Downtown

After lunch, the girls made their way into town, the cruel October wind cutting through their skirts, painting their shins with cold. An annoying pale grey sky hung overhead with the unfinished idea of rain like the sky, itself, taunted these stupid brutal winds.

“Race you!” Megan dared, jogging off. As they entered the town, they slowed down and caught their breath. There were very few buildings, here: a general store, the post office. A small church set back from the street next to a nondescript brick structure displayed a small courtyard with a few trees. The brick building had the words Town Hall stenciled in concrete over the door.

Meg and G approached the Stull town hall to get out of the cold and decided to just go ahead and enter, if only to find out where they would need to go to find the nearest library. The tiny one-room building looked more like a storage shed than a town hall. They approached the counter where an ancient bespectacled hen sat practicing her needlepoint. Megan cleared her throat. Twice.

“Oh, hello, there,” the woman crooned. “Can I help you?”

“Um…” Megan stammered. “Is this the library?”

“Deary, it’s whatever you want it to be,” she answered, smiling.

“Okay,” spoke Meg, still hesitant. “We’d like to register for library cards, please.”

“Library card?” she laughed lightly. “We don’t do library cards here, Deary.” The girls looked at each other briefly. Different.

“Can you tell us where the library is?” Megan asked plainly.

“Deary, this is the closest thing we have to one.” She gestures a withered hand towards three tall shelves to the right loaded with pulp westerns and reference books. “Topeka Public sends a truck once a week and we keep a few on hand here for the townies. We don’t have much, but we can always file for a request, if you know what you want.” The woman examined them closer.

“So does that mean we can check books out with our Topeka Library cards?” Meg asked, encouraged.

“We don’t use library cards, here, Deary,” she snickered. “We only got about twelve families in town, but…” she paused. “Something tells me that we might now have thirteen.” She pieced it together in her mind for a moment, then snapped her fingers. “You must be that new postmaster’s girls. What’s his name?”

“Dale Gustavson,” G chimed in. “That’s my Daddy.”

“Gustavson, that’s right,” she sighed in satisfaction. “And what’s your name?”

“Greta,” G beamed, "but everyone calls me G."

“I’m Megan,” Meg added.

“Well, aren’t you two just precious?” the librarian gushed. She folded her hands daintily in admiration. “I bet you two are just a couple of heartbreakers, aren’t you?” Megan fought the urge to roll her eyes like Jan told her to and just smiled, thankfully. “My name is Maryanne Masters, and I’m the Town Clerk. Anything you or your father need, I will do my best to help you out.”

“You mind if we check out what books you have?”

“Not at all.” Mrs. Masters escorted them around the counter to the bookshelves. “We got all the greats: Owen Wister, Zane Grey, Clarence Mulford, A.B. Guthrie, Jack Schaefer, Louis L’Amour…”

“Any Jane Austen?”

“Well,” she scoffed. “We don’t carry any garbage in here, if that’s what you mean.” Meg balked. Mrs. Masters looked around on the shelf for a moment. “We got some Dickens, here, and some Shakespeare histories, I think…” She searched the shelf. “But those might be checked out.” The girls were more than disappointed.

“This isn’t a library,” G whispered to Meg.

“Do you have any children’s books?” Meg posed.

“Not really much demand for that kind of thing around here, Deary,” the clerk answered. “If you want, we could wire Topeka Public and see if they can get you something, though.” She stood there for another moment while the girls glanced through to the reference books, most of which were religious in origin and in German. “A good portion of our town has German ancestry; Pennsylvania Dutch; so we’ve got a collection of German Anabaptist books. Some are translated into English, actually. That might interest you?” she offered, trying her best to sound encouraging. The girls looked back, confused. “I’ll just be over here,” she conceded, bustling back to her desk. As she returned, a young man, well-built, maybe mid-twenties walked in. His black trousers and suspenders complemented his neatly trimmed blonde hair, and it was evident that he was used to getting attention from all sides.

“Hi, Gam-Gam,” he blurted, catching himself a bit too late to realize that there were visitors. He sallied up to the counter and leaned down to kiss her cheek before he noticed Meg and Greta standing beside the counter staring at him. “Oh, I’m sorry,” He stammered. “I didn’t know anyone else was here.” He blushed, embarrassed.

“It’s fine--,” Meg started.

“—Oh, these are just the two Gustavson girls,” Mrs. Masters offered, standing. 

"Say, ain't y'all related to Deuce Gustavson out of Topeka?" he inquired.

"Yeah, he's our grandpa," G explained.

"I listened to him since I's a kid," he confessed. "You might be celebrities in these parts." Gam-Gam noticed Megan's gaze and continued.

