12/18/12

Lime Green Leggings
By Maggie Doonan


Mrs Garol was talking about me again. Her voice was as clear as anything, as if she was in the room with me rather than leaning on the fence outside, nattering on to the postie. I wanted to go out there and say something back to her, something that’d put her in her place, but then I remembered that big blue nothing hanging over her. The thought of only having a fluff of cloud and a breeze above me made me want to retch and I dismissed the idea. No, Mrs Garol wasn’t getting me outside. She’d probably just enjoy it, anyway. Peter said she was more mouth than brains, and my going outside would give her something new to talk about. I could hear her in my head: “Ohhh did you see the nutter from 33A? She stumbled right outside, she did. Right outside, up to the fence and then just melted away, like she weren’t anything but an ice-pop and it were summer.”

Easing towards the front window, I pushed aside the drapes and squinted through the glass. There she was, bent over her mailbox and wearing lime green leggings that made every dimple in her backside look like a crater. The postie stood beside her, nodding every now and then. He was an older man, with a swollen stomach and baldness that was obvious despite the standard issue postman cap that never left his head. He’d been delivering the mail for three months now and Mrs Garol had been all over him since he arrived, as if she weren’t married and was something special. She raked her fingers along the postie’s forearm and I shuddered. Those nails of hers made me think of bird claws, big gaudy ones. I imagined a falcon with fuchsia talons swooping down and getting tangled in Mrs Garol’s peroxide hair. The image made my insides twist and I checked the bolts that Peter had installed on either side of the window for me, relaxing a little when I saw they hadn’t budged.

“She never comes out, you know.”

I rolled my eyes. Of course I never come out, you silly bat. And I never will, not as long as people like you are hanging about.

The postie’s jowls jiggled as he said something that I didn’t catch.

“Yeah, yeah. It’s just like them crazy folk, off one of them shows, you know, the ones on channel four.” Mrs Garol shifted her weight and the back of her blouse rode up, exposing milky flesh and the lacy edges of her underwear. I grimaced and stepped back from the window and as I did the postie glanced over in my direction. Gasping, I dropped below the sill and covered my head with my hands. He saw me. No one ever saw me. If he saw me, then he might want to come in. My heart hammered as I considered this. If he came in, then the whole world might come in as well, with all its dirt and disease and death. Drawing my knees to my chest, I wheezed.

“Hello? Mrs Kenmore?”

The postie was at my door. The porch groaned under his weight.

“Mrs Kenmore, I have a package that won’t fit through the mail slot.”

I shook my head. The postie was lying. He just wanted me to open the door. Mrs Garol probably put him up to it, to try and trick me outside, out of the safety of my home. It was all a big joke to her, just another story to prattle on about at the hairdressers. I wrapped my arms around my legs and stared at the wallpaper beneath the window. It was peeling in the corners.

“I know you’re there, Mrs Kenmore. If you could just open the door a little, I could slide this package right through the gap.”

Shutting my eyes, I willed the postie to go away. If Peter was here, he’d make the postie go away.

“Hello? It’s Karen, from next door.”

My eyes bulged. Mrs Garol. The postie and Mrs Garol were on the other side of my door.

“Listen, Hank here has a package for you and there’s no way it’s fitting through this skinny little slot.”

Mrs Garol’s bangles clinked as she rapped on the door.

“Come on, just open up. We won’t bite,” she said. “I told you, Hank, she’s bonkers. You sure you saw her at the window? Maybe she’s in bed or something. Them crazies sleep all the time, you know, cause of the drugs.”

I snorted softly. There was no time for sleep when the outside was always trying to get in. Peter understood. That’s why he used to check the doors for me, every hour, every night.

“No, I definitely saw her in the window, that one right there. She was watching us.”

“Oh, that’s well creepy. Just staring out at us from inside her house? Makes you wonder what she gets up to in there,” Mrs Garol lowered her voice. “What if she’s a serial killer, Hank? What if she lures in people from the internet then cuts them up and boils their bones to make soup?”

“I’ve never seen an internet bill in her mail.”

My eyes narrowed. I knew the postie was keeping track of my mail. Peter said the last postie wasn’t, but I’d known straight away there was something funny about this one. He must know everything about me by now. My credit card details, my pension payments, my electricity account, he’d have seen them all. It was easy enough to open and reseal an envelope without it looking like you had. I’d seen how to do it once, in a spy movie Peter took me to see.

