It all started when Harry Riggles took the pink pills. It happened two weeks before Christmas, the heart of catalog season, Christmas card season, brown-paper-package season. He had predictably come down with a cold, as he did every year about that time, but refused to take any time off from the post office. All his family would be arriving on Christmas Eve and staying through New Year’s Day. Harry was determined to have sufficient leave banked so he could take off the entire last week of December.

December 11, a Monday, was a drizzly day, cold and soggy. Harry started that morning with a strong will but a burning throat and a pounding head. Marsha, his wife, insisted that he take one of the tiny pink pills. That had been at a little after 5 a.m. Things had gotten even worse by the time he was ready to head out the door for work, with an achy ear and a sticky-sounding cough compounding his discomfort. Marsha gave him a second pink pill as he was pulling on his coat, and suggested strongly that he call in sick. He did not resist the second pill, despite knowing that the pink ones always made him loopy. He needed something to help him get through the day. He was almost sure the pink pills were not that something, but they were the only thing available on that morning. He did not resist the pills, but he refused to call in sick.

Later, after a morning of sorting mail in a pink haze, Harry parked the mail jeep and stepped out into the cold mist. He let out a heavy sigh as he lifted the mailbag to his shoulder and started up the hill to begin his route. The mailbag seemed made of lead, and so did his feet. Only the thought of the approaching holiday time off helped him move forward.

Harry reached the first mailbox on Aspen Lane and shoved a thick stack of paper into it. Six Christmas cards, five catalogs, the usual bulk items advertising all manner of junk. The damp chill worked its way deeper in his bones, but he felt somehow detached, not caring much. His feet seemed to be moving an inch off the ground. It was not entirely unpleasant, and he began to think of a warm evening in front of the fireplace, a Christmas tree and some hot cocoa, grandchildren playing on the floor.

Gina Stone was pouring herself a cup of coffee when she heard the barking. With a glance at the clock on the microwave oven she knew it was the mail coming. She tilted the blinds in the front window just enough to see out to the street, and spotted the man in the blue uniform trudging up the sidewalk toward her house.

She watched through slitted eyes as he struggled to squeeze her mail into the box then moved on listlessly. Gina always waited until the man was far down the street to retrieve her mail. She was mostly content to avoid contact with the mail carrier, the grocers, the neighbors. It had not always been so, but widowhood had not agreed with her, and she still was at a loss for how to behave in the world. She had no children, and had quietly withdrawn from most of the friends she’d had while her husband was alive. Life was quiet.

❧

Harry Riggles reached the cul-de-sac at the end of Aspen Lane and realized he couldn’t remember having completed the eighteen mailboxes along the way. His bag was definitely lighter, so he must have made deliveries, but he simply had no clear memory of it. There he was with a noticeably lighter mailbag, facing the return walk along the other side of the street. So he went on.

Now, moving to the next mailbox, his hands felt strangely warm inside his gloves, which were not thick enough to keep them warm, but allowed him to handle the cards and letters adequately. The gloves started to feel tight, as though his hands were swelling. He mused on this as he trudged on, sensing that something was wrong but knowing neither the nature of it nor the magnitude. Harry, he said to himself, you are not well. And, also, furthermore, you should not have taken that pink pill.

He laughed at that, though it was not particularly funny. Then, wondering if he had actually laughed out loud, he looked around furtively to see if anyone was nearby and listening. Satisfied that he was unobserved, he shoved a stack of paper into a metal box that was, weirdly, on a post sticking out of the ground next to the sidewalk. He kept moving, until he saw his mail jeep parked at the end of the block. The sight of the cute little boxy vehicle gave him cheer. He climbed inside, started the engine, and sat, staring ahead into the icy mist.

That was Aspen Lane done. But there was still Sycamore Way, and Poplar Place, and Juniper Lane and the others. He sat as the jeep slowly warmed, trying to focus his attention on what he needed to do, which completely escaped him for several minutes. As some warmth returned to his arms and legs, he remembered that he was saving his vacation time for the holiday week. That reminded him of the post office, and finally the train of his thoughts arrived at the need to drive his little jeep over to Sycamore Way, to deliver more . . . things . . . to more mailboxes. A mailbox in front of each house, more or less. He put the jeep in drive and puttered slowly the one block to where he would begin his deliveries on the next street.