"They were just looking over our book selections. They’re the new postmaster’s kin.”

“Oh, well, how about that?” the young man smiled. “Be nice to have some younger faces in this town.”

“Well, we’re certainly happy to have them, aren’t we?”

“We sure are,” he agreed. He approached Megan and stood with his hands on his hips, feet planted directly beneath each broad shoulder; like a superhero, Meg thought, smiling back. “I’m Johannes Masters, town deputy. Folks around here call me Joe.” He brought his feet together, dropped his arms, and bowed slightly, offering a hand to Megan.

“Pleased to meet you. I’m Meg,” she stammered, offering him a hand in return. “This is my sister, Greta.” His gaze shifted to the younger girl.

“And how old are you?” he asked.

“Eight--,” said Greta, at the same time Megan answered, “--Seventeen.” Meg laughed nervously. In actuality, Megan wouldn’t turn seventeen for another month.

“I’m eight,” Greta announced, staring at Megan.

“Well, that is a shock,” replied Joe, glancing back at Meg briefly. “I would have sworn you were at least ten.” He smiled at Greta. “You look like such a lady in your nice clothes.”

“My daddy got me this coat just before we moved from Topeka,” G explained. “I wanted the green one, but he got the blue one ‘cause it was on sale from Monkey Wards.”

“Monkey Wards, how about that?” he chuckled.

“Leave it to a postman to get the best deals through the mail, right?” Meg added.

“Welcome to the town of Stull, population 112,” Joe offered. “We don’t have much, but what we do have is good folks with good hearts. Hope can find something worth reading, here, but if you can’t,” he gestured back to Gam-Gam. “This here is my Grandma, and she’s more than happy to help you out.”

“And what brings you by on this fine, fine day?” the clerk asked.

“Aw, just checking things out. Bored to tears down at the station.” He walked back to his Gam-Gam and leaned on the counter. “Henry Miller’s dog got out again gobbled up a chicken down at Snyder’s Farm,” he added.

“That dog is nothing but trouble,” she replied. “How many is that this year, five?”

“Seven.” Joe pressed his lips together and raised his eyebrows.

“Worse than a coyote, I’d say,” she continued. They went on chatting casually about the ongoing saga of the Miller’s miscreant German shepherd. The girls went back to looking through the weird collection of German religious books, Greta looking more and more bored as each second passed.

“Can we go?” she whispered to Megan, who was obviously trying to listen in on Joe’s enthralling conversation.

“Just give it a minute,” Meg responded. She pretended to be interested in a translation of the books of Genesis and Exodus from German to English, picked it up, and pretended to read. Joe was talking about dinner. He didn’t mention any girlfriend or anything, she noticed, but he did talk an awful lot about the townfolks’ dogs. He guessed that there just needed to be more fences, higher fences, something.

“This is boring,” G whispered, “I wanna go home.”

“Okay, fine.” Meg strode over to the counter and placed the book on the counter. “I think we’ll take this one,” she mentioned.

“A Bible book, good for you,” Mrs. Masters stated. Megan filled out the borrowing card. Joe spoke:

“It was nice to meet you ladies. I’ll see you around, I’m sure.”

“I’m sure you will, in a town this small,” Meg acknowledged.

“It was a real pleasure meeting you two,” Mrs. Masters agreed.

“You too, Gam-Gam,” Greta blurted, smiling. Meg glanced back forth for a moment, opened her mouth as if to speak, pressed her lips together and grabbed her sister’s hand, hustling her out the door.

No Bologna

Jan took the last large box off the horse trailer they borrowed for the move and brought it into the kitchen. She sighed heavily. Done.

“Megan? Greta? You guys finished up yet?” she called out.

“Not yet, Mom,” Megan replied, “Greta’s still sorting out her dolly clothes.”

“All right, well hurry up, I’m about to start lunch.” She pulled out some sliced cheese and bologna along with a loaf of bread.

“No bologna!” Greta called out. Jan sighed. Greta was a picky eater, a trait she had inherited from her own eating habits. Cheese and mayo it is, she told herself.

“Trey, honey?” No answer. “Trey?”

“He went out exploring,” Megan stated, entering the room. “He said he’d be back for lunch.”

“Is he unpacked already?” Jan responded.

“Nope.”

“Megan, I wanted to make sure we were all done before your father got home,” Jan pushed.

“He doesn’t have much stuff, Mom,” Megan answered. “Besides, you know how he is.”

“Still, that’s no excuse.”

“Do you want me to go find him?”

