I choose to omit this part, and I quickly sign and seal the letter.It was a slip of the tongue,I tell myself. We finish breakfast, dress for the day, and make our way out to the car.
After we reckon with my father’s seat belt, he relaxes and says, “So, where to?”
“To the post office, Dad. It was your idea!”
“Ah, yes. Right you are.” He is skilled at pretending to remember something once reminded.
When we arrive, Warren the postmaster is jamming a few odd envelopes into overstuffed P.O. boxes whose owners haven’t come by in months, or maybe years. He moves at a slow pace and seemsoverwhelmed by even the small amount of mail that comes and goes under his watch.
“The Campbells two times in one week?” He grins when he sees us, surprised that we are breaking our usual cadence. “What a nice surprise.”
“We decided to get a little crazy, mix things up,” I say.
“Arthur, come have a look at these yellow warblers.” Warren motions for my father to peruse the new limited-edition stamps that have just come in. They marvel together as I check our mailbox. I fish out a promotional flyer from AARP, a credit-card offer (my father has been preapproved), and a Sharper Image catalogue.
“Nothing too momentous in there,” Warren calls to me. I choose not to let it bother me that he has so thoroughly analyzed the scant contents of our box. But I am a little disappointed that there’s nothing of importance, because I thought my father’s interest in coming to the post office might have been another premonition. I’m looking everywhere now, but maybe Nina is right: I’m getting carried away.
I join my dad at the counter, where we purchase the warbler stamps and post our letter to Stockholm. (“Is that where she’s living now?” my father asks me, amazed.) But as we turn to leave, the door swings open and an elegant older woman blows in like a gale. She has long steel-colored hair with a white streak in the front, and she wears a black full-length bodysuit under a sheer cheetah-print caftan. Not the typical deep-woods wardrobe. As she whisks past us with purpose, I recognize her as Paula Garibaldi, the flamboyant dance teacher of my youth.
“Warren, my love!” Her raspy voice conveys confidence as she plops a heavy pile of flyers on the counter. “Be a darling and get these distributed today? My enrollment is untenably low.”
I glance at the top flyer, which advertises:MISS PAULA’S DANCE BARN: TAP, JAZZ, BALLET, HIP-HOP. ALL AGES, ALL GENDERS, ALL SKILL LEVELS—THE MORE, THE MERRIER.
“Paula.” Warren sighs. “How many times… I can’t just put themin the mailboxes. It’s illegal. The USPS isn’t a charity. You have to pay for postage.”
“Cut the crap, Warren,” she says. “I don’t need the government’s blessing to teach tap dance.”
“This is thelasttime,” says Warren as he picks up the flyers. I have a feeling he has said that many times before and will likely end up saying it again.
“You’re a doll,” says Paula, before finally noticing her rapt audience. “Arthur Campbell? Is that you, dear? It’s Paula…” She presses her manicured fingers to her chest.
“Paula!” My dad conveys his usual enthusiasm, but I can tell he doesn’t know who she is.
Paula looks at me and a smile comes over her face. “Cricket Campbell…”
I feel exposed, but also warmed by the fact that she recognizes me.
“Where have you been hiding? It’s been years and years. Look at you! Finally back for a visit.”
“More than a visit. I moved here in May,” I admit.
“May? You’ve been hiding for two months? We need to get you out of the house. I always hope Arthur will come see me, but he never does, the cad,” says Paula, with a hint of flirtation.
“We’re working with some memory issues, so he may have forgotten,” I explain.
“I understand. So, Cricket, you’re here for good?”
“For a year, at least. We’ll see how it goes.”
“You’re a saint. My daughter would rather see me eaten by wolves than become my caregiver.”
Suddenly I feel bold. “Paula, you don’t by chance need administrative help, do you? I’m looking for work. I could assist with things like email marketing, social media, your website…”
Paula laughs. “I would love help with my website—if I had one! I’m not really an internet person.” She points to the flyers. “This is as far as I’ve ever gotten with marketing.”
“Well, I don’t want to mess with a good thing,” I say. “It’s just a thought.”
Paula looks at my legs. “Are you still dancing?”
