Dead Letter Office by Hannah French (Issue 1, 2019)

Dead Letter Office

by Hannah French

Issue 1, 2019

The DLO was a nowhere place, a nowhere address. It may as well have been “missing or defunct” itself. Helen had worked at the dead letter office for eighteen years. She could hardly name a single person or place that actually existed. Sometimes, as she sorted mail, she’d try her hand at playing Sherlock: the writing is large and confident–a young letter writer sending a note to Lucy: a grandmother? Or a friend? Lucy was a more common name in the 20th century, so grandmother, probably…but why wouldn’t she know that her grandmother was dead?

More often than not, letters were double returned to the DLO, which was ironic–a “return to sender” returned to the sender. So the letters were burned. In the winters, insulation around the DLO was so bad that the workers would huddle around the incinerator, holding their hands up to the glow of forgotten words.

A lot of good material came through the dead letter office. There were manuscripts here, after all, and Helen could spend hours perusing them. Some of them were quite good. Some of them, if they’d reached their destination, may have risen to rival Harry Potter.

Dear Santa,

I want a trained squirrel for Christmas.

Hannah

The walls of DLO were papered with letters like this, highlights in a particularly dense encyclopedia. It could get a little confining, Helen thought, the four of them in a 12×14 square foot room. They couldn’t bring in fans or blast the AC too high, because it made the walls flutter, and sorting became impossible. Instead, they permitted themselves four half hour breaks in the kitchen throughout the day. Some prankster had given each of them a milk carton for Christmas with their faces on it and the word MISSING. None of her colleagues would admit to doing it. Helen had tried to throw hers away–it gave her the heebie jeebies–but it had appeared in the same spot in the fridge the next day.

“Probably it had a missing or defunct address,” Taylor had told her, watching her with blank eyes as she stared at the newly-replaced milk carton. She laughed, but stopped abruptly when his face didn’t change. Taylor didn’t make jokes. It was hard to picture anything concrete about Taylor. She thought he always wore a vest, but she couldn’t be sure; he was so put together he became unnoticeable.

Helen didn’t like the other two much better. Rudy was a funda-environmentalist, who lived and traveled around in his RV, but wore a string of shark teeth around his neck, whether to emphasize reuse and recycling or to appear “native,” she didn’t know. He liked to preach about the benefits of living life as a roamer, and was skeptical of anybody and anything stationary. Yes, Rudy liked the call of the wild. Helen liked the quiet creak of her office chair.

Elena was shy and wore a Bryn Mawr sweatshirt every day. She had gotten the job the summer after her junior year in high school to get away from abusive parents. Helen couldn’t remember if she’d ever gotten into the school or not. Perhaps Elena was a part time student at the community college. She didn’t say much.

“The weather’s nice today,” Helen said to her, as they began to sort letters. Elena glanced quickly at her and then away. Helen continued to watch her. Taylor continued to watch the wall.

“Bullshit,” said Rudy. Helen glanced at him, but didn’t reply.

They sat, for the most part of the next hour, in silence, each of them at their own tables. The room was organized in fours. Each of them had their own long table with four bins and a high bar stool (the better to drop mail inside the bins). Consumerism, Life Updates, Reckoning, and Unrealized Dreams. The Dreams bin was often empty, not only because they were rarely received, but also because everyone in the office felt that it was better to eat or loot what was inside than to burn it. Sometimes, if they felt particularly kind, they would return it to the sender.

“We forgot to go down to the incinerator last night,” Taylor commented.

They all looked up. Rudy was the first one who spoke.

“Let’s wait on it until today’s haul–have ourselves a bonfire.” He grinned.

“Bonfires aren’t very environmentally friendly,” Elena murmured.

“Bullshit,” said Rudy.

Helen sat rooted to her chair. She had continued sorting while the other three talked, uninterested in the usual banter, but now found herself holding a very odd piece of mail. It was a Bed Bath & Beyond back-to-school  magazine, organized into bright squares, each promoting its own piece of dorm furniture.

“Hang out in style with this SWIVEL CHAIR,” said one square.

“GIRLS–keep your feet warm in winter with a FUR RUG,” shouted another.