“No,” Jan affirmed. “I’ll go find him. You just pulled lunch duty.” She handed the butter knife to her daughter and walked through the living room to the back door. “No bologna on G’s sandwich, kay?”

“I know,” Megan sighed.

Jan stepped out into a brisk autumn wind and immediately regretted not grabbing her coat. Bundling her arms up, she crossed the back yard towards a thick wooded area directly behind their new home. Of course this is where he is, she thought. Jan made her way through the woods about twenty yards.

“Trey?” she called out, “Lunch!” She walked a good while longer and crossed a small trickle winding through the earth catching sight of him. Hans was lining a pile of sticks and branches up beside a long stone wall. “I told you not to come out here alone, Trey. We’re making lunch.”

“I found a perfect spot for a fort,” Trey replied, running up to her, sticks in hand.

“After lunch,” she declared, “and after you finish unpacking your room.”

“Aw, Mom,” he whined.

“Get inside! It’s too cold out here for you to be running around without a scarf and a jacket.”

“Mom!”
“Move!” He scampered off toward the house.  Jan glanced back at the stone wall and the formidable house beyond. A stately three-story home stood atop a small hill, no signs of life or upkeep. She shivered – partly from the cold, partly from the creepiness of this weird house – and headed home.

By the time Jan caught up with Trey, he was already munching on bologna and cheese. Megan and G sat at the table, each with a nose in a book. Megan was elbow deep in Animal Farm, while Greta contemplated which cutout patterns would look best on her paper dolls. “I wish you wouldn’t read that stuff, Meg.”

“What stuff?”

“That garbage,” Jan stated, gesturing to her book.

“It’s not garbage,” Meg insisted. “It’s a story about animals, how harmful can that be?” Ever since she got caught branching off from Jane Austen, her mother tried to keep track of what the girl read. As vigilant as she was, Jan was still not even aware that Meg secretly had torn ravenously through Agatha Christie, Arthur Conan Doyle, Poe, Beckett, Steinbeck, Bradbury, Verne, Wells, and even Lovecraft. She would have had kittens.

“You girls finish up yet?” she asked.

“I’m finished,” Megan offered. “G’s still got some clothes to go through.”

“That’s last thing I got to do,” Greta mumbled, mouth full of cheese and bread.

“Don’t talk with your mouth full, Honey,” Jan pleaded.

“G, you gotta see this place I found for a fort,” Trey blurted. “It’s neato.”

“Hans,” Jan ordered, “you are not allowed to show your sister anything until you finish unpacking your room, and that’s final.”

“But it’s really cool --”

“--I don’t want to hear another word about it until you are done unpacking, is that clear?”

“Okay,” Trey conceded.

Jan unloaded a dozen pots and pans from the box she brought in earlier, opening random cupboards to determine in which one they would go. “Is there enough room for both of you in that room?” Jan asked Megan.

“Should be,” she agreed, munching on some celery. “This place is bigger than Topeka.” Megan showed G a dress and stocking combination with a flowery hat.

“What do you think?”

“Not bad, maybe with the green hat?”

“Well, the house might be bigger, but this town is most definitely not,” Jan muttered.

“You think we could check out the library after lunch?” Megan asked.

“We meaning who?” Jan queried.

“Me and G.”

“G and I,” corrected Jan.

“Greta and I.”

“As long as your room’s all squared away, I don’t see anything wrong with taking a trip to the library,” she decided, adding, “if you can find one in this town.”

“That’s not fair!” Trey burst out.

“Hans Rupert!” Jan demanded. “You did your exploring, now let the girls do theirs.” Jan placed a beat-up tea kettle on the back burner of a brand new electric stove, feeling that a good portion of her used and abused cookware looked out of place in this clean slate of a home. Trey stood up in defiance.

“Then I’m gonna go unpack right now,” he declared.

“Finish your lunch,” instructed Jan. He crammed the rest of his sandwich in his mouth and busily chewed. “Hon, don’t do that, you’ll choke.” He rinsed down the last bit with the last few swallows of milk in his glass. He stood in defiance.

“Now can I go?”

“You know—,” she started, changing her mind mid-thought. “Fine. Go on. Let me know if you need any help.”

“I don’t need anyone’s help,” he pouted. “I can do it by myself.”

“Refrain from anger and forsake wrath, Trey,” Jan offered.

“Do not fret, it tends only to evil,” Greta added, finishing the verse.

“Very good, Greta,” Jan encouraged. “Do you remember what verse?”

“Psalms 37, verse 8.”

“That’s my girl.” Jan reached up in a top cupboard and grabbed an Oreo, giving it to Greta.

