Waldo Jeffers had reached his limit.
It was now mid -August,
which meant that he
had been separated from Marcia
for more than two months.
Two months, and all he had to show
was three dog -eared letters
and two very expensive long
-distance phone calls.
True, when school had ended
and she'd returned to Wisconsin,
and he to Locust, Pennsylvania,
she had sworn to maintain a
certain fidelity.
She would date occasionally,
but merely as amusement.
She would remain faithful.
But lately, Waldo had begun to worry.
He had trouble sleeping at night,
and when he did,
he had horrible dreams.
He lay awake at night,
tossing and turning
underneath his pleaded quilt protector,
tears swelling in his eyes
as he pictured Marsha,
her sworn vows overcome by liquor
and the smooth soothing of some Neanderthal finally
submitting to the final caresses of sexual oblivion.
It was more than the human
mind could bear.
Visions of Martian's faithlessness
haunted him.
Daytime fantasies of sexual
abandon
permeated his thoughts.
And the thing was,
they wouldn't understand
how she really was.
He, Waldo, alone understood this.
He had in tuitively grasped
every nook and cranny of her psyche.
He had made her smile.
She needed him,
and he wasn't there. Ah.
An d the idea came to him on Thursday
before the members parade
was scheduled to appear.
He had just finished mowing and etching
the Edelson's lawn
for 1 .50
and had checked the mailbox
to see if there was at
least a word from Marsha.
There was nothing but a circular
from the Amalgamated Aluminum Company of
America inquiring into his awning needs.
At least they cared enough to write.
It was a New York company.
You could go anywhere in the mail.
Then it struck him.
He didn't have enough money
to go to Wisconsin in
the accepted fashion,
true, but why not mail himself?
It was absurdly simple.
He would ship himself,
parcel post, special delivery.
The next day, Waldo went
to the supermarket
to purchase the necessary equipment.
He bought masking tape, a staple gun,
and a medium -sized cardboard box
just right for the person of his build.
He judged that,
with a minimum of jostling,
he could ride quite comfortably.
A few air holes, some water,
perhaps some midnight snacks,
and it would probably be
as good as going tourist.
By Friday afternoon,
Waldo was set.
He was thoroughly packed
and the post office
had agreed to pick him up at three o 'clock.
He'd marked the package, Fragile,
and as he sat curled up inside,
resting on the foam rubber cushioning
he thoughtfully included,
he tried to picture the look of awe and happiness
on Marsha's face as she opened her door,
saw the package,
tipped at the deliverer,
and then opened it to see her Wal
do finally there in person.
She would kiss him,
and then maybe they could see a movie,
if he had only thought about
this before.
Suddenly, rough hands
gripped his package
and he felt himself borne up.
He landed with a thud in a truck
and was off.
Marsha Bronson had just
finished setting her hair.
It had been a very rough weekend.
She had to remember not to drink like that.
Bill had been nice about it, though.
After it was over, he said,
he still respected her after all.
It was certainly the way of nature,
even though, no, he didn't love her.
He did feel an affection for her.
And after all, they were grown adults.
Oh, what Bill could teach Waldo.
But that seemed many years ago.
Sheila Klein, her very,
very be st friend,
walked in through the porch door
and into the kitchen.
Oh God, it's absolutely maudlin outside.
Oh, I know what you mean.
I feel all icky.
Marcia tightened the belt
on her cotton robe
with the silk outer edge.
Sheila ran her finger
over some salt grains on the kitchen table,
licked her finger, and made a face.
I'm supposed to be tak
ing these salt pills,
but she wrinkled her nose.
They make me feel like
throwing up.
Marsha started to pat herself under the chin,
an exercise she'd seen on television.
God, don't even talk about that.
And she got up from the table
and went to the sink
where she picked up a bottle
of pink and blue vitamins.
Want one?
Supposed to be better than steak.
And then she attempted
to touch her knees.
I don't think I'll touch
a daiquiri again.
She gave up and sat down,
this time nearer the small table
that supported the telephone.
Maybe Bill will call."
She said to Sheila's glance.
And Sheila nibbled on the cuticle.
After last night,
I thought maybe you'd be
through with him.
I know what you mean.
My God, he was like an octopus.
Hands all over the place.
And she gestured,
raising her arms upward in defense.
The thing is, after a while,
you get tired of fighting with him,
you know?
And after all,
I didn't really do anything
Friday and Saturday.
So I kind of owed it to him,
you know what I mean?
and she starts to scratch.
She is giggling with her hand
over her mouth.
I'll tell you, I felt the same way
even after a while.
Here she bent forward in a whisper.
I wanted to.
She was now laughing very loudly.
It was at this point that Mr. Jameson
of the Clarence Darrow Post Office
rang the doorbell of the large,
stucco -colored frame house.
When Marsha Bronson opened the door
and helped her carry the package in,
he had his yellow and green
slips of paper signed
and left with a 15 -cent tip
that Marsha had gotten out of her mother's
small beige pocketbook in the den.
What do you think it is?
Sheila asked.
Marsha stood with her arms
folded behind her back.
She stared down at the brown
cardboard carton
that sat in the middle of the living room.
I don't know. Inside the package,
Waldo quivered with excitement
as he listened to the muffled voices.
Sheila ran her fingernail over
the mask and tape
that ran down the center of the carton.
Why don't you look at the
re turn address
and see who it's from?"
Waldo felt his heart beating.
He could feel the vibrating footsteps.
It would be soon.
And Marsha walked around the carton
and read the ink -scratched
label.
Our God, it's from Waldo.
That's schmuck, said Sheila.
Wal do trembled with expectation.
Well, you might as well open it,
said Sheila.
Both of them tried to lift the staple flap.
Ah, shit, said Marsha groaning.
He must have nailed it shut.
And they tugged on the flap again.
My God, you need a power drill
to get this thing open.
And they pulled again.
You can't get a grip.
They both stood still, breathing heavily.
Why don't you get a scissor,
said Sheila.
And Marsha ran into the kitchen,
but all she could find was
a little sewing scissor.
Then she remembered that her father kept a
collection of tools in the basement.
She ran downstairs
and when she came back up
she had a large sheet metal cutter
in her hand.
This is the best that I could find.
She was very out of breath.
Here, you do it, I'm gonna die.
She sank into a large fluffy couch
and exhaled noisily.
Sheila tried to make a slit
between the masking tape
and the end of the cardboard flap,
but the blade was too big
and there wasn't enough room.
God damn this thing.
She said feeling very ex asperated.
Then smiling. I got an idea. What,
said Marcia.
Just watch, said Sheila,
touching her finger to her head.
In side the package,
Waldo was so transfixed with excitement
that he could barely breathe.
His skin felt prickly from the heat,
and he could feel his heart
beating in his throat.
It would be soon.
Then Sheila stood quite upright
and walked around to the oth
er side of the package.
Then she sank down to her knees,
grasped the cutter by both handles,
took a deep breath
and plunged the long blade
through the middle of the package,
through the masking tape,
through the cardboard,
through the cushioning,
and THUD right through the center
of Waldo Jeffers' head,
which split slightly
and caused little rhythmic arcs of red
to pulsate gently in the morning sun.
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