Junk mail  came through the DLO all of the time. The Consumerism bin was to Helen’s right, and as a consequence, her right arm was far more muscular than the left from years of throwing spam magazines out in bundles. Junk mail was never returned to sender.

There had been no reason for Helen to notice the addressee on this particular spam, except that a particularly vibrant BEANBAG CHAIR had caught her eye. Above it in small print was the name and address of the recipient:

Elena Ross

1995 Hawthorne Dr.

West Chester, PA, 19380

Helen frowned at it. “Elena?” she said.

The girl looked up from her table. Was it Helen’s imagination, or did she look paler than usual? Her dirty blond hair hung limply from her head, falling in odd strands into her sweatshirt hood.

“What?” Elena asked.

“Isn’t your last name Ross?”

“Yeah. Why?”

Helen handed her the advertisement. “Did your parents move and forget to register the new address?”

Elena made a vague frown. “No,” she said.

Helen scrutinized her face. She didn’t appear to be lying. But why, then, would the mail default? She must be lying.

“Elena…” Helen said, in her gentlest voice. “You can talk to me.”

“We didn’t move, Helen. I was there yesterday, and the day before. I’ll be there tonight. The postman probably messed something up.”

This would not be an unusual mistake–it was why the DLO was supposed to return things to their sender–but some wrong note, some slender rib inside of her body, made Helen shiver.

“I get stuff like that for Taylor all the time,” Elena added.

“I get stuff like that for Rudy,” Taylor piped up, dully.

“C’mon, I’m nothing like Taylor. My stuff comes here because I’m off grid,” Rudy groused.

“Then why are you here?” said Taylor.

Helen looked uncertainly between them. She’d never received anything like this before, addressed to one of them. Had she just never noticed before? It couldn’t be that abnormal if everyone else in the office was receiving junk mail here.

“Has anyone ever gotten something other than junk here?” she asked.

Rudy and Elena looked at each other. Taylor blinked slowly.

“No,” they chorused.

“These corporations just have too much data to handle,” Rudy added. “They don’t even know what to do with half the crap they buy off the NSA. I mean, look at this guy!”

He held up an advertisement for a new anti-balding serum. The cover was plastered with the image of a tall man in a blazer  and scarf, with slicked back hair. A single bang fell into his dark eyes. The ad was addressed to “Katie Winstrop.”

“You think this guy was intended for Katie?” Rudy snorted. Helen frowned at him; he shouldn’t be so judgmental.

“Elena?” Rudy asked, casting out for support.

Elena shrugged, turning back to her work table and tossing the advertisement with her name and address on it into the Consumerism bin. A blank look settled over her face. For a moment, she looked like Taylor. Then she frowned at something and bit her lip, and Helen shook herself of the image.

“I need a kitchen break,” she said, and stood up. She was feeling dizzy. She tried to remember if she’d eaten lunch, but couldn’t. In the kitchen, she leaned against the counter and focused on her breaths. She put on a pot of tea and added some of the “Missing” milk into the mug when it was finished steeping (not the carton with her face on it, though). After a moment of hesitation, she rearranged the cartons so that the one with Taylor’s face was nearest the door. Taylor was near-sighted.

The kitchen was painted a color blue that would probably be described in a Southwestern catalog as “haint” (Helen had seen a lot of Lowe’s and paint supply ads come through in her day). She couldn’t figure out what was bothering her.

Helen replayed the conversation in her mind. Taylor had received junk mail for Rudy. Elena had received junk mail for Taylor. Helen herself received junk mail for Elena. That only left her. No one received junk mail for her. She laughed aloud, and then covered her mouth, glancing toward the main office. How ridiculous–being upset that her junk mail was actually delivered to the proper address? Feeling left out of the dead letter party?

We are in charge of lost people…

Had she ever received mail at home? She tried to picture her mailbox, but couldn’t. She frowned, and tried again. No images. Panicking now, her heart making her vision swim, Helen tried to remember anything at all about sending mail, receiving mail, her mailbox, or her house. She couldn’t. There was nothing there.

“I have temporary amnesia,” she said into the quickly numbing silence. And then, louder, “I have amnesia.”