August 12, 1932

Dale grew up in Topeka. His folks came into town from Wyoming when he was just a boy of six. His father, Hans II (also called Deuce), aspired to work in radio, doing mJu his work announcing rodeos and drag races to build up enough money to move the hell out of Wyoming. When Deuce heard about a couple of guys in Kansas who were taking bouncy balls, peach baskets, and two teams of five guys making an organized game out of it, they thought it was sure to be something that would catch on. Sure enough, Deuce, landed a gig in Topeka announcing basketball on AM580, and he, his wife, and only son had a modest but well-kept home on Huntoon.

Deuce encouraged Dale in the arts, but Dale’s mother, Betty, saw to it that he focused on his studies, not relying on natural talent and a stroke of luck to pay the bills.  Dale, as it turned out, preferred his creative outlets to exist outside of work and school. As a boy he excelled in school to keep his parents happy and to keep their noses out of his busy and deviant social schedule. The constant adventurer, he would often explore the fields out behind the house and ride his bike for hours only to find abandoned beat up Packards and empty tin cans. Fond of toilet paper and eggs, Dale got to know plenty of police officers in town on a first name basis; officers like Bill Malloy, Jimbo’s dad.

It was Jimbo who served as Dale’s conscience throughout high school and onward, often pleading with him not to continue for the fear of getting into trouble with Old Man Malloy. As all great friendships, theirs had started with one doozy of a story.

Once when they were about thirteen, Dale got his hands on his father’s shotgun and took it out on a long bike ride, putting plugs into tree stumps out by the Santa Fe train tracks. Jimbo begrudgingly accompanied him, and when it came to be his turn to shoot, he balked. After some careful persuasion on Dale part, Jimbo finally conceded to take one shot at a cluster of bushes.

>BLAM!<

What followed was a horrific sound: like a child screaming briefly, then cut silent. They froze for a moment.

“What’d you do?” Dale asked.

“You gave me the darn gun, Dale!” Jimbo tossed it away. “Oh, shoot!”

“Hang on, hang on,” Dale urged, approaching the bush. “Lemme take a look.” Underneath the brush, a small deer could be seen with half of its body completely mangled, blood pulsing out in time with the creature’s still-beating heart.

“Omigosh!” Dale uttered, “Omigosh, omigosh, omigosh, God dang it!”

“What do we do?” Jimbo blubbered, crying.

“Let’s see if we can get some help,” Dale said, not moving, transfixed on the mortally wounded animal. Jimbo started to bawl. Without another word, Dale picked up what he could of the animal and loaded it on his handlebars to his bike. Jimbo continued to bawl, riding after Dale all the way back into town. It was dusk when he got home and showed his father what had happened.

“Pa?” Dale stammered, entering the home.

“There you are, boy! It’s supper time. Where you been?” Deuce called from the other room. His thought was cut off by a siren scream from the kitchen, where Dale stood covered in blood in front of his mother.

Outside, Jimbo sat on the porch, dazed, dark streaks of mud and tears running down his face. In front of him a trail of blood leading to the east, ending in a pile of what once was a living creature. Jimbo stared at it: a gross reminder of the needless, careless taking of an innocent life. Dale came out of the house and showed his parents the carcass. For a moment, Hans just stood there, looking back and forth from the animal to his son while Dale explained. Meanwhile, Jimbo’s gaze never left the fawn. Never again would he let this happen, he promised. Jimbo tuned out most of what was being said until he heard a question that made him gasp.

“Where’s the gun?”

October 18, 1957

Even now, as he enters the post office in Stull, Dale thinks about riding his bike at nightfall so many years ago to retrieve and deliver his first very important package. He looks around at the dusty, abandoned post office, all full of undelivered mail. A tiny maze of small offices jetted off to the right, and directly in front of him was an array of flues and chutes, each leading to separate collection bags and postal totes. Dale spied a door with old pressman style glass, honeyed with heavy indoor smoking. On the door, in plain block lettering, read the name JOHN STULL with the word POSTMASTER centered underneath.

“I guess this is it,” Dale called out.

“Yep, there she is,” a voice called out from the front of the shop, “Right where we left her.”

“How long did you say it has been?”

“Six months,” the voice replied, “Feels like a lot longer.”

“Yeah?” Dale silently thought about what his life was like six months prior. A wiry little man with a dark beard limped into the hallway.

“Pretty much founded the town,” the man continued, getting more animated as he spoke. “Practically built it from the ground up. Named the whole damn town after him.” He took a moment to catch his breath.

“Listen,” Dale explained, “I’m not even going to try to replace John Stull. That’s impossible. Not gonna happen.”

“No, it ain’t,” urged Jim. He clicked his ring against the countertop a few times in thought.

