Man in the Middle

completely approve of the way he currently lived. The excess. The extravagance.

Peter turned the twist cap on his beer. Foam crept over the lip as he tipped and gulped. He then rolled several skinny slices of salty, processed meat and bit just as Henry purred.

“I know—your turn.” Peter poured a generous helping of whole milk into Henry’s bowl, then sniffed. “Litter box is smelling a tad ripe, old man—even from here.”

He set his beer on the oak coffee table and went to the second bathroom. Henry’s bathroom. Peter held his breath and lifted the litter box. Exiting the front door, he proceeded down the six steps, around the corner of a storage building, and across the driveway he shared with four other condos—attached in pods of two—to a dumpster.

Finishing his litter disposal task, he retraced his steps. At his door, a black man, wearing a Charger football cap finished off by graying hair, stared through the open crack in Peter’s door. The man was stooped, even hunched, as if he carried an invisible sack of rocks on his neck and back. He began calling in a tentative voice, “Mr. Neil? Mr. Neil? You home, Mr. Neil?”

When Peter got to the bottom of his steps, he heard: “Mr. Neil, it’s Charles Jefferson. Guy living in your mama’s house.” Jefferson craned his head and neck though the front door.

Until he heard those words, Peter hadn’t been conscious of how tense he’d become. Remnants of his earlier brush with violence, he guessed.

“Mr. Jefferson,” he called.

The man spun, a wide-eyed look of fear on his face.

“Thank the Lord it’s you, Mr. Neil. I was afraid you gone and left your door open and somebody think I tryin’ steal your stuff.”

“What’re you doing here? Rent’s not due. Is everything okay at the house?”

“Yes, sir, Mr. Neil. It look good as you can believe. I got me a part-time job—nothin’ much, but at a nursery, movin’ stuff, waterin’ plants and all. Maybe turn into full-time after a month. But I got me half-price on some plants. I put ’em into the ground—they look good. You don’t like ’em, you can take ’em out, y’know.”

“No, no. I’m sure they’re fine. Let me pay you for them.”

“No way. You the kindest man I ever knowed. No. If I get full-time, I gonna pay you more rent money.”

“Forget it.”

Peter noticed Jefferson’s beat-up car in one of the visitor’s spots along the outer boundary of the condo common grounds. He owned a VW bug, and not of the recent retro variety either. Primer and rust spots highlighted jagged holes in the body, and random cracks webbed the windshield. On the bumper, a sticker read, God is Great.

“Are the bushes the reason you drove all the way out here?” Peter asked.

“Huh? Uh, no. This.”

Peter climbed the steps and stood next to his tenant. Charles Jefferson held something in his thick hands— the hands of an honest worker, Peter decided. Callused with split nails. Jefferson, probably not quite forty-five, had gnarled and arthritic fingers. His bristled cheeks had three or four nicking scars, looking like pink worms against his pitch-black skin. He extended an envelope for Peter to take.

“You brought a letter?” Peter asked.

“It was addressed to your mama. Said urgent, final notice on the outside. I was afraid it was a bill and you might get your car or TV or something else taken by the repossessors.”

“Thanks, Mr. Jefferson. How about you come in and join me in a beer or a cup of coffee?” Peter skimmed the outside of the envelope. The letter had been sent from a mailbox business in Carlsbad.

“No, I couldn’t. But thank you, sir. I gotta go to work now. Working just east of here at the mall on Via de la Valle.” He pronounced the name of the street phonetically, so that Valle came across as valley instead of vayeah.

“I know the place,” Peter said. “Good luck, Charles. And please, call me Peter. I hate being called Mister Neil.”

“Thank you, sir.” Charles said. “Come by sometime. See the house. Stay for dinner. Please.”

“I’d like that, Charles. Say hello to the family.”

Charles nodded, then plodded down the steps. Peter watched him amble to his car. It took several tries before the engine coughed itself into ignition. They waved goodbye, then Peter, stepping inside, opened the letter. It read:

This is a final notice. Your mailbox, number 408, has a balance due of $23.77. If you wish to maintain this mailing address, please contact our office no later than November 23. After that date, we will no longer accept letters on your behalf. Any mail already in your box will be held for two weeks, then returned to sender.

A name and phone number accompanied the note. He had two days before they would close his mother’s account. Why, Peter wondered, had she leased a mailbox in Carlsbad? That was at least a twenty-minute drive from her house. It made no sense. Carlsbad? His mother had died in Carlsbad. Was that a coincidence?

Peter phoned. He learned that his mother had rented an oversized space with a rental rate of just over twenty dollars a month, before tax. She had paid in advance for seven months. The seven months ended a week ago.

“Is there anything in the box?” Peter asked.

“I do not know. I will check.” The woman had an East Indian accent. She had indicated that she and her husband owned the franchise and hated to close out an active box and disrupt a person’s mail. They understood people often forgot when their leases ran out. That’s why they always sent notices and allowed a grace period.

A few seconds later, she returned. “Yes, Mr. Neil. There is mail. Two registered envelopes. It appears we signed for them and your mother saw them, but put them into her box. That is a strange procedure.”

“I don’t get it,” Peter said. “The registered mail arrived at your office?”

“Yes, it was many months ago—in late March. I noticed when I peeked into her box for you just now. We signed and notified Ms. Hannah Neil. The letters still rest there.”

“Anything else in the mailbox?”

“Oh, yes. A letter, also. It is addressed to you, in care of Hannah Neil. And some pizza ads and all.”

“Thank you. How do I get the combination to the mailbox?”

“Oh, no. Not a combination. A key.”

“My mother is dead. How do I get into her box if I don’t have the key?”

“Oh, my. I do not know. Perhaps a court order, unless you have the key. If you have the key, you just put it in the lock, turn, and open. It is simple. I cannot give you another key—that is very against the law. A court order, perhaps.”

“Would you do me another favor?” Peter asked.

“If I can, though I hope this means you will pay the overdue bill.”

“Yes. I’ll pay. Can you check the date of the postmark on the letter addressed to me? Also the return address on the envelope.”

It took a few minutes for the singsong voice to return. “It has a postmark of May the twenty-five. The return address is Clairemont.” She recited his mother’s address.

Peter hung up.

Thursday, May the twenty-fifth?

That would be the same May twenty-fifth stamped on Hannah Neil’s death certificate.

Peter prepared for his nine p.m. trading rendezvous with Morgan with as much of a nap as he could manage. When he woke at eight o’clock, he had just enough time to get ready. He felt better, but still had nagging concerns. His mother had sent him a letter the same morning she met him outside his workplace, to a mailbox he had no knowledge of until today. And registered letters, tucked away for months. Why? None of it made any sense.

It was dark outside and, with the window open, Peter’s room felt clammy cold. His boxers and tee-shirt provided him marginal insulation as he lurched out of bed, feet hurting as if he’d wandered an entire day and night in search of something lost. His hands shook and his jaw vibrated in a futile attempt to generate enough energy to