“What?” Rudy yelled from the office.

Slowly, Helen walked to the middle of the office floor, an open space of about 4 square feet.

“I can’t remember what my mailbox looks like,” Helen said.

“Bullshit,” said Rudy.

“It’s probably black,” said Taylor.

Why hadn’t her coworkers been to her house? Had she ever invited them over?

“No–I can’t remember it at all. I know what mailboxes should look like, but I…I don’t know anything about mine. And I…” Helen was tearing up. Elena looked frightened.

“Lady, calm down,” Rudy said. Elena shot him a quick and furious look. “You’re going home tonight. You can look at your mailbox then.”

A collective glance at the clock told everyone that it was 4pm. In only an hour, Helen could find out what her mailbox looked like. She would leave the office, get in her…car, and….drive……

“What does my car look like?” Helen had never heard her voice sound like this before.

“Probably has wheels,” said Taylor.

We are in charge of the lost things of found people…

“Are you on something?” Rudy asked.

“Leave her alone!” Elena’s scream shocked the room into silence. Taylor started in his chair and fell sideways onto the floor. A letter he’d opened and laid on the edge of the table fluttered to the floor. It was a newspaper clipping from 9/11. A figure was circled. Someone had scrawled “I think this was grandpa” on it.

Elena sat with her knees folded up to her chest and her arms folded tightly between her body and legs. She looked terrified.

“Elena?” Helen said, alarmed, and started forward.

“I don’t remember. I don’t remember!” Elena’s eyes rolled wildly around the room.   

“What don’t you remember?” Helen asked.

“My mailbox,” Elena said. She started to rock in her chair.

“Well, you just moved, so that makes sense,” said Rudy.

“I didn’t move, Rudy,” she snapped.

“Okay, okay.” Rudy held up his hands in self defense. “Was just trying to make you feel better. But really, who cares–it’s not like mailboxes are the end-all-be-all of your life, right?”

“Do you own a mailbox, Rudy?” Taylor asked. He still hadn’t moved from the floor, giving Helen the impression of a turtle flipped on its back. Something close to genuine curiosity had crept into his voice, giving it a semblance of life.

“Nah,” Rudy said. “I used to have a little PO attachment to my RV, though. It got rammed off when I hit a deer. Had to redo my paint job. That was when I was in…” Rudy trailed off.

After a minute, Elena prompted: “In?”

Rudy was frowning.

“I don’t even know what color my RV is,” he said.

“Don’t you drive it home every day?” Taylor said.

“Away,” Helen corrected hastily. “He drives it away every day.” Rudy was touchy about asserting the fact that he did not have a home.

“Do you remember anything about what it looks like?” Elena asked.

Rudy’s frown deepened. Tears welled in his eyes. “No,” he said eventually.

“Taylor,” Helen said urgently. “What does your mailbox look like?”

“I don’t have a mailbox….” Taylor murmured vaguely.

Rudy stood up violently. He made a motion like he was going to hit Taylor, but then just clenched his fist and tucked it into his pocket.

“What color is your mailbox, Taylor?” Elena asked him harshly.

Did Helen own a dog? Had she driven here this morning? What was her favorite food?

“Rudy, what’s the best place you ever traveled to in your RV?” Helen asked.

Rudy’s entire back clenched. “I don’t remember traveling anywhere,” he said. Helen began to cry.

“None of us remembers anything,” Taylor said. The dam broke.

“Did you get into Bryn Mawr?” Rudy asked Elena.

“What’s your mom’s name?” Helen asked Taylor.

“Are you lactose intolerant? You never drink your milk,” Elena said to Helen.

“What kind of shark teeth are those?” Taylor asked Rudy.

Elena looked down at her sweatshirt, which said Bryn Mawr in big block letters. She wore her Bryn Mawr sweatshirt every day. She sank to the floor and began to scream, softly, a whisper scream whose decibels were felt and not heard.

Taylor pressed his forehead blankly to the wall and went still. Helen and Rudy looked at each other. They split up implicitly. Helen went to Taylor and slid her arms around him, pressed her forehead against his. Rudy walked over to Elena. He sat down next to her and leaned into her side.

