Page 12 of Possibly Texas

My focus shifted from the conductor, his reading, and the tiny tram, and I listened to the song playing throughout town. It wasn’t so loud as to distract anyone from what they had to do as they went about their day, but loud enough that you couldn’t help but notice it playing. As the minutes ticked by, the song came to an end, the last chords fading on the gentle summer breeze.

“You’ve been listening to AMOR, the most popular radio station in Possibly, Texas. All day long from 6am to 6pm,” the radio DJ announced. “That was Who Do You Love? by Bo Diddley. Next up—Who Do You Love? by Bo Diddley.”

So, this was a thing in Possibly? The radio station played a different song each day and they played it for twelve hours? Didn’t the citizens of the tiny little town get tired of that crap? Who wanted to hear the same song on repeat for twelve hours a day?

Another gunshot went off in the distance.

I only jumped a little.

Instead of waiting around to watch the conductor read or to listen to another round of Bo Diddley, I took off down Liberty Lane towards the teal clapboard building by the creek. As I mentioned, the road wasn’t long, so I made it quicker on foot than I would have had I jumped on the tram and asked for a ride. Before I knew it, I was coming up on the backside of the building, rounding the side, and approaching the front door. Brown, heavy wood, just like the door on a house, greeted me at the front of the post office.

At first, I felt odd opening the door and letting myself inside since it looked so much like a private home. However, I glanced over at the sign near the door that proclaimed this was indeed the post office, and the hours were from “6am to 6pm.” My hand found the doorknob and I pulled the door open, a blast of frigid air slapping against my skin as I stepped into the building.

AMOR’s song of the day was playing somewhere deep inside the building—towards the back up more upstairs. The front room looked like it had once been a living room, except postal lockers had been installed to the left of the door, all along one wall. A few more were across from the door, along with shelves that held mailing materials and paraphernalia.

The wall alongside the lockers and shelves across from the door seemed to be absolutely covered in papers and flyers pinned up with thumbtacks. Every piece of paper looked vaguely the same at first glance. Probably people advertising odd jobs or services. It was probably integral to have side hustles when you lived in a town like Possibly and the nearest big town was at least thirty minutes away.

To my right, I found a large wooden counter, almost like one you’d see in an old timey train station. Pens attached to chains stuck up from the counter and a round, matronly looking woman with a smile that could light up a room stood behind the desk. She wore an honest to goodness postmaster’s hat, which was perched precariously atop a bundle of black hair. The woman didn’t look quite old enough to be called “old,” but she looked older.

“Well, hello there,” she greeted me. “This is something new.”

“I’m sorry?” I asked, shaking my head to clear my thoughts.

The air was absolutely frigid in the post office. Instinctively, I wrapped my arms around myself and turned to approach the counter.

“Sorry, hon,” the woman said. “I’m going through the change of life. If I don’t keep it cold in here, I’d burn up.”

Well, that was information I didn’t need to have. But it explained a lot.

“O-oh,” I stammered, “yeah. No worries, ma’am. I just came to pick up the mail.”

“Well, I don’t recognize you.” She leaned against the counter as I approached the other side and I got a clear view of the shimmery blue powder over her eyes and the pinkish hue of her lipstick. Crow’s feet decorated the corners of her mouth and eyes. But her eyes sparkled with a friendly spirit. The nametag on her chest proclaimed her to be ‘Sofia Salazar.’ “You new to town?”

“Uh, yeah,” I said. “I mean, I’m new, but I’m picking up mail for Jack Burke? I’m Jordan Burke. His son—stepson.”

“Well, I’ll be.” The woman clapped joyfully. “You do look like him!”

“Stepson,” I repeated blandly.

“How’s Jack doin’?” the woman asked as she bent down, disappearing behind the counter.

“Are you Sofia?” I finally asked, though I had seen her nametag.

“One and the same.” Her muffled response drifted over the counter.

“Oh, okay,” I said, still hugging myself. “Uh, Jack’s fine. But I just got here yesterday. He said to tell Sofia, the postmaster, to let me have his mail. So, that’s why I’m here.”

Sofia—the postmaster—stood up from behind the counter, a couple of envelopes clenched in her hand.

“Not much today, I’m afraid,” Sofia said. “Hardly worth the trip down here—Jordan, was it?”

“Uh, yes, ma’am.” I reached out and took the envelopes from her. “It just takes a few minutes to walk from his house to here. I mean, the town isn’t…big…is it?”

Sofia slapped the counter and cackled.

I just grinned tightly, wondering if Sofia was like Wyatt and would produce a gun to start shooting up the place like a mad woman.

“A truer statement’s never been stated.” Sofia agreed. “Possibly proper—whatchu see when you cross Susurrus Creek is about what you’ll get. You gotta drive out a couple miles past Jack’s place to find most the people around here.”