Harry Riggles’ afternoon ground along in that way, street after street, more slowly than usual as he walked through a growing fog of detachment, returning periodically to his jeep to warm himself just a bit and reload his mailbag. It was growing dark as he turned to make the return walk on Oak Grove Street, the last street of the day. When finally he reached the jeep and climbed in with all deliveries made, it was full dark and had grown bitterly cold. Harry’s head, at that point, felt roughly the size of a basketball and seemed to be buzzing. Thinking that it was too cold for bees, he turned the heater up to maximum and took several deep breaths to clear his mind enough to point the little vehicle back to the post office barn.

Finally, when all the little day’s-end chores were done and he was ready to head for home, it occurred to him that he would have to do all of this over again tomorrow. That thought filled him with despair. He knew that unless a minor miracle occurred, he would be in no shape to get out of bed tomorrow, much less to trek several miles delivering Christmas.

Harry flagged down Stu Halperin, his supervisor, who was on his way out the door.

“Stu. I’ve, uh. I’ve got a thing. In my head. What I mean is I can hear bees. Also, I think my hands are inflated more than they should be. So, there’s a chance I might be a few minutes late tomorrow.” With that he coughed several times and abruptly sat down on the floor.

Stu said “I’m driving you home.”

❧

Once dark had fallen, Gina Stone made the short trip up her front walk to retrieve the day’s mail. It was a large stack, larger than usual. She set aside the catalogs to check the Christmas cards. Looking first at the return addresses to see who they were from, she paused. There was one from her sister Tina, one from her dentist, one from her cousin Fred the bachelor banker. Four others bore names she did not recognize, and she realized with an exasperated sigh that they were not addressed to her. The addressees did not have names similar to hers, nor were their addresses such that they could be easily mistaken for hers. She remembered once receiving a letter intended for a man with the same house number but on Aspen Ridge Drive instead of Aspen Lane. This did not appear to be that kind of mistake. These cards were clearly intended for addresses in the neighborhood, but there was no apparent rhyme or reason for them having arrived at Gina’s address.

What goes on at that post office? she wondered. She set the four errant cards aside and took up the catalogs, a favorite pastime of her evening hours. Here she was given reason to pause again, for three of the catalogs were clearly not her typical fare. She did occasionally get some unusual catalogs addressed to her—once there had been one pitching risqué undergarments, and another a collection of leather-bound Russian novels and novelty paperweights. But these, like the Christmas cards, were addressed to others in the neighborhood—a catalog of very expensive wood-working tools (addressed to a Mr. A. Byrne); a thick glossy catalog of movie memorabilia (to Miss Rose Turner); and a pulpy catalog of Bibles, Bible supplies, Bible-related home decor items, and religious-themed t-shirts (to Mrs. Atticus McNutt).

Gina would have a word with that mailman tomorrow, she decided. It was uncomfortable having other persons’ mail in her house. She put a rubber band around the offending items and put them on the entry-way table near the front door.

The next morning, another cold and dreary one, the widow Stone lingered in her kitchen. She watched and listened, sure that the sound of barking dogs would alert her of the mail’s approach. When she finally heard the doggie alert, she slipped on her down parka, grabbed the mistaken mail, and headed out toward the mail box.

To her surprise, the blue-uniformed man making his way up the sidewalk was not the postal worker she was familiar with. This was a shorter and much rounder man, with a much redder face. He mumbled to himself as he came, flipping through the stack of envelopes in his red ungloved hands.

She quickly slid her hand with the packet of mail inside her parka, out of sight.

“You’re not my mailman,” she said.

“No ma’am, I’m not, not exactly. Sorry to disappoint. I’m Stuart Halperin. I’m his supervisor, actually, filling in. He’s far under the weather, I’m afraid. You may be seeing me for the next few days.”