“Why haven’t we been getting our mail, Rudy?” Helen said quietly.

“Two ways to not get mail,” Taylor said from the wall. It was loud in her ear. She fought against the instinct to jerk away.

“Dead,” Rudy said flatly.

“Or missing,” Helen finished, turning away from Taylor and staring back at him. They all looked around at each other, Taylor turning his face slightly from the wall, Elena gazing up at them from the floor.

Helen walked into the kitchen. She opened the fridge and stared into her own face. Then she threw the carton away. She threw them all away.

“Let’s not go crazy just because this was a weird day,” Rudy said, looking her in the eye as she reentered the office. “We can sort this out. Let’s call someone.”

“Who?” Elena asked.

“I’ll call my mom,” Rudy said. “I talked to her the other week. Totally normal.” He took a breath, pulled out a flip phone, and dialed on speaker. Everyone leaned in. The top button of Taylor’s vest had come undone.

“Hello?” came an elderly voice through the phone. Rudy made a choking noise. Eyes bulging, he gestured frantically at his coworkers.

“Hi,” Helen said abruptly. Rudy relaxed. “My name is Helen Gallino. I’m an old friend and coworker of Rudy’s.” Friend?

“Rudy?” The woman’s voice cracked. “Do you know where he is?”

Everyone turned to stare at Rudy.

“No,” Helen said. “I was hoping you would know.”

“He took off in that RV of his eight years ago,” the woman responded. Rudy hissed in a breath. His mother didn’t seem to hear. “I haven’t been able to reach him since,” she continued. “Cell line disconnected–all my letters are returned to sender.”

“Nobody knows where he is?” Taylor asked.

“No, honey, I’m sorry,” said Rudy’s mother. “Are you another friend of Rudy’s?”

“Mom?” Rudy asked.

There was silence on the other end of the line.

“Mom?”

“Ma’am?” said Helen.

“Yes, dear,” came the voice immediately.

“Did you hear that?” Helen asked.

“Hear what, dear?”

“Mom,” said Rudy.

“Are you still there? Hello?” said Rudy’s mom.

“Thank you,” Helen said, and disconnected.

“Did your parents kill you?” Taylor said mildly, looking at Elena. The girl started to shake. Rudy snarled at Taylor and pressed his hands firmly on either side of Elena’s shoulders. She reached up to grab his hands and held them pressed to her. They almost looked as if they were in slow dance position. It reminded Helen of a letter she’d once received for a girl in Catholic school, whose parents had wanted to remind her to “leave room for Jesus.”

“What in God’s name is going on?” Rudy asked. “I called my mother last week. Now suddenly I’m…missing?”

“No. No,” Helen said. “This doesn’t make sense. We go home every day! …Don’t we?”

Rudy was staring at his phone.

Helen couldn’t remember how many years she’d been working here. She couldn’t name a single person or place that actually existed.

An alarm sounded; 5pm. Like clockwork, they started moving. Helen liked to stack her bins–it made them easier to carry. She put Dreams on the bottom–it was empty today–followed by Life Updates, followed by Reckoning, followed by Consumerism, the heaviest. Rudy carried his two under each arm. Elena and Taylor both made two trips.

The incinerator room was half furnace and half mail room. It was shelved to the ceiling with return to senders, the red stamp looking from a distance like thousands of small eyes. Against the far wall an enormous oven stood sullenly. Nobody could remember ever having cleaned it. They dumped their mail bins one by one through the chute. Taylor punched the buttons. There was a gasping noise as gas was ejected into the space, and then everything burst into flame.

Above the furnace stood a large plaque engraved with the motto of the Dead Letter Office:

We are in charge of lost people, and of the lost things of found people. We hold lost memories and pieces of self. We are the essence of everything humanity has left behind.

Underneath the engravings, years ago, someone had scrawled a quote in sharpie.

“Why should I fear something that can only exist when I do not?”

It had always looked vaguely like Taylor’s handwriting to Helen.

Although there was a grate and a chute underneath the incinerator to catch the residue, most days some of it escaped. It fell now around their feet, settling into the air.

They stood in the ashes, and forgot.