“Mrs Kenmore, I have to deliver the mail to the rest of the block. There’s an envelope attached to the package. I’m going to slip it through the slot and leave the package by your door here so all you have to do is lean out and grab it.”

The mail slot squeaked as the postie pushed through a square envelope. Flopping to the floor, the envelope looked crisp and new against the dull carpet, but I knew it was an illusion. Envelopes were filthy. Envelopes travelled all the way around the world and then slipped into my house as white as the day they were posted, as if I wouldn’t be able to tell. That’s why I kept a lunchbox filled with disposable gloves and facemasks to the left of the front door. Peter hadn’t liked the masks. He said they made him think of those people in China who were scared of the air. I began to move towards the lunchbox and then paused as Mrs Garol spoke again.

“She won’t come out. You might as well just chuck it in the bin.”

“She might.”

“Nope, sweetheart, trust me, she won’t come out for anything. The last package she got, before you started on, sat outside for nearly six months, rotting away against the wall until some of the kids from round the corner nicked it and set it on fire in her driveway.”

“Kids.”

“They call her Nutty Nelly, Hank. Nutty Nelly on Narangba Street. Imagine having to live next door to that.”

“What if I opened the package and slipped whatever’s inside through the slot? It might fit without all this cardboard.”

“No!” The word was out of my mouth before I could stop myself. There could be anything in that package, anything from anywhere. Chewing the insides of my cheeks, I listed the possibilities in my mind. If the postie shoved all that into my home, gloves and masks wouldn’t be nearly enough.

“Did you hear that, Hank? It was her, it was Nutty Nelly.”

“Mrs Kenmore?”

My hands started shaking. Now they’d never leave.

“Mrs Kenmore, it’s alright. I won’t open the package if you don’t want me to.”

“That’s right,” Mrs Garol added. “We won’t do nothing.”

My throat was stinging. It had been nearly a month since I last said something aloud.

“Mrs Kenmore?” The postie exhaled heavily. “Okay, I’m sorry. I’ll leave the package just like I said I would.”

Paper crinkled as the postie slid the package against the corner of the door.

“We’re leaving now, Mrs Kenmore.”

“Yeah, both of us,” Mrs Garol said. “Got a pedi appointment in half an hour anyway.”

I listened to the clunk of Mrs Garol’s heels on the porch as she left, followed by the shuffle of the postie. Moving to the window, I peered out in time to see Mrs Garol walk across her front lawn and into her house. The postie came into sight as well, and paused next to Mrs Garol’s mailbox. I tensed, expecting him to catch me again but instead he readjusted the strap of his satchel over his shoulder and then continued on down the street.

Running a hand through my hair, I took a deep breath. For a moment I’d been sure they were going to try and come in. The idea made me feel a little woozy and I pushed the thought away as I stepped over to the lunchbox. Lifting the plastic lid, I grabbed a pair of gloves and a facemask and slipped them on before I looked at the envelope. It was stamp-side up and had been sent from overseas. My address had been scribbled unevenly, with all the letters in ragged capitals and my heart squeezed as I recognised the handwriting. Reaching for the envelope, I pinched a corner between two fingers and turned it this way and that. On closer inspection, I could see the stamp was Spanish. Licking my lips behind my mask, I peeled the envelope open and withdrew a folded piece of paper. My fingers trembled as I unfolded the page and stared down at the short, scrawled sentences. There were only a few lines, but Peter was never much of a talker. He was in Barcelona now. He said the city looked just like that painting I liked, the one by the American. He wished I could see it, and he’d included his address so I could, if I wanted to. He’d sent me some photos. He missed me.

My shoulders sagged as the signature at the bottom of the letter blurred. Another package full of Peter’s photos. I looked at the door, blinked hard and then refolded the letter, easing it back into its envelope and taking care not to catch the corners. Standing, I walked into the kitchen and opened the bottom drawer by the fridge. I slipped the letter into the back, behind the rest of the envelopes marked with Peter’s pen. Closing the drawer, I glanced around the kitchen before I returned to the front window and checked the locks again.


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Maggie Doonan is an emerging Australian author who has recently completed a Bachelor of Fine Arts: Creative and Professional Writing.