Dearest Milton James by N.R. Walker

Chapter Three

“I trust you were well behaved,”my father said in the car. We were both in the backseat again, his driver pretending he couldn’t hear anything. And true to my father’s word, he picked me up at five o’clock. Honestly, I think he was surprised to see me still there. He must have assumed I’d bailed hours ago.

“Yes, of course I was.”

“You even seem . . . happy.”

“Would you prefer me to be miserable?”

“No. I just wasn’t expecting you to be smiling when I picked you up.”

“You weren’t expecting me to be here when you picked me up.”

My father did that eyebrow thing where his left one would twitch upward, and his lips were kinda pursed. It was his sarcastic face that basically said, ‘no shit, Sherlock,’ without him having to say it.

“So you’ll be going tomorrow,” he said. It wasn’t a question. It was a statement. Or an order.

“You know what?” I asked.

He looked at me.

“I think I might.” I smiled. “I actually liked it. I don’t know if I’ll like it tomorrow or in a week from now, but today was fun.”

“Fun?”

“Yep. It’s not a boring desk job and I don’t have to deal with arsehole customers. Or even the nice ones. There are actually no customers. Except the odd phone call. But no interaction with the general public at all. That’s the selling point right there.”

I was never cut out for a boring old desk job. Or dealing with people. I’d told him this a hundred times but he’d never listened.

“And we get to do detective work,” I added. “We get to look in envelopes and packages and try and figure out who the intended person was. I’m like a real-life Sherlock Holmes.”

My father stared at me, probably trying to gauge if I was being sarcastic or not. “So you . . . you actually like it?”

I shrugged, aiming for indifference. “I liked it today. And that’s more than most other jobs I’ve had.”

He did that eyebrow thing again, this time with more surprise. “Well, I’m glad to hear that.”

“I don’t know how long I’ll like it for, so don’t get too excited.”

“But you’re going tomorrow?” It was definitely a question now.

I smiled. “I think I will, yes.” The car pulled up out the front of my block of flats in Newtown. “No need to chauffeur me tomorrow,” I said. “I can bus it.”

This surprised my father too, but I closed the door with a cheerful flourish and a wave and went straight up to my one-bedroom flat. It was very small, very old, somewhat dank and dreary—and yet still ridiculously expensive to rent—but it was mine.

My own little piece of independence. Everything in it was mine: the mismatched furniture from op-shops, the vintage glassware and the retro plates, the old vinyl albums from a second-hand bookstore that were now on the wall as artwork.

It was all mine.

And yes, the bills were mine too. And the rent I had to pay.

But in the five years I’d lived here, I’d never missed a payment. Despite my inability to find or keep a job that held my attention, I’d always managed to scrape by.

My parents rode a constant tide of disappointment and dismay when it came to me. Probably as much as they disappointed me. We had a strange relationship; they had forever set bars of expectations and I’d forever fallen short, yet they admired my grit and the tenacity with which I stood my ground. Traits gifted to me by my mother and father respectively. And I respected their morals and ethics on the politics and open-mindedness for change.

I wasn’t particularly close to my brother and sister. They were a bit older than me. But all in all, there was a lot of love in our family. We just drove each other crazy to even the balance of the seesaw.

I guessed most families were the same.

After an inspection of my very empty fridge, I made a trip to the supermarket. I grabbed a few things for dinner and also some stuff for lunch for the week. I was almost excited to be buying lunch stuff because I was excited about going to work, which was ridiculous.

I was certain the bubble would burst, possibly as early as tomorrow. I could walk in there tomorrow and Mr Beige and Secretly Sexy could decide I wasn’t a fit for his team and he could fire me.

Even though his team were a bunch of misfits and I’d probably never fit in anywhere more . . .

Anyhoo . . .

I arrived to work the next morning a little early—I certainly didn’t want to be late—but it seemed that everybody did the same. Everyone was in the staff room having their first coffee, talking about their mornings.

“Hey, Malachi,” Denise said, bleary-eyed but cheerful.

“Morning,” Theo said brightly.

“Nice sweater,” Cherry said from over her steaming coffee cup.

I looked down to my pink argyle knitted sweater, then grinned at her. “Thanks. I have a sunshine-yellow one and an apple-green one as well, but I was totally feeling the bubble-gum, pretty-in-pink look today.”

That was me. When a simple thanks would have sufficed, I had to open thine mouth and allow the word vomit to pour forth.

And because I wasn’t quite done, I stuck out one foot to show off my very pink Converse boots. “And of course I have to match.”