Gina narrowed her eyes at the man. “I see. Well, I had hoped to have a quick word with him, but I suppose it’ll have to wait.”

“Is there anything I can do for you, ma’am?”

She considered it. She could let the man’s supervisor know how incompetent he was, delivering private mail to the wrong parties. Or she could wait and have a few chosen words with the man himself, when he was back in the weather rather than under it.
“No, thank you. Nothing important, really. It can certainly wait until Mr. . . .” she paused, as if having momentarily forgotten the name that she did not actually know.

“Riggles. Harry.”

“Of course, Harry Riggles. It can wait until Mr Riggles is feeling better. Thank you, though.”

Stu handed her a bundle of envelopes and moved on, saying “Have a good day, ma’am. Happy Holidays!”

Gina Stone took both bundles of mail and retreated out of the cold into her warm kitchen. She noted that Harry Riggles’ supervisor, at least, knew his business and had delivered the correct mail to her with no extras.

❧

Stu Halperin continued Harry Riggles’ route that morning, encountering several of the residents as he went. They each seemed to want a moment with their regular mail carrier, but when he explained that he was covering for the sick man, they withdrew, none of them indicating anything amiss or hinting at what they wanted to discuss. He completed the route and headed back to the post office to do his regular duties for the day.

❧

Later in the day, Gina decided to just deal with the situation. She had peoples’ mail, and wanted to be shed of it. The proper thing would have been to hand it to the supervisor so the post office could handle it. But, she knew, the post office could proceed at a glacial pace, and would probably foul up the situation even further, despite the apparent competence of supervisor Halperin. People might not get their mail before Christmas if she took that approach. No, she would quickly and quietly put things right by making the rounds herself. She could make quick drops in a half dozen mailboxes and be done. Also, she thought, a walk in the fresh air would do her good. She bundled into her parka, wool cap, and gloves, and set out with the little bundle.

Her first stop was in the next block north on her own street, a red envelope for Mrs. James Cole. Gina popped the card into the mailbox and was on her way. Next was Mr. A. Byrne, a woodworking catalog. This was on Poplar Place, two streets west and a block south, a large two-story house with a wrap-around porch and gingerbread railings. Again, she quickly shoved the catalog into the mailbox and moved on.

Half a block farther south on Poplar Place was the address of Ms. Serenity Laws, who would receive a Christmas card in a white envelope with peppermint stripes around the edges. The name reminded Gina of another Serenity she had known back in the mists of her past. She and Serenity Piper had been quite good friends in college, and had actually shared an apartment for two semesters. But after college, they had drifted apart quickly, had completely lost touch. What became of Serenity, she wondered. Serenity was a bit of an unusual name, and this Serenity Laws was only the second one Gina had ever encountered. Surely, she thought, this person could not be the same one she had known all those years ago. That had been far away, long ago, and of course there were other women named Serenity in the world, in the state, even in this town. Gina had merely never met another. But the odds of Serenity Piper, even with a changed surname, living a mere few blocks from her old college roommate by mere chance seemed very slim indeed. Still.

Pausing at the mailbox, she decided on a whim to find out. She walked up the path to the door of the smallish brick home and rang the bell, the peppermint card in her hand. Having waited a few beats, she rang again. No answer, and no sound from within. Slightly disappointed, she returned to the mailbox and placed the card inside. She was suddenly swept with an irrational need to know if this were the Serenity from her past. She searched her pockets for a pen and, finding one, took the peppermint envelope out of the mailbox. It felt mildly wrong to write on someone else’s mail, but she was determined. She jotted a short note on the envelope, signed it from Gina (Whipple) Stone, returned it to the mailbox, and moved on to the next house.

Mrs. Atticus McNutt lived in the cul-de-sac at the south end of Juniper Lane, in a boxy stucco house landscaped primarily with juniper bushes. Gina opened the mailbox in front, and was about to insert the catalog of religious miscellanea when the front door opened. She paused as a short, round woman emerged. Gina had a brief, ridiculous thought of turning and running away, but fortunately remembered that she was a grown woman, and stood her ground as Mrs. McNutt (presumably) approached.

