THE NEXT MORNING THE MAIL CAME EARLY, SO SHE SAW it first. Jack was upstairs. Once he would have been waiting somewhere, lingering, even an hour before the usual time for it to come, but that sharp old hope seemed to have dulled a little. Notes to her from her sisters. And four of Jack’s letters, addressed to Della Miles in Memphis. They were unopened, and the words Return to Sender were written across each one, in bold print and underlined. She put the envelopes facedown on the hall table and went into the kitchen to collect herself.
Glory had begun to despise this Della. The woman had to have a fairly good idea of the misery she was causing, if she knew Jack at all. Granted that she had no obligation to be in love with him, simply because he was in love with her. Granted that his persistence must seem irksome, unwelcome as it was — by now she had certainly made that clear. But she had read French novels with him, and had embroidered his sleeve with flowers, for heaven’s sake. Don’t laugh while you’re smoking, he had said, if you’re carrying a birthday cake. He had showered himself with ashes. Then all that whimsical, meticulous embroidery, not mending but commemoration. What was it that had made them laugh? Whoever Della was, she knew him too well to treat him this way. She could ignore his letters if she wanted to. But this was cruelty.
Since Glory had seen the letters, she would have to tell him they had been returned. She thought of putting them back in the box and letting him find them himself. But what was the point of that? He might think he could keep them a secret from her, since that was always his first impulse, and then she couldn’t speak with him about them, which she thought she should do, at least to offer him comfort, if she could think of any comfort to offer. Four letters! If any more came back like that, she would burn them. The point was made. She thought she might take three of these, or two, and hide them somewhere and burn them when she had the chance, since two would be sufficient for this Della’s purposes. Two would be unambiguous but not quite so insulting.
She might say, How do you know it was Della who sent them back? It might have been her father. The printing was very bold, even allowing for the emphasis intended. Her impression of Della had been of someone with a lighter touch, a kind of delicacy she would not depart from if only because she herself was not quite aware of it. But what did she know about Della, except that Jack had courted her as if she were the virtuous lady in an old book? Poetry. Flowers, no doubt. All with a fresh shave and polished shoes and that air of mild irony he assumed whenever his sincerity embarrassed him.
Jack came down the stairs and went out to the mailbox, then came back in again. She went into the hallway. He found the letters lying where she had put them. His back was turned to her, but she could see the shock travel up his body. His weight on his heels, the setting of his knees, and then the recoil in his shoulders. He turned the letters over in his hands. He knew she was watching, and he said, “Have any more of these come back?”
“No.”
“You wouldn’t keep it from me if they did.”
“No, I wouldn’t do that. I wish I could.”
He nodded.
She said, “I wanted to think a little before I gave them to you.”
He nodded. “Any ideas?”
“Well,” she said, “you haven’t told me much about all this, but from what you have told me, I thought it might not be Della who sent them back. I thought it might be her father or someone else in her family. You said she’s living with her family. This doesn’t really seem like her, my impression of her, anyway.”
He shook his head. “Mine either.” He dropped the letters on the table again. He turned around and smiled at her. “Not much to do, is there.”
Glory said, “I was wondering if you had a mutual friend you could write to. Maybe the friend could send a letter from you, and she would read it. I mean, if her father or someone is keeping her from reading your letters, that might be a way to reach her. It could be worth a try.”
He nodded. “I’ll give it some thought.” He said, “I don’t blame her, though. I don’t blame her father, if he did it. I understand it. They’re good people. I should just — respect her judgment. Or his. I’m pretty used to the idea by now.” He said, “I’ve sent a couple more letters. I suppose they’ll come back, too. If you’d burn them, I’d be grateful.”
“Should I burn these?”
He nodded. He touched the table as if it reminded him of something that had mattered once, and then he shrugged. “I don’t really know what to do with myself. Any suggestions?”
OVER THE NEXT FEW DAYS THREE MORE LETTERS CAME back. She made careful fires of small kindling in the fireplace and tended them until each of the letters was burned to ashes. Jack saw her kneeling there, Jack who had taken to wearing his suit again, jacket open and tie loose to acknowledge the late-summer heat. He watched from the door, smiled and nodded to her, and stepped away when she tried to speak