“Do you have shoes to match every colour?” Paul asked. He was sitting at the table, coffee in one hand, newspaper in the other. I couldn’t decide if his question was sarcastic or not, so I chose to believe it wasn’t.

“Generally speaking, yes. Or if not, I add an accessory to bring the whole look together.” Then because there was a chance he was being sarcastic, I added, “Only three things in this world can pull off the matching colour look. Gay people, Power Rangers, and Teletubbies. And when I say pull off, I mean—”

Someone cleared their throat by the door. “Good morning.”

Mr Pollard was pointing a rather stern look in my direction, as if he was well-aware of what I’d been about to say.

He was wearing all brown again: taupe trousers, a fawn shirt and a brown cardigan with brown double stitching and oversized brown buttons.

Was there a brown Power Ranger? I couldn’t remember. But there was definitely no brown Teletubby. And if he wasn’t a Teletubby or a Power Ranger, then oh my god, he had to be . . . Holy shit, was he gay?

My internal-me was banging on the side of my gaydar because there seemed to have been a glitch.

Surely not.

Could he be?

I mean, he was hot . . . in a sexy professor kind of way. His short brown hair, pink lips, and his brown glasses, those killer brown eyes . . . and not killer eyes like Paul the serial killer, but killer eyes as in ‘if he aimed that stern glare at me again, I might die’ kind of killer eyes.

He had a quiet confidence about him that I was attracted to. But the brown . . .

Such an odd choice.

“Morning,” I said somewhat too late. I must have been standing there having my gay epiphany for too long. So I quickly made myself a coffee and tried to disappear.

“Uh, Malachi, can I see you for a minute?” Mr Sexy Professor asked. “When you’ve had your coffee. No rush.” He took his coffee and disappeared into his office.

I frowned. “Is that a good ‘can I see you’ or a bad ‘can I see you’?”

Denise scoffed. “Is there ever a good ‘can I see you’ when it comes from your boss?”

Oh no . . .

“What did I do?” I asked.

“I don’t know,” Paul said with a smirk. “What did you do?”

“Nothing. I don’t think.” I tried to wrack my brain. “I was early and I brought my own lunch.” Then something occurred to me . . . I gasped, hand to my offended little heart. “Am I too gay? Should I tone it down? Is the pink a bit too much? I was going to wear fuchsia suspenders over a My Little Pony shirt but decided that might be too much gay for day two.”

Denise put her hand on my arm. “Calm down. Do I look too gay?”

I looked her up and down. “Not at all. Name one lesbian lumberjack that isn’t gay enough.”

Theo choked on his coffee.

“Exactly.” Denise grinned. “Wear what you want, be who you want. Our only policy here is that you be nice, you clean up after yourself, and bring cake for birthdays. That’s it.”

I nodded. “I like cake.”

“Believe me,” she murmured, “Pollard has no issue with us gays.” She finished with a wink and walked out.

Right, then.

So Pollard was gay?

I downed half my now-tepid coffee while I tried not to think about what Pollard might want with me and decided to go in and find out. I quickly washed and dried my cup and knocked on his open door. “You wanted to see me?”

“Oh yes, take a seat.” He rifled through some papers on his desk and put a form in front of me. “Just some paperwork we didn’t cover yesterday.”

“Oh.” My relief was instant. “I thought I’d done something wrong.”

He half-smiled. “How was your first day yesterday?”

“Good. I think. I enjoyed it.”

“I’ll put you with Cherry this morning. She can run you through some more basics.”

Oh. “Uh, just between you and me, do you think I might talk too much for her?”

He smiled properly this time, his eyes warm. “No. I think you’ll get along just fine. She’s very good at searching online for obscure clues.”

“Oooh, obscure clues. That’s exciting.” I realised I was clutching the form he wanted me to fill out. “Uh, do you have a pen I could use?”

He took one of three pens that were neatly organised in a line under his computer monitor and handed it to me. I began to fill out the tedious government workplace safety form, hoping I wasn’t taking up too much of his time. I realised then that he was watching me write. “Sorry, do you want me to take this somewhere else?”

He shook his head slowly. “Not at all.” He seemed embarrassed. “Uh, yesterday you mentioned getting fired for being drunk and there was something about a skirt. Is that something we should discuss?” Then he baulked. “Oh, the drinking I mean. Not the skirt.”

“I wasn’t drinking or drunk at work. I would never do that. I got drunk after I was fired.”

“And why were you fired?” he pressed. “I know I should be privy to this information before you were hired, but your father asked if we still had a position going and I don’t question my bosses’ boss.”

