Delivery

I’ve had this idea in my head for a while, based in part on a news article I read some years ago. It’s a draft of a piece that I would like to put into a collection of northern gothic tales.

*****

As addresses went, Fourteen Seventy-Two Warren Valley Road did not match its appearance. At least not to Brewster. He pictured a boxy two-story on a manicured cul-de-sac. A split level in an aging neighborhood. A fifties rancher under a stand of old maples.

The first crack in his expectations came when he found the numbers peeling from a battered mailbox standing sentinel at the head of a dirt drive. By the time he finished bouncing and jostling his way up the rutty road to a low slung cottage, he had dismissed all preconceptions about his delivery and its recipient, a Miss Delia Grunderson.

Brewster parked the van on the edge of a field that had once been a yard. He adjusted the pin on his vest: “Here’s a bouquet to brighten your day!” it read, and retrieved the flowers from the back. He paused at the passenger side mirror. He checked his nostrils and teeth for anything that could ruin his impression, adjusted his cap to an angle he deemed more jaunty, and started toward the porch. 

A Buick, its yellow faded with age, sat in the freestanding shed, an AM radio gospel preacher shouted the message of the Lord from the shadows at the back of the garage.

“Anybody home?” Brewster called. Only the preacher replied, demanding his flock repent.

The porch ran the length of the cottage. He rang the doorbell. Silence. He opened the wood screen door and knocked, letting the door slam shut.

“In a moment!” came an elderly voice.

Brewster held up the delivery: three dozen red roses in a white ceramic vase, the neck of the tase trimmed with bright red ribbon.

The door creaked open.

“Delivery for Miss Delia Grunderson!” Brewster cheered.

A wrinkled old woman answered the door. She was tiny, with white hair like cotton candy coiffed in a thin Edwardian pompadour. She blinked, uncertain, with vibrant green eyes.

“Oh! For me? Do come in!” She motioned with a claw-like hand—it looked stiff in the knuckles—for Brewster to follow into the front room. He placed the flowers on a faded lace doily that covered the coffee table, as if she had expected them. “I was just pouring tea. Would you like some?”

“I’ve got a few more deliveries,” Brewster began, but the sudden droop in her countenance, the sag of her smile and the wetness of those eyes made him reconsider. “Maybe just a minute or two,” he said, and settled on the ancient sofa. Its damask cushions had little give and the creak it unleashed made him fear for its delicate wooden legs.

“Oh, good. Now wait while I get the tea. Do you like shortbread?”

“Yes, Miss Grunderson.”

“Such a nice young man.” She swept out, quicker than he expected for someone so old.

The furniture came from a bygone age. There was no television, but an old Zenith console radio stood in the corner. Velvet paisley drapes. The doilies, the polished dark woods and the claw-footed chaise the hardware on the double doors that separated him from an adjoining room—they seemed like refugees from an aristocrat’s house museum, an exhibit on wealthy life a century prior. Odd decor for a house in woods, Brewster thought, except the roses unsettled it even further. Every surface—the end tables, the buffet on the far wall, the mantle—had been decorated in dried roses, some still in their white ceramic vases, others clustered in bunches on the mantle. The room may have been frozen in time; but the roses revealed its passage.

“Here it is!” she said, pushing a little server cart laden with thin china pieces and a platter of shortbread. “Home made. And the mint comes from the garden.”

Brewster stood to help but she shooed him away and parked the cart between the sofa and the chair by the radio.

Miss Grunderson nibbled the bread, slurped her tea, and cooed throughout. Brewster started, then accepted these actions to be products of age. 

“May I ask who all the flowers are from?” He set his cup and saucer on the tray.

“Who the—? Oh, yes, they’re from my admirer.” Grunderson hid her mouth behind her cup.

“He must be a wonderful admirer.”

“He is,” she replied. Her tea finished, she fingered her brooch: a rose with red glass petals and silver leaves.

“What’s his name?”

She froze, her index finger still against a petal. He followed her eyes. She was looking out the window toward the garage.

“William,” she finally said. “William Warren.”

“As in the road?” Brewster asked.

“The road is named for him,” she said, then turned on the radio. Gospel hymns crackled from the speakers.

“Really? Oh, speaking of which—there’s a radio on in the garage. Did you leave it on, by chance? Shall I turn it off for you?”

“No!” she jerked as if some invisible thorn had stabbed her finger. “You’re a lovely boy. Please don’t. That’s my husband.”

“I thought you said you had an admirer?”

“My husband. He’s my admirer. But he’s very busy.” She trembled a little. “Well, you’ve been a blessing, Mr.?

“Brewster. Eddie Brewster. But you’re right, Miss Grunderson. I should be going now.”

“Yes, you should.” They stood at once.

