「 Another Letter 」

Another Letter

Kaosu Narvna

Tiny hands played at the worn, yellowed body of an envelope—the toxic scent of that seal was well intact, the tip just folded into itself. The pen on the front had faded, the stamp dating back to quite a few years prior. It’d been there for a while, he thought, though it’d faced a handful of creases and stains. Living in this house of prescribed silence, he needed something other than the scurrying of mice to keep him busy.

    “Careful with that there, Vasco—” his Pa muttered from across the table, with that throaty voice rich in smoke, “Need to put that in the post by two!”

    “Why not tomorr—"

    “Another one!?” the shrill caw of Ma, rocking in the corner as she’d knit away at something never to be finished. That beak of a nose pointing over at the object of scrutiny, “Every Saturday with this—at least take the boy with you!”

    “But Ma, the mice-“ he immediately regret this fleeting interest, “If I go with Pa I can’t take care of the mice!”

    He wasn’t fond of car rides, and there were plenty of mice to trap. There was something oddly satisfying about it, albeit sadistic and repetitive. It was better than going into town.

    He’d flinch before the hawk across the hall even spoke to him, knowing he shouldn’t have retaliated at all. Pa had already gone to grab his keys, an escape from the oncoming attack, “No!” she began, “That pop is going to make my head spin! Get some more cigarettes while you’re out!”

    Any illusion of choice was taken from the young Vasco, his stout Pa shuffling out of the cottage with his head on straight, despite the crook in his back. After checking his watch, Pa didn’t waste a second heading for the door. The boy followed, nearly tripping over himself in an obliviousness to his own feet, adding a few wrinkles to the letter as he held it.

    The Tempest out back had seen better days, it was just enough to run errands with. Holes in the floor brought by rust and erosion were covered by filthy mats, making every step a lottery. At least, the seats hadn’t a single stain. Climbing in was no challenge for the boy, knowing where to step, and having mastered the art of clicking together that tired lap belt. The whole body sunk and bounced as his Pa took to driving, leaning to the left as soon as he eased into the seat.

    It didn’t want to start, but enough turns of the key, and it coughed to life. As they turned out of the driveway and onto the dirt roads, bits of gravel chipped at the bottom of the vehicle to an unfamiliar rhythm.

    “I’m sorry Ma yells, you don’t need that,” his words came from nowhere, as the two rode along the uneven path.

    “Yeah,” there wasn’t much he could say, watching the scenery change, eyes following one tree at a time—things moved more slowly when he did.

    While the aged envelope was still clutched, the boy felt the trees thicken. The brick castles and metal noise of town didn’t filter through the trees as it usually would. It was just him, and Pa, in the old Tempest.

    Into a small clearing, they pulled over—making it over the shallow ditch brought an ill feeling into Vasco’s gut, but everything seemed fine. Tire impressions dug into little mounds, a flattened spot among the brush. It certainly wasn’t the first time, “I think she misses being home. Makes her…angry.” He parked and checked his watch. The engine still quietly purred.

    “We’re not going to mail the letter?” he spoke up, watching his Pa crack the window after lighting up. It didn’t smell awful anymore, just smelled like Pa.

    “There’s nothing in there, boy,” he checked his watch again.

    It seemed pointless—even more upsetting, he could have popped another mouse by now. This wasn’t very fun. What cruel joke was it, to drive into nowhere, and do nothing with it? Though before he could make a handful of complaints, Pa clicked the radio on and broke the silence. Someone began to speak in a language he knew he was meant to know, and the volume only rose. Then, after a moment of dead air, that jovial speech became this soft guitar and the whispers of a man he didn’t know.

    Through the crackling, inconsistent connection, it brought this tingle he’d never known down his spine. He didn’t dare speak and break it, that Vasco.

    “El que te hace soñar con la luna,” Pa mumbled, not quite lining up with the speakers’ display. But, after a moment of making an effort, he’d just let it play.

    Vasco, he sat there, in his own silence; aside from a fidget or two, he managed to fall into the sound he knew was somehow familiar. It went on an hour or so, with not a sound other than itself. Voices, tempos, and instruments he’d never heard before—they were the world.

    Just as abruptly as it’d began, this song was choked out by the engine, and a swift return to the road. Looking up at the rear-view mirror for just a moment, he realized he’d never seen Pa cry.

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