Waldo Jeffers had reached his limit.
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It was now mid-August which meant that he had been separated from Marsha for more than two months.
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Two months, and all he had to show were three dog-eared letters and two very expensive long-distance phone calls.
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True, when school had ended and she'd returned to Wisconsin and he to Locust, Pennsylvania she had sworn to maintain a certain fidelity.
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She would date occasionally, but merely as amusement.
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She would remain faithful. But lately Waldo had begun to worry.
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He had trouble sleeping at night and when he did, he had horrible dreams.
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He lay awake at night, tossing and turning underneath his printed quilt protector, tears welling in his eyes,
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As he pictured Marsha, her sworn vows overcome by liquor and the smooth soothings of some Neanderthal,
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Finally submitting to the final caresses of sexual oblivion. It was more than the human mind could bear.
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Visions of Marsha's faithlessness haunted him.
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Daytime fantasies of sexual abandon permeated his thoughts.
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And the thing was, they wouldn't understand who she really was.
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He, Waldo, alone, understood this.
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He had intuitively grasped every nook and cranny of her psyche.
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He had made her smile, and she needed him, and he wasn't there. (Awww.)
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The idea came to him on the Thursday before the Mummers Parade was scheduled to appear.
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He had just finished mowing and edging the Edelsons lawn for a dollar-fifty
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And had checked the mailbox to see if there was at least a word from Marsha.
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There was nothing more than a circular form the Amalgamated Aluminum Company of America inquiring into his awning needs.
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At least they cared enough to write.
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It was a New York company. You could go anywhere in
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the mails. Then it struck him: he didn't have enough
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money to go to Wisconsin in the accepted fashion,
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true, but why not mail himself? It was absurdly
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simple. He would ship himself parcel post special
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delivery. The next day Waldo went to the supermarket
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to purchase the necessary equipment. He bought
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masking tape, a staple gun and a medium sized
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cardboard box, just right for a person of his build.
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He judged that with a minimum of jostling he could
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ride quite comfortably. A few airholes, some water, a
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selection of midnight snacks, and it would probably be
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as good as going tourist.
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By Friday afternoon, Waldo was set. He was thoroughly
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packed and the post office had agreed to pick him up
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at three o'clock. He'd marked the package "FRAGILE"
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and as he sat curled up inside, resting in the foam
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rubber cushioning he'd thoughtfully included, he tried
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to picture the look of awe and happiness on Marsha's
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face as she opened the door, saw the package, tipped
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the deliverer, and then opened it to see her Waldo
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finally there in person. She would kiss him, and then
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maybe they could see a movie. If he'd only thought of
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this before. Suddenly rough hands gripped his package
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and he felt himself borne up. He landed with a thud
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in a truck and then he was off.
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Marsha Bronson had just finished setting her hair. It
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had been a very rough weekend. She had to remember
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not to drink like that. Bill had been nice about it
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though. After it was over he'd said that he still
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respected her and, after all, it was certainly the way
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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
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were grown adults. Oh, what Bill could teach Waldo --
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but that seemed many years ago. Sheila Klein, her
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very, very best friend walked in through the porch
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screen door into the kitchen. "Oh God, it's
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absolutely maudlin outside."
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"Ugh, I know what you mean, I feel all icky." Marsha
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tightened the belt on her cotton robe with the silk
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outer edge. Sheila ran her finger over some salt
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grains on the kitchen table, licked her finger and
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made a face.
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"I'm supposed to be taking these salt pills, but," she
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wrinkled her nose, "they make me feel like throwing
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up."
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Marsha started to pat herself under the chin, an
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exercise she'd seen on television. "God, don't even
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| talk about that." She got up from the table and w |
