beautiful hair and yank her backward.
“Next!”
Casey places the package on the counter, keeping an eye on the redhead a short distance away.
“Is there anything fragile, liquid, or perishable inside?” the postal clerk asks.
“No.” A lie.
“Do you want insurance or tracking or delivery confirmation?”
“No thanks.”
“You sure?”
“Positive.”
The clerk, a diminutive Asian woman, takes her sweet time typing on her keyboard with glossy purple fingernails that clash with her close--cropped red hair.
Casey’s hands clench and unclench, clench and unclench.
She slaps a label on the box.
“When will it get there? Do you know?”
The clerk glances at the label. “I doubt Monday, but you never know. Probably Tuesday. Wednesday or Thursday at the latest.”
“That’s not very specific.”
“You could have sent it priority so that it’s traceable or—-”
“I didn’t want to do that.”
“Then you take your chances. It’s Christmastime. Things are crazy here.”
Yeah. No kidding.
Everything about her is irritating. What a pleasure it would be to slice into her belly and see her flesh rip open, oozing gobs of white fat and red blood.
But it wouldn’t bring pleasure in the usual way.
She’s all wrong. Her dye job is unnatural, and her hair is short. Things would be different if it were long and silky like Rowan’s, or like that of the young woman standing nearby . . .
The woman who’s going to get away if this bitch doesn’t speed things up.
Dispatching the clerk would be strictly business, resulting in the same perfunctory pleasure you get when you’ve finally swatted a fly that’s been buzzing around the house.
“That’ll be six dollars and five cents.”
Seething with impatience, Casey hands over a twenty--dollar bill.
“Do you have a nickel?”
“No.”
Wearing a disapproving expression, she takes change from her drawer, counting it twice before handing it over. “Have a good weekend.”
“Oh, I will.” Believe me.
Casey pockets the money and turns to see that the redhead—-the other redhead, the potential stand--in—-is just finishing up, too.
Yes, it would be against the rules, self--imposed or not.
But as the saying goes—-and as Rowan herself clearly agrees—-rules were made to be broken.
From the Mundy’s Landing Tribune Archives
Community Notebook
July 1, 2004