Friday, the last day of September, 2011
There was a house near the end of the route — small, white, a hedge cut square — where a man named Mr. Teague lived by himself. I never rang his bell. He never got packages. What he did was this: every year, the week before Christmas, there was an envelope in his box with the flag up, addressed to "The Mail Carrier, Route 9." Inside was a card and a five-dollar bill, and on the card, in pencil, one line about the year.
1983: "Thank you for coming in the snow."
1991: "My wife says hello from wherever she is."
1998: "The hedge is my project now. Tell me if it's square."
2006: "Still here. You too."
2010: "I have been counting. That's twenty-eight."
It was twenty-eight. I hadn't been counting.
On my last day I parked the truck and walked up his path with nothing to deliver and I rang the bell. It was an ordinary bell. Two notes, a little out of tune with each other, the way they get. He took a long time. When he opened the door I said, "I'm retiring. I wanted to say thank you for the cards," and he said, "I know. I've got one ready," and he went and got it, and it was the Christmas card, three months early, with the five dollars in it.
The line on it said: "The hedge was always square. You told me every year by not saying."
I've rated a lot of doorbells on this website. I didn't rate his. You'll understand.
— Marjorie