“Okay, so let’s just figure out where we’re at.” He entered the office, which was surprisingly well-kept, if only a bit dusty. “I guess John was a tidy fellow? That’s helpful.”

“Of course he was,” Jim replied. “He was the postmaster.”

In the middle of a standard steel desk sat a parcel wrapped in brown paper with several postage stamps all over it. No dust, he noticed.

“What’s this?” Dale asked.  They both approached the package to examine it closer.

“Looks like it moved around a lot,” Jim noted, poking his pen at the numerous postage stamps that studded the wrapping.  Dale walked around, taking a seat at the head of the desk.

“Denmark, Sweden, England, Belgium, France, Germany, Scotland…  What’s that?  Iceland?”

“Travelled a long way to get here, whatever it is. Just ‘Postmaster’?  Stull, KS 660-50.”

“That’s crazy,” Dale offered. “Whoever sent this knows the new postal codes, and those haven’t even been regulated yet.”

“John was usin’ ‘em, I know,” Jim added.

“Still, if this was overseas,” Dale noted, “that’s a pretty savvy European.”

“True,” Jim agreed. “It wasn’t here when I cleaned up last month,” he added.

“Okay, enough suspense,” Dale declared. He grabbed a letter opener and artfully slid it cleanly through the packaging to reveal a parcel of four books bound together with a leather strap. Wrapped around the outside was an envelope.

He opened the envelope and read aloud.

“To Whom It Concerns:

If you are reading this, then I must have failed.  Enclosed are the remaining volumes of the Principia Divinica.  Keep them secret.  Do not let anyone know you have them.  Defend them with your life.  Wait for further instruction.

-John Stull”

Jim looked at the note. “Doesn’t look like John’s handwriting… Prickipee DaVinci? Well, that doesn’t make a lick of sense,” he blurted, handing it back.

“It is a mystery,” Dale agreed. He flipped the note over, examining the back side. Nothing.

“You want me to put ‘em in the safe?” Jim suggested.

“I’m sure I can handle it,” said Dale, looking them over. “This note seems pretty urgent. Something you’ll learn about me: I always liked a good mystery.” He peeked at the note again. “Wait for further instruction. Wonder what that means…”

“You got me,” the wiry postman shrugged.

“We have a lot to get done,” Dale pressed, “so we’ll have to solve this mystery some other time. Why don’t you work out a schedule for getting this stuff out?” He dropped the books in the bottom drawer of his office desk, escorting Jim out the door. “We’ll need to get a hold of every local post office these packages go to and figure out when and how we can get it all delivered.” Dale looked around the main office. “How many pieces of mail you think we got here, anyway?”

“Oh… maybe twenty-five, thirty thousand,” Jim shrugged, “give or take.”

Dale thought about it for a second then sighed. There had to be ten thousand letters, packages, post cards, and invoices in the this room, and twenty more in the back. “We’re gonna need more people.”

He walked over to the nearest telephone and dialed. Jim clicked on a small AM radio and sorted out a short stack of envelopes next to the flues, sliding them neatly through the holes into baskets on the other side. He moved on to the next stack, and in the time it took Dale to have a very frustrating conversation with the Topeka office, Jim had gone through half of what had been cluttering up the counter. Dale hung the black rotary phone back in its cradle and sighed heavily. “Looks like we’re on our own.”

“It’s not so bad,” Jim acknowledged. “At least we only got one delivery a day.”

“True,” said Dale. He silently contemplated the complete absorption of time that two deliveries a day caused when he first started working for the post office. That was less than ten years ago, but it felt like it was another life; like it must have happened to someone else. These days everything was much more streamlined; organized; industrial. The postmaster studied the grid of chutes, memorizing the order with professional efficiency. He reminded himself that he could do this. It would just take some focus, some energy, and a whole lot of hustle if they were going to get any of it out the door. The delivery trucks out of town would be there in an hour, so they would have to work fast if they wanted to get caught up. “You keep doing what you’re doing, I’ll get the bags.”

“Oh,” remembered Jim. “Before I forget.” He fumbled around his pockets and pulled out a keyring with five keys. “Keys to the kingdom.” He picked out individual keys and showed them to Dale one by one: “The office, the safe, the desk, the door.” He handed them over.

“What’s this other one for?” he asked, indicating the key Jim had failed to identify.

“Don’t know,” said Jim. “I been trying to think what that’s to, myself.” He scratched his head. “Probably John’s, though I’m not sure what to.”

“Yippee,” blurted Dale. “Another mystery.” He pocketed the keys and continued. “Alright, we have a lot to do. Let’s get to it.”