“More deliveries—“

“Make their day with a bouquet,” she said, and her smile returned. She reached up, motioning for him to lean down. She pinched his cheek.

“Thank you,” she said, and closed the door swiftly behind him. He heard the lock click and a bolt follow.

Scratching his head beneath his cap, Brewster wandered around to the garage.

“Mr. Warren? William?” He wondered about Miss Grunderson’s behavior. “Sir?”

He stepped into the cool of the garage. The preacher had given way to a stirring rendition of “A Mighty Fortress Is Our God.” Mr. Warren sat in a chair by his workbench, eyes closed, listening to the radio. 

“Mr. Warren, I just wanted to say how nice it is—“ Brewster’s voice trailed off as he finally saw William Warren properly. A car coming up the drive scattered dirt and gravel.

“Oh my—“ Brewster backed away, turned, and saw a police officer emerge from his patrol car.

“Officer! Officer! There’s a corpse in the garage!” Brewster grabbed a hold of the officer’s arm. 

“Easy now, son. You new in town?”

Brewster nodded. 

“You planning to stay?”

He looked at the officer’s name badge. It read Grunderson.

Horror and realization filled Brewster’s face.

“What is this?” he whispered. Another car had pulled up behind his van, effectively blocking him in. The gentleman who appeared wore a black suit and a grave expression.

“Just answer the question, Mr. Brewster. Are you planning to stay?”

“I… I.. what happens if I don’t?”

The officer unlocked his service pistol from its holster. Brewster paled.

“Well, you and I’ll have to go for a walk before you can leave. But you look like a smart boy, so I suspect you’re staying.”

Brewster nodded.

“How come you’re up here? Doesn’t the florist make this delivery herself?”

“She… she had to step out. The order came in with a rush on it. The assistant just put it together and sent me to deliver it.”

“Well, you’ve got to admit, Chief,” said the grave looking man, “Callie can really keep a secret if her assistant didn’t even know.”

“Yeah, and that’s why she called me in a panic when she couldn’t get Brewster here on the phone. So what’s it gonna be, Brewster?”

The screen door clatter drew all three of their attention. Miss Grunderson stood in the doorway.

“I like him, Chief. Can we keep him?”

“Go back inside, Delia.” The grave-looking man went to lead her back in.

The Chief sighed. “People give me a headache. You know that, Brewster?”

“What is all this?” Brewster whispered.

“This is what happens when you grow old alone. Delia’s husband died. Then her sister-in-law died. Then Jones—who own the only funeral home in the area—caught my great aunt in the cemetery with a shovel. more times than you can imagine. So are you staying or going?” He hadn’t taken his hand off his revolver.

“I really like him,” Miss Delia told Jones. “He’s a lovely young man.”

“She likes you, Brewster. It’d be a lot easier on everyone if you just stayed.”

“Can I talk with her?”

Chief Grunderson led Brewster back up the steps.

“You can stay for tea, can’t you?” she asked him. “I have homemade shortbread.”

“Why isn’t she in a hospital?” Brewster asked.

“That’s a long and complicated story,” the Chief said. “Officially it boils down to money and family. She has a lot of one and none left of the other.”

“Aren’t you her family?”

The Chief shook his head. “No more than anybody else. She had two family members: her husband, who we keep in the garage. And her sister-in-law, who occupies the back bedroom.”

Jones huffed. “Make a choice already, Brewster. If you’re gonna be a problem, we can just stuff you and set you up in her parlor. She’d love the company.”

Brewster recoiled. “You’d do that?”

Miss Grunderson smiled and gave the deliveryman a little wave. “I love company. You can visit any time.” She held out her arms as if to embrace the world.

“Yes,” Jones said. “This town would do anything to keep her happy.”

“She must have been important.”

The Chief nodded.

“Then I’ll stay,” Brewster sighed.

Chief Grunderson locked his pistol back in the holster.

“Good choice,” said Jones.

“Wonderful,” added Miss Grunderson. “I’ll pick more mint! And maybe some lemon balm!”

“We’ll need to keep an eye on you,” the Chief said as they returned to their cars. “Don’t go skipping town any time soon. Callie will be watching as well.”

Brewster only half heard the chief. His mind was on something else. “When she dies, will they all be buried?”

The Chief hung his head before looking Brewster in the eye. “Brewster, when she dies, I will personally bear witness to all three cremations.”

Brewster chuckled. The Chief didn’t.

“Thing is, kid, Callie sent me here to rescue you. Don’t get any funny ideas about coming back up here on your own. We hope Delia will go naturally, and soon, but truth is, no one knows when or even if that will be. And you don’t want to experience Delia Grunderson grieving or angry. None of us do ever again.”

“Is that the unofficial reason?”

Chief tapped the hood of his car.

“Just get back to the shop,” he said. “And focus on delivering those flowers. It’s good to make people smile.”