The woman squinted through thick glasses, tucked a tuft of red hair behind her ear, and cleared her throat in a meaningful way.

“Are you Mrs. McNutt?” said Gina.

“I,” said the woman.

Puzzled for a second by this curious statement, Gina then realized that the woman had said not “I” but “Aye.”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t want to disturb you, Mrs. McNutt. I’m Gina Stone, from over on Aspen Lane. I’m afraid the mail carrier bungled things a bit yesterday and left something of yours at my house. As well as some others. So I’m just making the rounds putting things in their proper places.” She held out the catalog.

“Oh, aye. Thanks. But wait right here.” Mrs. McNutt took the catalog and bustled off toward the front door, calling over her shoulder, “I’ll be right back!” She had no more than disappeared into the doorway when she emerged again with something in her plump red hand. The something turned out to be envelopes.

“Since you’re here, might as well take these with you. And please, call me Lorna.”

Gina took the two red envelopes, to find that they were Christmas cards addressed to her, clearly delivered to the McNutt residence by mistake. “They came yesterday. I wasn’t for giving them back to the postman lest they never would make it to you. But I hadn’t made it out of the house yet. Thanks for bringing my wee bit by.”

“You’re very welcome, Lorna. It certainly makes me wonder how much mis-delivered mail is out there.”

“Aye, it does that. The poor man was sick as a dog, no mistake. I could see that when he tottered by yesterday.”

“Forgive my asking, but are you Scottish?” said Gina.

“Aye, yes. That is to say, no. I’m an American, now. Gina, won’t you come inside? I’ve got the kettle on, and I have an idea about all this Christmas mail. We can discuss it inside.”

Gina, was reluctant, but agreed. The pungent scent of juniper in the front lawn was replaced, inside the cozy home, by mingled aromas of cinnamon, cloves, and vanilla. Lorna McNutt had been baking. A tea kettle whistled vigorously from the kitchen.
“You need some tea and a cookie, after walking about the neighborhood in that cold air,” said Lorna. “The cookies are fresh, and the tea is about to be.”

They sat in the warm kitchen nibbling cookies and sipping tea, chatting amiably. Like Gina, Lorna McNutt was a widow, having lost her husband Atticus less than a year before. The McNutts had moved from Scotland and lived in America for a number of years, and Lorna had become a citizen on July 4th of that year. Atticus had not lived long enough to complete the citizenship process.

“I miss my dear one very much, I do. But life goes on, don’t you think?” said Lorna.

Gina hesitated, sipped her tea. “Yes, it does. But I’m afraid I’ve let it go on without me for the last five years. I was married for over forty years, and when Peter died I just couldn’t figure out how to be . . . well, how to be. I’ve kept to myself for the most part. But the truth is that I’m not very comfortable with myself.”

“I know, I know.” Lorna looked Gina in the eye and said “I have a wee plan.”

Not being a planner herself, Gina was immediately on guard. Lorna, sensing caution, said “No, not about you, really. We can work on that later. What I mean is, we need to straighten out this mail situation. Without putting poor Mr. Riggles in a bog with his supervisor. A black mark on your record can follow you like a hell-hound at a place like the post office. Truly, he’s a dear man who just carried on working when he should have taken a day or two off. Your heart is obviously in the right place about it, or you wouldn’t be trudging out on a day like this.”

Gina Stone felt a twinge over her impulse earlier in the day to read the riot act to poor Mr. Riggles. She was still a bit miffed over the inconvenience of the errant mail, but perhaps some slack was due. “What do you have in mind?”

“We need a party! That should do it.”

“Sorry?”

“Just a bit of a do, here at my house. Tomorrow night. We’ll bang out some flyers and make sure they cover the whole of Mr. Riggles’ route. Something like ‘Feast of Misfit Mail,’ you know. We’ll offer Christmasy refreshments and a door prize. Folks will come, we’ll have a grand little meet-up, and everyone can exchange their incorrect mail. Mr. Riggles will be bailed out, the post office none the wiser, and maybe we’ll all make a new friend or two in the process. This neighborhood is far too quiet and shut-away behind closed doors. At worst, we’ll have some lovely treats on a cold night.”