I frowned. “I kinda feel bad that my father made you give me this job. You must think I’m a spoilt kid whose daddy fixes all his problems, and that’s not exactly right.” I cringed. It wasn’t exactly wrong either . . .  I took a deep breath. “I was fired because I wore a mini skirt to work. And you know, it wasn’t even really the skirt, it was my attitude about the skirt . . .”

“And this was at a post office?”

“The administration head office, yes. You see, there’s a uniform rule that states a woman’s skirt can’t be higher than ten centimetres above the knee. A girl I worked with got an official reprimand, which is a whole lot of bullshit, just between you and me. It was a standard-issue skirt purchased through the company. She shouldn’t be penalised just because she’s tall. But the whole thing reeked of a bigger issue.”

“I think I can see where this is going.”

I nodded. “Right? So to prove my point, the next day I wore a very short mini skirt. When the office manager called me in, with his eye twitching and his high blood pressure veins popping, I asked him to show me where in the holy guidebook it said that a man’s skirt can’t be that short or where it said that a man can’t wear a skirt, and he started to froth at the mouth.” I shrugged. “The drinking happened after he’d fired me, and I had a whole day free now, right? And I’d shaved my legs for the skirt. And I looked good in those heels. Not gonna lie. I was looking hot. I wasn’t gonna waste all that effort. So I went to Stonewall and had a few too many drinks for far too many hours, and anyway, to cut a long story short, some guy had tried to solicit my services and I tried to give him a lesson in manners with my stiletto, so the police took me back to the station for a chat. That man was very rude and no one should treat sex workers that way.” I put my hand to my chest. “Not that I’m a sex worker, but that doesn’t mean I can’t stick up for them. Same with the uniform and the skirt issue.”

“So you were fired for . . .”

“Speaking up about gender equity and dress codes in the workplace. And, I’ll have you know,” I added proudly, “my father is having the dress code reviewed. So I’d call that a win.”

Mr Brown and Smiling seemed to find something amusing. “Your father never mentioned any of that.”

I snorted. “Uh, no. He picked me up from Kings Cross police station. To say he was not impressed would be a gross, gross understatement. And it was rude as hell, because believe me, the fact I could still walk in those heels after twelve hours drinking should impress everyone.”

He sipped his coffee with smiling lips. “Agreed.”

“Oh, the form,” I said, getting back to the task at hand. “Sorry, I get side-tracked. And I talk a lot when I’m nervous.”

“I’ve noticed.”

“I thought I was in trouble.”

“What for?”

“I didn’t know.”

He studied me for a long moment, searching for what I could only guess. In the end he smiled. “You’re not in trouble.”

Christ. Did his voice just drop an octave?

If we were out at a bar or something, I’d read that voice, paired with that look, as attraction.

But surely not.

Surely.

It was suddenly a few degrees warmer in his office, and I nervously looked around the room to find something to change the subject to . . . and that’s when I saw them. Over his shoulder on a shelf.

The pile of letters.

They were old, yellowed by time, bound with twine. They stood on a small wooden platform like they were a trophy. “Can I ask about the letters?”

He cocked his head. “Which letters?”

“Those.” I glanced pointedly at them. He followed my line of sight, turning side-on, giving me a wonderful view of his neck and sexy ear.

When the fuck had ears become sexy? Get a grip, Malachi.

I was in so much trouble.

“Oh,” he said quietly. A fond but sad smile tugged at his lips. “Those are . . . those were here when I began working here. They have a bit of a story to them, and I never could bring myself to have them destroyed.”

“Destroyed?”

“They’re almost fifty years old. We don’t keep lost mail that long.”

“But you kept those.”

He met my gaze and conceded a small nod. “Yes.”

“What’s the story? You said they have a bit of a story . . .”

Just then his desk phone rang and he looked up at the clock on the wall. It was 9:10am. “Oh.” He straightened in his chair. “You should get to work. Go find Cherry. I’ll need that paperwork done by the end of the day though.”

I nodded, the sound of the ringing phone urging me out the door. I heard him answer as I left, “Julian Pollard speaking.”

The sound of his deep voice saying his own name shouldn’t have made me shiver, but it sure did.

“Oh, if you’re cold, there’s some old coats in the lost and found,” Theo offered brightly as he pushed his cart along.

“I’ll be fine,” I replied. “Just need to get busy.”

“Everything went okay in there?” he asked, gesturing to the office door. “You weren’t in trouble?”

I held the form like a shield. “Nah, just forgot to fill in a form.”

He gave me a smile with far too many teeth. “Always paperwork.”

“Always.” I looked around. “Seen Cherry? I’m with her today, apparently.”

“Think she was in the Beetle aisle.”

“The what?”

