“Ahh, 1944! The year that all the Christmas presents made it to town even during the blizzard!” Ian beamed and then leaned forward conspiratorially. “Between you and me, I personally think that might be a bit of an exaggeration, but we do pride ourselves on prompt delivery, so who am I to say?”
“Do you know who might have been working that year?” asked Isaac.
“I’ve got some old employment records,” Ian told us, “but I honestly don’t know how far back they go.”
I leaned over the counter and gave him my cheekiest smile. “It can’t hurt to let us have a look, can it?”
Ian thought for a moment, his mustache twitching. “Well, we do close in about twenty minutes. I guess it can’t hurt to step away from my post for a moment.” He walked around the counter and flipped over theopensign before locking the door. “You two, follow me.”
I looked to Isaac, who shrugged before gesturing for me to follow Ian.
“You just like watching me walk away,” I whispered.
“I always love a good view.”
Behind the lobby of the post office was a claustrophobic back room with a small loading dock. There were rows of bins full of mail just waiting to be loaded and it was clear that the town had definitely overgrown its single post office.
We walked by a rolling bin full of Christmas Notch postcards and I couldn’t help but linger for a moment.
“Tourists,” Ian explained as he sat at the small desk in the corner of the room, surrounded by filing cabinets of varyingheights and colors. “It’s a thing now, sending out postcards postmarked Christmas Notch.”
“And what about these?” Isaac asked.
I turned to see another bin, but this one was overflowing with envelopes, many of them decorated with crayons and stickers.
Ian looked over his shoulder and sighed in a dreamy sort of way. Like when he was a little boy with his little-boy mustache (because I couldn’t imagine him without one) and dreaming of being a postal worker, he’d dreamed of this exact moment. “Those are letters to Santa.”
Isaac picked up a red envelope covered inBlueystickers. “And where do they go?”
“You’re looking at it. That’s just from the last two weeks.”
“You’re kidding,” I said.
“Pretty much any town with a festive name gets letters to Santa.” Ian turned back to his desk and began pulling open file cabinet drawers. The first was full of a tub of cheese doodles that was labeledfor emergencies only. Ian caught me peeping and said, “For late nights during the holidays. I have another drawer full of ramen noodles.”
“Smart man,” I said.
“I can cook ramen,” Isaac informed me quietly with a hint of bragging in his voice.
“We’ll have to add that to our rotating menu of eggs... and eggs.”
While Ian combed through the filing cabinets, Isaac and I helped ourselves to letters from Santa. They were from all over. Texas, Hawaii, Oregon... and even a few from Mexico.
“Feel free to read them,” Ian told us without turning around. “I used to read as many as I could, but I can’t keep up anymore. They get sent to the regional dead letter office, and I just hate the thought of them going unread.”
Isaac pouted—more than usual. I could tell he didn’t like that either. It was sad, sure, but I liked the idea that there were places like Christmas Notch and that kids imagined Santa might receive their letter if it could just get here.
I opened a letter that had a very scary watercolor picture of a dog... or maybe a raccoon on the back.
Dear Santa,
Mom says Pinball our weiner dog went to a new family because they needed cheering up but I know he died. He was older than me. U probably can’t bring him back but can you bring us a cat? Nana says they aren’t as much work and I think that would be good. I have been mostly good except for the time I called my cousin Dylan a shit butt. I don’t feel bad about it. I bet he’s on the naughty list anyway. RIP Pinball.
Sammy
9 years old
Isaac laughed and I glanced back to find him reading over my shoulder, his chest just inches from my back.