Gina, despite her skeptical nature, could find no serious flaw in this plan, other than the strong possibility that few or none of the neighbors would actually show up. She was caught up in Lorna’s enthusiasm, and was surprised to hear herself say “Let’s do it!”

So, with just a few minutes effort on the computer in Lorna’s combined home office and knitting hive, they had a flyer ready to go:

FEAST OF THE MISFIT MAIL!!
Bring any mis-delivered mail you wish to put right,
Receive what you may have missed!
Seasonal refreshments served! (bring your own to share if you wish)
This Wednesday night, 7:00 pm
505 Juniper Lane
DOOR PRIZE!!!!
(Plus, sign a get-well card for Mail Carrier Harry Riggles.)

Gina looked it over, satisfied that it included sufficient information. “I think that will work. Of course, we can’t expect everyone to come, but it’s worth a shot.”

“Aye, and you may be surprised who comes. If no one does come, though, you and I can have another nice chat and eat ourselves silly!”

“The door prize may help. Do you have something in mind? Maybe a fancy cake or a bottle of wine?”

“Ach, not to worry, dear, I’ll make a grand haggis!”

“Oh! Well, let’s just leave the door prize unspecified. You know, a bit of mystery. And speaking of mysteries, do we know which streets and which blocks are included in Mr. Riggles’ route?”

“Mmm, I had a chat with the supervisor who was filling in. Just casual like, pretending to be interested in how the mail works. Got all the details. It’s very straightforward, but it’s also a fair slug of houses. We’ll need to hustle.”

They printed off one hundred of the flyers on green paper, and the two set out, having divided the route between them. The flyers went in mailboxes and mail slots and were handed in person to as many neighbors as possible. Then each woman went home to begin baking.

❧

Harry Riggles, meanwhile, had been burning up all day. Marsha had been pumping him full of liquids and pulling quilts back over him every time he threw them off. As evening came he was still feverish, but his mind had cleared enough for him to realize that he had almost certainly messed up on his route the day before. He had only a foggy memory of making his rounds, and a disquiet started growing within him, a dread that he had delivered what amounted to a random distribution of mail. If so, there would be no hiding it. Mail would flood into the post office marked as mis-delivered. He groaned as he realized his foul-up would be hanging around his neck like a smelly albatross during his annual performance review, which was coming up next week. Harry groaned again, pulled the pile of quilts up over his head, and burrowed deeper into his pillow.

❧

Gina had been hard at work in her kitchen all morning and into the early afternoon on Wednesday. Four dozen cookies, two pumpkin-cranberry loaves, and a pear tart were cooling and awaiting placement on festive holiday platters when she looked out the window. Coming up the sidewalk toward her mailbox was Stuart Halperin, loaded again with holiday deliveries in place of Mr. Riggles.
She gave what she hoped was a friendly wave through the kitchen window, and he nodded in return. It now occurred to her that the supervisor would no doubt notice the green flyers in many of the neighborhood mailboxes. They were folded, of course, and not readable without opening them up, but Gina wondered uneasily just how curious he would be. Probably, she thought, there were regulations about prohibiting a postal worker looking at items in mailboxes, but she was not sure. If he did look, though, he would know how badly Harry Riggles had messed up. But, powerless to do anything about it at this point, Gina Stone sighed and returned to her preparations for the Misfit Mail Feast.

❧

Wednesday evening at Lorna McNutt’s house, the two women were finishing their preparations when the doorbell rang. They had amassed an impressive array of baked goods and other treats, rearranged the furniture to allow maximum occupancy, and prepared for the door prize drawing. All the while they had chatted together, sharing stories of the difficulty of widowhood along with happy memories of their long marriages. They were quickly becoming good friends, Lorna’s earnest exuberance complementing Gina’s reserved but opinionated nature.

