The Gardens of Digby Green: This Mailbox
Frank closed the lid over the last third of a pizza and carried the box from the hearth to the kitchen counter, while the city clerk gathered empty bottles. Ray didn’t so much as blink.
Someone was shaking him by the shoulder. Ray focused.
“Do you want me to stay while you phone the hospital?” The police chief asked.
“No. No. Go on home. I’ll be fine.” Ray shrugged, and the chief let go. Silently, the visitors stepped out, closing the front door behind them.
Ray stared at the phone. He hit the speed dial for Rose’s number, heard it ring until it triggered the “this mailbox is currently full” announcement. He dialed his mother-in-law’s number. Maybe Rose had gone there, and found her mom in trouble. It took the older woman seven rings before she answered.
“Jean, is Rose at your house?” Ray asked.
“No, if she stops by, she usually visits in the early afternoon. Is something wrong?”
His mouth went dry, and swallowing didn’t help. Telling Jean too much, especially when he had no details himself, would provoke a reaction he wanted no part of. Not ever, if he could avoid it.
“Probably not.” He knocked on the wood-grain formica of the telephone desk.
“What’s all that noise on your end? Someone at your door? Hang on, I need to turn up the volume on my game show.”
“Never mind, I’ll talk to you later.”
Ray ended the call. He sat, head bent, holding the phone in shaking hands. The screen was blurry. Tapping the numbers with his thumb, he got part way through dialing the hospital, hit a wrong numeral, and had to delete and try again.
On hold, he paced the kitchen, swigged the last inch of liquid from the bottle he’d opened half an hour earlier. Flat. What was taking the admissions desk staff so long?
The Gardens of Digby Green is a short story in multiple parts which will post on Fridays until the story is complete.
Next week, part nine, Open.
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