Before I Forget by Tory Henwood Hoen - 13

A few days later, I wake to find my father already up and at his writing desk, which is strewn with papers and abandoned drafts. His handwriting, once neat and artful, is now large and wobbly.

“What are you working on, Dad?”

“Some correspondence,” he says. He seems to have forgotten all about email and smartphones. In his new mind, the telephone (a landline, naturally) and the post office are his only portals to the outside world. He sometimes becomes preoccupied with “staying in touch,” but it’s unclear with whom. He occasionally mentions specific people—a man named Rip Chastain, an acquaintance named Beverly Hauser—but I have no idea who they are, if they’re still alive, or if they ever existed. I peer over his shoulder and see that he has started a few letters.

Dear Gillian, Are you still …

Dear Antoine, How are you? I think …

Dear Leonard, Has it really been …

He hasn’t gotten very far on any of them, and when I inquire about their recipients, he isn’t quite clear on who they are.

“I really need to get to the post office today,” he says with some urgency. We were there just two days ago, but I have no reason not to indulge him. I suggest we write to Nina.

“Nina?”

“Your daughter. The one who used to live here with you.”

“Right. Yes. Where has she gone?”

“To Stockholm.” The truth no longer upsets him, which I hope means he has grown comfortable with me as his main “person.”

“Stockholm! Good for her.”

We make some coffee and English muffins and then install ourselves on the porch. There’s a slight wind, and the water is rippling westward as if it has somewhere to be, unlike us. We rarely have anywhere to be, other than where we are. I’m not sure if that’s sad or ideal.

I grab a pen and begin to craft our own clumsy version of Mad Libs. I provide the narrative arc of the letter, prompting my father to fill in the descriptive details as we go.

Dear Nina,

We’re here on the porch, and we couldn’t be happier . The sun is still there, where it usually is . The woods are fresh and fitful . We miss you very much and we hope you miss us too . Did we tell you about the loons? We think they are a handsome couple . They seem to have the world on a string , and they sing like Maria Callas . Their young loonlet is finding her way in the world . The most exciting thing that happened this summer was that tomato. You know the one . All is well here. We are looking forward to going to the post office . And we hope to have a visit from our friend Seth .

This last fill-in-the-blank stops me in my tracks. “Did you mean Carl?”

“No,” my father says matter-of-factly. “Seth.”

I choose to omit this part, and I quickly sign and seal the letter. It was a slip of the tongue, I tell myself. We finish breakfast, dress for the day, and make our way out to the car.

After we reckon with my father’s seat belt, he relaxes and says, “So, where to?”

“To the post office, Dad. It was your idea!”

“Ah, yes. Right you are.” He is skilled at pretending to remember something once reminded.

When we arrive, Warren the postmaster is jamming a few odd envelopes into overstuffed P.O. boxes whose owners haven’t come by in months, or maybe years. He moves at a slow pace and seems overwhelmed by even the small amount of mail that comes and goes under his watch.

“The Campbells two times in one week?” He grins when he sees us, surprised that we are breaking our usual cadence. “What a nice surprise.”

“We decided to get a little crazy, mix things up,” I say.

“Arthur, come have a look at these yellow warblers.” Warren motions for my father to peruse the new limited-edition stamps that have just come in. They marvel together as I check our mailbox. I fish out a promotional flyer from AARP, a credit-card offer (my father has been preapproved), and a Sharper Image catalogue.

“Nothing too momentous in there,” Warren calls to me. I choose not to let it bother me that he has so thoroughly analyzed the scant contents of our box. But I am a little disappointed that there’s nothing of importance, because I thought my father’s interest in coming to the post office might have been another premonition. I’m looking everywhere now, but maybe Nina is right: I’m getting carried away.

I join my dad at the counter, where we purchase the warbler stamps and post our letter to Stockholm. (“Is that where she’s living now?” my father asks me, amazed.) But as we turn to leave, the door swings open and an elegant older woman blows in like a gale. She has long steel-colored hair with a white streak in the front, and she wears a black full-length bodysuit under a sheer cheetah-print caftan. Not the typical deep-woods wardrobe. As she whisks past us with purpose, I recognize her as Paula Garibaldi, the flamboyant dance teacher of my youth.

“Warren, my love!” Her raspy voice conveys confidence as she plops a heavy pile of flyers on the counter. “Be a darling and get these distributed today? My enrollment is untenably low.”

I glance at the top flyer, which advertises: MISS PAULA’S DANCE BARN: TAP, JAZZ, BALLET, HIP-HOP. ALL AGES, ALL GENDERS, ALL SKILL LEVELS—THE MORE, THE MERRIER.

“Paula.” Warren sighs. “How many times … I can’t just put them in the mailboxes. It’s illegal. The USPS isn’t a charity. You have to pay for postage.”

“Cut the crap, Warren,” she says. “I don’t need the government’s blessing to teach tap dance.”

“This is the last time,” says Warren as he picks up the flyers. I have a feeling he has said that many times before and will likely end up saying it again.

“You’re a doll,” says Paula, before finally noticing her rapt audience. “Arthur Campbell? Is that you, dear? It’s Paula…” She presses her manicured fingers to her chest.

“Paula!” My dad conveys his usual enthusiasm, but I can tell he doesn’t know who she is.

Paula looks at me and a smile comes over her face. “Cricket Campbell…”

I feel exposed, but also warmed by the fact that she recognizes me.

“Where have you been hiding? It’s been years and years. Look at you! Finally back for a visit.”

“More than a visit. I moved here in May,” I admit.

“May? You’ve been hiding for two months? We need to get you out of the house. I always hope Arthur will come see me, but he never does, the cad,” says Paula, with a hint of flirtation.

“We’re working with some memory issues, so he may have forgotten,” I explain.

“I understand. So, Cricket, you’re here for good?”

“For a year, at least. We’ll see how it goes.”

“You’re a saint. My daughter would rather see me eaten by wolves than become my caregiver.”

Suddenly I feel bold. “Paula, you don’t by chance need administrative help, do you? I’m looking for work. I could assist with things like email marketing, social media, your website…”

Paula laughs. “I would love help with my website—if I had one! I’m not really an internet person.” She points to the flyers. “This is as far as I’ve ever gotten with marketing.”

“Well, I don’t want to mess with a good thing,” I say. “It’s just a thought.”

Paula looks at my legs. “Are you still dancing?”

I can’t help but laugh at this question. I hung up my jazz shoes long ago.

“Well, you should be. I teach a class for adults now. Tuesday nights at seven in the barn. You’ll love it. Come next week—we can talk business afterward.”

Her forcefulness could be viewed as abrasive, but I am reassured by it. I’m still getting used to my newfound authority—I have become my parent’s parent—and sometimes, I miss being told what to do. Paula pecks my father on the cheek and then grabs my forearm as she fixes her dark eyes on me. “I’ll see you Tuesday, Cricket.”

She floats out the door before I can respond.

“Quite a minx,” my father says.

We turn to see Warren beginning to distribute the flyers Paula has left. He shakes his head in amused exasperation. “Hell on wheels, that one.”