Guests started arriving a few minutes after seven o’clock. Just before seven, Lorna had placed a large Christmas card on a side table, having started it off with her own wishes for Harry Riggles’ speedy recovery and happy holidays. Next to the card she had placed a carved wooden bowl containing five one-dollar bills. Seed money.

As guests arrived, they were instructed to write their names on slips of paper to be placed in a fishbowl for the door prize drawing. Just as Lorna had predicted, Gina was surprised at the number of neighbors now squeezing into the living room, den, kitchen, and hallway of Lorna’s home.

As the house filled, the two new friends worked their way around the rooms, distributing stick-on name tags so that neighbors could identify one another and more easily exchange their misfit mail. From the level of chatter in the house, it seemed that the mail exchange was rapidly becoming a social event in its own right. It was a lively gathering, with some old acquaintances being renewed and new ones being formed. Gina was marveling at the level of interaction among those gathered, taking a moment to catch her breath, when the doorbell rang yet again.

She opened the door with a smile, ready to welcome another stranger to the feast. Instead of a stranger, there on the doorstep was her college roommate and friend from all those years ago.

“Serenity?” said Gina, not ready to believe her eyes. This woman looked for all the world like Serenity Piper, but just as she had looked when she and Gina had shared that tiny apartment over four decades ago. She looked to be in her mid-twenties, no more than thirty.

“Yes! But . . . oh, you must be Gina Stone. I got your note. I’m Serenity Laws. I believe you knew my mother.”
A mixture of disappointment and excitement flooded Gina as she realized that this was her old friend’s daughter. Young, beautiful, just as her roommate had been. “Oh my, you look so much like her!” Gina took Serenity’s hand and led her into the kitchen, where it was slightly quieter.
“So you’re named after your mother! Tell me, how is she? Where is she?”

“Oh, you don’t know. Mom died when I was born. That’s why I have her name.” There was only a trace of sadness in her eyes. “I never knew her, obviously, so you have an advantage over me. I’d like to hear about her. I mean, I have heard, from family, but never from anyone who knew her as a friend.”

Gina’s eyes teared as she said “Oh, bless your heart. Well, I lost track so long ago, but I do remember her. She was wonderful.” She wiped her eyes. “It’s too noisy here, but maybe we could get together. Would you like to come to my house? It’s in the neighborhood.” They agreed to meet for lunch at Gina’s house the next day.

The dull roar of conversation about them was interrupted at that moment by a loud Scottish whirlwind, which said “Hello everyone, and let me welcome you to my home on behalf of myself and Mrs. Stone, who’s just there in the kitchen.” Gina waved discreetly as smiling faces turned her way.

“Now, we’re having a bonny time here, and thank you all for coming. But we want to be sure and deal with the business at hand. Some of you may not know just what has transpired to lead us to this moment. Sure you know that the mail got a bit kitty-wumpus on Monday, but you should be aware that it was on account of poor Mr. Harry Riggles, our faithful postman, being dreadfully ill. Sick as a dog he was, but still carried on and delivered all the mail before he succumbed. Of course, not everything went strictly to the place it was meant to be, but poor Mr. Riggles was only doing his best, and we should congratulate him for that. I heard how sick he was straight from the postal supervisor, who has been filling in the last two days.”

All eyes were on Lorna as she drew a mighty breath and carried on. “Now, all this is just to say that we wish Mr. Riggles all the best, and hope that the little confusion that has happened with the mail won’t reflect poorly on him at the post office. So. We’ve arranged this wee get-together to save everyone the bother of returning the misfit mail, as we’re calling it, to the post office. And in the process we hope no harm will come of it for Mr. Riggles. So please mingle among yourselves and see that all the wee post items are in the proper hands. And before you leave, please leave a note for the poor man, there’s a card just there on the table. If you’re so inclined, there’s a bowl there to hold any alms you care to send his way as well, to make his Christmas a bit merrier. Now, please eat up, drink up, and we’ll be drawing for the lovely door prize shortly.”