“The V-W aisle,” he said with a laugh. “You know, the car? I always call it the beetle aisle. No one else does.”

“Oh. Cool. Yeah, vee-dub. I get it. That’s funny.” It was not funny.

I put the form on my desk and went in search of Cherry. I did, in fact, find her in the V-W aisle. She startled when I waved. “Hey. Oh sorry, didn’t mean to sneak up on you. I’m with you today, apparently. Mr Pollard said that I should find you.”

“Mr who?”

“Mr Pollard?”

“Oh, Julian?”

“Yes, Julian. Feel kinda weird calling him that. Like calling your teacher by their first name.”

Cherry almost smiled. She was wearing black and purple again today. Her severe black bob and dark purple lips matched her outfit perfectly. She reminded me of those Bratz dolls that were cool when I was little, and I loved that.

“I promise not to talk you to death,” I said. “Julian said you were the best at searching online for obscure clues.”

She shrugged. “Not really. Just good with Google, and I think outside the box.”

“That’s awesome.”

“Here,” she said, passing me a box from her trolley.

And we put a few parcels and letters on the shelves, cataloguing as we went. I even managed not to speak for a bit, which was some kind of record for me. But soon the silence became too much and I panicked that it was becoming awkward. “So how long have you worked here?” I asked.

“Three years.”

“You like it?”

She nodded. “Love it. Get left alone, don’t have to speak to anyone.” Then she added, somewhat reluctantly. “And reuniting people with their stuff is pretty cool.”

“It is.” I scanned a small brown box and shelved it. “So, what’s Julian’s story?”

I tried to be casual but I was certain she saw through me.

“Why?”

I shrugged. “Dunno. Just curious. He seems kinda cool but he wears a lot of brown, and that’s a fascinating choice to me. There’s a story there, for sure.”

“He’s always worn clothes like that. But I’ve always worn clothes like this, so . . .”

“And I’ve always worn clothes like this,” I amended. I didn’t mean to offend her. “But that’s my point. It’s an expression of identity or our mood or we just like it. So either way, I have to say that all that brown and beige is a bold choice.”

She seemed to consider this for a while, opting for more silence, and I figured I wouldn’t push my luck. But then she said, “He went through a pretty bad breakup, apparently, just when I started. So, like three years ago? He took it pretty hard. His boyfriend left him for another guy.”

My brain pulled on the handbrake, sending me spinning to an abrupt halt.

Boyfriend?

“Pollard has no issue with us gays,”Denise had said.

He was gay.

Well, gay, bi, pan, whatever . . .  The point was, he liked guys.

My heart did a little double-beat for a second.

“Oh,” I replied when I realised I hadn’t said anything. “That must have sucked for him.”

“Mm,” Cherry replied, sliding the last box into place on the shelf. “Back to the front we go.”

“Can you show me how you search for stuff?” I asked. “And all those obscure clues. It’s the exciting part.”

She nodded. “It’s my favourite part.”

I resisted the urge to do an excited jumpy-clap. Instead I smiled at her. “Mine too!”

The first few parcels were straightforward. One had an incorrect postcode, and the town name was spelt wrong. That was an easy fix. One parcel lost its address sticker but had a barcode from Tasmania, and a few phone calls soon saw that one on its way. One letter was marked Not At This Address and upon opening it, we found another mass marketing brochure and it went into the to-be-destroyed pile.

The next few parcels were from stores sending out online purchases. Labels were incorrect, torn, wet, missing. But inside were invoice copies with names, addresses, emails, and phone numbers. And these weren’t just a cheap shirt from Kmart. Some of these were Fendi shoes, a brand-new iPhone, a Kitchen Aid, and other mind-boggling stuff.

“Oh yeah, this is what we see every day,” Cherry said. “Train sets, vintage wines, Xboxes, mostly clothes.”

So much stuff was bought online and sent through the postal system. There were a lot of eBay packages with labels in foreign languages. Whoever invented the barcode tracking system deserved a freaking raise.

We got most of them back in the system off to their rightful owners, which was amazing.

But then there was one envelope with a handwritten name and address. It looked like it might have been a birthday card, and it was clearly written by an older hand.

“What’s wrong with this one?” I asked.

Cherry pointed out the very obvious. “No postage.” She carefully opened it, and yeah, it was a birthday card with a message and a ten-dollar note.

The writing was chicken-scratch and wobbly, but it was sweet, and the thought of this little grandma’s letter not getting to her granddaughter made me sad. Ten dollars would have meant a lot to either of them, I was sure. It was signed off, Love, Nan.

