Waldo Jeffers had reached his limit. It was now Mid-August which meant he had
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been separated from Marsha for more than two months. Two months, and all he had
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to show was three dog-eared letters and two very expensive long-distance phone
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calls. True, when school had ended and she'd returned to Wisconsin, and he to
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Locust, Pennsylvania, she had sworn to maintain a certain fidelity. She would
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date occasionally, but merely as amusement. She would remain faithful.
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But lately Waldo had begun to worry. He had trouble sleeping at night and when
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he did, he had horrible dreams. He lay awake at night, tossing and turning
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underneath his pleated quilt protector, tears welling in his eyes as he
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pictured Marsha, her sworn vows overcome by liquor and the smooth soothing of
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some neanderthal, finally submitting to the final caresses of sexual oblivion.
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It was more than the human mind could bear.
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Visions of Marsha's faithlessness haunted him. Daytime fantasies of sexual
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abandon permeated his thoughts. And the thing was, they wouldn't understand how
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she really was. He, Waldo, alone understood this. He had intuitively grasped
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every nook and cranny of her psyche. He had made her smile. She needed him, and
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he wasn't there (Awww...).
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The idea came to him on the Thursday before the Mummers' Parade was scheduled
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to appear. He'd just finished mowing and edging the Edelsons lawn for a dollar
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fifty and had checked the mailbox to see if there was at least a word from
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Marsha. There was nothing but a circular from the Amalgamated Aluminum Company
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of America inquiring into his awing needs. At least they cared enough to write.
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It was a New York company. You could go anywhere in the mails. Then it struck
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him. He didn't have enough money to go to Wisconsin in the accepted fashion,
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true, but why not mail himself? It was absurdly simple. He would ship himself
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parcel post, special delivery. The next day Waldo went to the supermarket to
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purchase the necessary equipment. He bought masking tape, a staple gun and a
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medium sized cardboard box just right for a person of his build. He judged that
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with a minimum of jostling he could ride quite comfortably. A few airholes,
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some water, perhaps some midnight snacks, and it would probably be as good as
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going tourist.
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By Friday afternoon, Waldo was set. He was thoroughly packed and the post
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office had agreed to pick him up at three o'clock. He'd marked the package
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"Fragile", and as he sat curled up inside, resting on the foam rubber
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cushioning he'd thoughtfully included, he tried to picture the look of awe and
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happiness on Marshas face as she opened her door, saw the package, tipped the
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deliverer, and then opened it to see her Waldo finally there in person. She
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would kiss him, and then maybe they could see a movie. If he'd only thought of
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this before. Suddenly rough hands gripped his package and he felt himself borne
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up. He landed with a thud in a truck and was off.
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Marsha Bronson had just finished setting her hair. It had been a very rough
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weekend. She had to remember not to drink like that. Bill had been nice about
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it though. After it was over he'd said he still respected her and, after all,
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it was certainly the way of nature, and even though, no he didn't love her, he
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did feel an affection for her. And after all, they were grown adults. Oh, what
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Bill could teach Waldo - but that seemed many years ago.
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Sheila Klein, her very, very best friend, walked in through the porch screen
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door and into the kitchen. "Oh gawd, it's absolutely maudlin outside." "Ach, I
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know what you mean, I feel all icky!" Marsha tightened the belt on her cotton
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robe with the silk outer edge. Sheila ran her finger over some salt grains on
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the kitchen table, licked her finger and made a face. "I'm supposed to be
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taking these salt pills, but," she wrinkled her nose, "they make me feel like
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throwing up." Marsha started to pat herself under the chin, an exercise she'd
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| seen on television. &quo |