The conversational roar resumed as people made their way over to sign the card for Harry Riggles. The neighborhood, of one accord, was coming together to do something kind for a man they barely knew, if at all. Everyone there felt a warm glow, and felt the rightness of it. As Lorna was catching her breath, a short round man in a reindeer sweater approached her, a cookie in one hand and a short stack of Christmas cards in the other.

“Oh, hello, Mr. Halperin. Dear me. Gina! Could you pop over here for a moment?”

“It’s a lovely party, Mrs. McNutt. Thank you very much for doing this,” said Stuart.

Gina drew close to Lorna and the postal supervisor with a defiant look on her face. Lorna’s face projected worried guilt, not defiance. Gina said quietly “How did you know, Mr. Halperin? My guess is you read one of the flyers.”

“Yes, that’s right,” said Halperin.

“I see. Tell me, is it the usual practice for postal supervisors to read items left in people’s mailboxes?

Halperin smiled and shook his head. “No, it is not. In fact, postal regulations expressly forbid that. But I am allowed to read items placed in my own mailbox.”

“Of course, but how does that pertain in this case? Look, we’ve done nothing wrong here. We’ve only tried to help a friend who was trying to do his duty.”

Halperin continued to smile. “Mrs. Stone, please don’t misunderstand. I did read your flyer, but it was perfectly honest. I live over on Sycamore. Harry Riggles is my mailman, too.” Then, shuffling through the stack of envelopes in his hand, he said “Mrs. McNutt, I believe this Christmas card is for you.” He handed Lorna an envelope and shuffled off through the milling crowd.

❧

“Alright now, it’s time to award the lovely door prize! Has everyone placed their name in the wee fishbowl? Yes? In that case, Mrs. Stone, will you do the honors and draw the one lucky name from the lot? Now, the winner is to receive a special treat, made by my own two hands and using a very auld family recipe. A haggis like this is not something ye can just go oot and buy in America.”

At this, the crowd became noticeably quiet. There may have been a few low moans. Gina had stepped up, ready to draw the winner’s name. Before she did, she said “And, in addition to that lovely prize from Mrs. McNutt’s generosity, the winner will also receive a bottle of twenty-year-old single-malt Scotch whisky.” This was greeted by more than a few cheers and a smattering of applause.

She reached in the fishbowl and grasped a slip of paper. “The winner is . . . Mr. Stuart Halperin! Congratulations to Mr. Halperin, and thank you all for participating!”Gina grinned at Lorna and shrugged, indicating that it was mere luck that she had drawn Halperin’s name.

There were equal amounts of disappointment at not winning the whisky and jubilation at not winning the haggis. But all in all, the Misfit Mail Feast was a roaring success. Gina and Lorna could not be sure that no errant mail would make its way to the post office to be re-delivered, but they had made their best effort. And, it seemed, Harry Riggles’ supervisor was inclined to tread lightly on the whole episode. After all, who could not be swayed by a lovely haggis and a bottle of whisky?

❧

Stuart Halperin delivered the mail for the neighborhood through the end of that week. He was the recipient of numerous friendly waves and greetings as he went, and he was heard whistling Christmas tunes up and down the streets.

The following Monday, Harry Riggles was back on the job, determined to be one hundred percent correct in his deliveries. Strangely, he had not heard of any mis-delivered mail. Supervisor Halperin had led him to believe that the entire week had gone smoothly in his absence, with nothing amiss. Stu was pleased to have him back at work, and it felt to Harry that his annual review might actually be a positive one. Maybe it was a bit of Christmas magic. He became convinced of this when Stu took him aside as he was about to head out on his route. “Harry, just so you know, I took care of your time for last week.”

“Right, so I’m down four days of annual leave. I know I’d put in for the whole week off between Christmas and the first. Just plug me in wherever you need me for that week. Not a problem.” It was killing Harry’s soul to say those words.

Stuart was shaking his head. “No, Harry, I said I took care of it. Take the week off, enjoy your family. You’ve still got those four days of leave. We’re square. Only, don’t say anything about it around here. If you say anything, I’ll deny any knowledge. And don’t ask me how I did it. Merry Christmas, Harry.”

