The Stranger at the Back of the Funeral
Christmas Cards Signed With One Letter
They carried the coffee can inside and spread every envelope across the kitchen table in order, oldest to newest. Thirty-one cards. Curtis made a fresh pot of real coffee this time, because it was obvious neither of them was going to sleep.
The first card, from 1995, was the plainest: a drugstore card with a cartoon snowman, the kind sold in boxes of twenty. The handwriting inside belonged to a young man, all capitals, pressed hard into the paper.
MR. P — I GRADUATED. VOCATIONAL PROGRAM, DIESEL TECH. I GOT A JOB AT A TIRE SHOP IN LOGANSPORT. MOM IS DOING BETTER. SHE HAS AN APARTMENT WITH A REAL LEASE. I STILL HAVE THE SOCKET SET. — L.
Renata read it twice before passing it to Curtis. Then she opened the next one.
The cards moved through the years like a slow film. In 1997, L. had been hired at a truck repair shop. In 1999, he had passed his certification exam on the first try, and he had underlined first try three times. In 2002 there was a card with a photograph tucked inside: a young woman with dark curly hair, caught midway through a laugh, standing on courthouse steps beside a grown-up version of the boy from the photo. We got married. Her name is Tess. She knows everything. She says to tell you thank you too.
In 2006, a baby. In 2009, a second baby. In 2012, a photograph of a new building with three roll-up bay doors and a hand-painted sign above them. Opened my own shop. Three bays. The bank said I was crazy. You taught me to do the job right the first time, so I don’t think I am.
Curtis set that one down and pressed his thumb against the bridge of his nose.
Renata kept going. She could feel her own throat tightening, but she couldn’t stop. 2015. Hired a kid off the street this year. Sixteen. Same look I had. Gave him a key to the side door and a cot in the break room. Didn’t ask him anything. I hope that’s right. It’s what you did.
Then 2019. That card was different, cream-colored and heavy, with a plain cross on the front. The handwriting inside was smaller, more careful.
Mr. P. I saw in the paper about Mrs. P. I am so sorry. I wanted to come to the service. I drove as far as the county line and turned around. I didn’t know if I would be welcome, and I didn’t want to be the reason for questions on a day like that. I hope she knew how good you are. — L.
Renata set the card down very slowly.
“Dad kept these on the refrigerator,” Curtis said. His voice was rough. “Remember? Every Christmas. Mom used to say they were from his Army buddy. Larry something. From Fort Knox.”
“Larry,” Renata repeated. “L.”
“Dad never corrected her.” Curtis shook his head. “Not once. Thirty years of cards on the fridge, and he let her think they were from some guy he served with.”
Renata thought about her mother standing at the refrigerator each December, sliding a new card under a magnet shaped like a strawberry, never reading the inside because it wasn’t addressed to her. She thought about how close the truth had been all those years, held up by a strawberry magnet three feet from the sink where her mother had cried.
It was past two in the morning when she picked up her phone. She knew it was too late to call. She looked up the shop anyway. Henshaw Fleet & Diesel, Kokomo, Indiana. Open 7 a.m. to 6 p.m. A phone number. A small photograph of the same building from the 2012 card, now with five bays and a fresh coat of blue paint.
Under the shop’s name, in a smaller line of text, was a description she read three times before she understood it.
Repair and service. Apprenticeships available for young people who need a fresh start. Ask for Lyle.
