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| Criminal |
By:
Matthew Hostetler |
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Even if the rain hadn’t left dripping decoys, Anna would have still maneuvered her spindly, sixty three year-old legs with surprising stealth and grace through the forest undetected. The woods cut off abruptly by a paved street, and she hugged a thick elm. Peering from behind, she could see the target, standing innocently in front of a wide white house. The whoosh and hiss from a passing car receded, and Anna could not see or hear anything threatening behind the drops.
After Anna’s breath steadied and slowed, she spun from behind the tree and made her way across the rain-slicked pavement. She opened the mail-box with enough confidence that could convince passer-by that she was its true owner. Indeed, her reaction to the contents was much like the addressee’s would have been. The infinitely promising, hand-written envelope was stuffed into her cardigan and the burdensome bills and advertisings were returned. The went back into the forest with a casual stride. At the other end, her car was waiting. She would toss her prize on top of the others, all handwritten in different colors and penmanship, sitting where a passenger would, as if many people could occupy the same space at the same time.
Her own mail-box was ignored as she retuned to her small house (or, large shack) a half hour later, correctly guessing that it was empty. Flinging her front door open sent dust motes dancing in the little slivers of sunlight that managed to sneak past the drawn shades. A weak overhead bulb turned on, casting a dirty yellow over the room, no real light, and the motes settled back onto the envelopes.
They were everywhere. They hugged the walls, sat on furniture and replaced books on shelves. Compared to the grey wood of her home, the aging paper brightened rooms, and occasionally one’s eye would catch a glowing red, say, one that would suggest some heated, authentic existence.
Anna rested on a rare unoccupied piece of furniture and sat her catch on her lap. She made the rocking chair softly pendulate as she carefully opened the top envelope. She cleared her throat; for a reason unknown to even her, she greatly enjoyed reading to an invisible audience.
“Dear Myra, I hate you. And I don’t hate you because you’re a lesbian. I hate you because you never told me. I thought we were close, and this is what hurts. I found out in a most embarrassing way in the lunch room. Everyone seemed to know but me. Now I see you and I feel humiliation for myself and repulsion for you. So what to do? As you know, I’ve been looking for a transfer, my god I’ve been looking for a transfer! Until then, I’m sure you can be civil. But anything spoken beyond a good morning will be met with vomit! Even asking how I am will raise the bile. You made me feel stupid. I’ll never forgive you.”
No signature, but clearly the flows and peaks in the penmanship came from the hand of a woman. A childish woman. Anna felt bad but also wanted to laugh. She shook her head and returned the letter to its envelope. She picked up a new one to open, but a knock on the door caused her to drop it. She froze, arms out, eyes open. Another knock and a man’s voice, two sounds Anna was not much used to hearing. Another knock an identification: the police. The doors opened and several men entered, finding the greatest case of mail-theft in recent memory.
She admitted her guilt to the detectives, but gave extenuating circumstances. She re-iterated her reason for the press: “I did it because I was lonely.” A cause caliber was born. The story elicited the warm pity from everyone, prosecution included, but it failed to move the law books. By that standard, Anna’s ten-year sentence was very lenient. However, most were outraged, even among the victims.
Anna took to jail well; her cellmate was accommodating, which was essential. Prisoners often complained of boredom, but Anna was almost never bored. She’d spend hours reading over the letters, now gathering like little swelling mushrooms in the corners of the cell, searingly honest letters that people had begun sending to her from all over the world. |
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