That afternoon, Harry was nearing the end of his route on Juniper Lane. At the end of the cul-de-sac, he spotted Mrs. McNutt and Mrs. Stone standing on the front step. As he approached the mailbox, they called to him and waved him over.

“Please, Mr. Riggles, could you come inside for just a moment?” said Lorna McNutt.

Apprehensively, he followed them inside and was overwhelmed by the aroma of cinnamon and vanilla.

“Mr. Riggles, we heard that you were very much under the weather last week, and we’re glad you’re better. Well, anyway, we had a wee party here, and everyone was very concerned for you. In the end, a few folks signed a sort of get-well Christmas card for you. Here you are.” She handed him a large white envelope decorated with red and green snowflakes. It felt quite thick, which made him think it was one of those annoying audio cards that plays a song every time you open it.

“Now, this is important, Mr. Riggles. We know, or at least we think we know, that postal workers aren’t supposed to accept gifts in their official capacity. But, well, think of this as just a wee gift to an ordinary person from a number of good friends. Look, we haven’t really been friends up to now. But we’d like to be. We’d like to be a friendly neighborhood. And you’re part of it. So, Merry Christmas!”

“I don’t know what to say. Thank you. Thank you very much.” It had been more common, years ago, for people to give small gifts or little treats to the mailman, the teacher, the policeman. Harry had not received anything in at least fifteen years. He wished the two women a Merry Christmas and walked away, slightly taken aback. He had turned and was making his way the other direction up the street when curiosity got the better of him. He stopped between houses and opened the snowflake envelope. It was a large card, but it did not play a song, to his relief. Inside, there were many hand-written messages, wishing him a speedy recovery, wishing him a very merry Christmas. There appeared to be at least fifty short messages and signatures. And also inside was a smaller envelope, which he found contained a substantial amount of cash—tens and twenties, singles, fives. With a lump in his throat, he turned back in the direction of Mrs. McNutt’s house. Just then, Lorna McNutt came out her front door and started trundling in his direction. She had a plastic grocery bag in her hand, which clearly contained something round and heavy.

As she approached, he started to protest the gift of cash. Lorna flapped her pudgy hand at him and said “Never mind that. It’s done. Just don’t tell Mr. Halperin. Or the tax man.”

She hefted the grocery bag, and said “I almost forgot this, which is just from me alone. It’s a bonny wee haggis!”

❧

So Harry Riggles recovered fully and still got to spend a full week with Marsha and his children and grandchildren. There were long evenings by the fireside, talking while the youngest ones played on the floor. There were rather more gifts for the young ones than usual, thanks to the wee giftie. One or two adventurous ones even tried a taste of haggis.

Gina Stone and Lorna McNutt had become fast friends, and would remain so for many years. That Christmas, the two spent the holiday week baking, knitting, and comparing fondly their respective married years. They delivered baked goods to the elderly in the neighborhood who were house-bound. They may have made a few plans for future neighborhood get-togethers.

Gina and Piper Laws met for lunch the day after the Misfit Mail Feast, and spent an hour getting to know one another. Piper was a lovely young woman who was beyond thrilled to know someone from her mother’s earlier life. Eventually, she found in Gina something like a mother, and Gina, childless and widowed, found something like a daughter. Life, for Gina, had opened up again, and there was a future.

Stuart Halperin mostly worked that week between Christmas and New Year’ Day. He had never been a drinker, and never really became one. That year, though, he developed a fondness for fine Scotch whisky, one very small glass at a time. But the haggis? He never spoke of it.

The neighborhood, that year, of Aspen and Poplar and Sycamore and all the other tree-named streets, seemed somehow warmer despite the cold winter. There were more people out on the sidewalks, taking in the air. Neighbors said hello, and children played in the cul-de-sacs more often. A few more houses had Christmas lights on display, and up and down the streets, before and after Christmas, life seemed just a wee bit better.

And starting on the second day of January, Harry Riggles carried on.

❧

December 2017

This story is available as part of my recently published collection of Christmas stories, Following Yonder Star, available at Amazon, Kobo, and Apple Books.