“Can we just send it anyway?” I asked. “I’m sure this sweet little old nan just forgot to put a stamp on it. Or maybe it came unstuck.”

I got the impression Cherry wanted to roll her eyes and call me naïve, but she took pity on me for being new, I guessed. “We send the letter with a notification of non-payment.”

I was horrified. “You’re going to send little eight-year-old Elsa a bill? For a one-dollar stamp?”

“Plus an administration fee.”

I gasped. “We’re monsters.” I picked up the card and slid it back into the envelope. “Can I pay for it? It’s just a dollar. Surely we have stamps here that I can buy.”

Cherry stared at me like I’d lost my mind. “To be honest, I’m not sure. I don’t think anyone’s ever asked. I mean, it sucks for Elsa and her nan, but if we do it for this one, we need to do it for all of the letters that come in like this. And we get a lot without postage every week.”

I frowned. “We don’t have to do it for all the letters that have no stamp. Just the ones from sweet old grandmas.”

Cherry shrugged. “Might wanna check with Julian first.”

I glanced over at his office door. No time like now . . . I took the envelope and knocked lightly on his door. I stuck my head in. “Just me.”

Julian smiled and turned his attention from his computer screen to me. “What can I do for you?”

I took the seat I’d sat in before. “Well, we came across this letter and there’s no postage. So I was wondering if maybe I could pay for a stamp? Or keep it aside and I’ll bring a stamp with me tomorrow?”

“Oh.”

“Well, it’s a birthday card to a little girl and the lady who wrote it is her nan, and the message is sweet and you can tell from the writing that she’s like two hundred years old, and I’d hate to think that her card and the ten dollars doesn’t make it. She’s probably on a pension or something and ten dollars is a lot of money when you don’t have any. I asked Cherry, but she said we didn’t really do this kind of thing, like pay for it ourselves, but the fact we can send a bill to an eight-year-old girl to pay for her grandma’s mail is a pretty harsh life lesson to learn at eight. Like hey, Elsa, you wanna buy this Frozen pencil case with your birthday money? Oh wait, you can’t because the horrible postal people made you pay for a stamp when it was not your fault, so instead of ten dollars you only have nine . . . oh wait, plus the admin fee. You know, I should probably call my father and ask him what the fuck because—”

Julian raised an eyebrow.

Ooops.

“Oh shit, did I swear? Sorry, I didn’t mean to. I do apologise for that. Sorry. I think I just did it again when I said shit. I said it again. You make me nervous. Sorry.”

He fought a smile. “We don’t make a habit of paying for any mail that comes through without adequate postage.”

“But it’s not against policy? So if I wanted to do it, I could?”

“You could.”

I grinned. “Yay!”

God help me, I just said yay.

“I mean, that’s awesome.” I gave a nod, regaining my composure. “I’ll bring in a stamp tomorrow.” Then I looked at the envelope. “Can I, uh, can I leave this here with you so it doesn’t get lost or thrown into the pile that’s gonna send a repo man to an eight-year-old girl on her birthday?”

Julian did smile this time. “Okay, so we don’t send a repo man. Yes, you can leave it in here. I’m sure Elsa will appreciate your efforts, because who doesn’t want a Frozen pencil case.”

I grinned at him. “Exactly.”

“And as for the swearing,” he added.

“Oh, I really am sorry about that.”

“Why do I make you nervous?”

I could feel my face burning. “Oh, no reason. I don’t know. Because you’re my boss and I don’t want you to fire me. I like my job here, and to be honest, I’m always nervous around people I find attractive—”

Oh hell, I did not just say that. Stop talking, Malachi, stop talking, stop fucking talking.

“—so it’s not even really my fault. Elsa and I are the victims here.” I held up the envelope like a shield and I stood up. “Elsa is a victim of the system though. I’m more of a victim of my own idiocy. If you read my CV, you’d have seen self-sabotage was on my list of personal skills. I don’t need to even try; it just comes naturally. I’m really trying to shut up but . . .”

I didn’t even realise I was backing out toward the door.

“Malachi?”

“Yes?”

“The envelope?”

I was still holding it. “Yes?”

“Did you want to leave it in here?”

“Yes, yes, I did. I’ll just put it over here out of the way, on the shelf next to the letters you couldn’t bring yourself to destroy.” I read the top envelope. The writing was faded, the paper old. “The Dearest Milton James letters.”

I backed out again toward the door. “Okay, well, this has been mortifying,” I mumbled and backed out, still facing him, and banged into the door frame before I could escape and pull the door shut.

I think I heard Julian chuckle.

That went so well.

Totally nailed it, Malachi.

Fuck.