The Paper Route

Skip Sizemore was a short, stout little boy who lived at the end of Rabbit Head Lane. At the age of nine, he witnessed a funeral in the backyard of his next door neighbor, Mortimer James. Mortimer was in the winter of his life. He spent the better half of his mornings on the walk from the door to the mail box and now that he was a widower, spent the latter half of them confined to his reclining chair watching old episodes of The Love Connection on the Game Show Network.

Skip knew this because he had no friends and he, too, had holed himself up in the confines of his own house. While in his bedroom, he watched Mortimer with great fascination. It was unclear as to whether Skip was intrigued by Mortimer, intimidated by him, or perhaps, worse yet, worried that he would one day end up like Mortimer--the lonely widower--forgotten by his neighbors, save for the cursory attempts at sympathy with the inedible casseroles that showed up on his doorstep every evening.

It was after seeing the seventh day of casseroles left on the porch--and most had rotted in their Le Creuset casings--that Skip decided he would bring something over as well. It was official. At dawn, when the newspaper was thrown on Mortimer's lawn, Skip would seize it, peruse the personal ads before the old man woke up, circle the keepers, and put the paper back where it belonged.

Skip took it upon himself to repeat this daily routine for the next several weeks. Mortimer wondered who was taking a red crayon to his paper every morning. It didn't anger him. It didn't help him. In truth, it was just a reminder of how lonely he would be without his wife. None of the 'keepers' could hold a candle to her. Sure, they were good on paper--but with an editor, we can call look good on paper.

One morning, almost two months after his wife's death, Mortimer thought it a good idea to rearrange her sock drawer. It was the first time he had opened it in over half a century. She had done all the laundry until now. Even the last load two months earlier had been done by her. When he opened the drawer, a wafting of her perfume engulfed him. And right there, on the blue carpet in their bedroom, he sat and cried.

Mortimer missed his wife and was inconsolable--and this reminded him of wanting other people to mind their own business. Other people meaning the newspaper artist lurking about in his front yard every morning. He hadn't slept well since the death, and on most days, he passed out just before 4am--effectively causing him to miss the culprit responsible for the daily impounding of his newspaper. But enough was enough. This night, he walked outside to the yard, long after the rest of the neighborhood went to bed, and put his own newspaper there.

When the alarm went off in the morning, he quickly swiped the new one and sat patiently at the window. Skip rubbed his eyes as he made his usual trek across his yard to Mortimer's. He thought of this as his daily good deed. And as he picked up today's newspaper, he noticed it felt different. It was worn. It was used. It was already read.

Skip looked carefully and the paper was turned to the obituary section with a column circled in red pen--"Emerson James, 78, survived by her husband, Mortimer..." Skip felt the shriveled nature of the paper, where teardrops had dried and made it brittle to his touch. He looked up to see Mortimer in the window, with the sheer drape and a nod of acknowledgment. Mortimer was tired now. He had said everything he needed to say to the boy. It was time for bed.

And at this acknowledgment, Skip had his first rude awakening. He thought his conscience was there to guide him to do the right thing, to be sympathetic to the plight of others. As it turns out, his conscience was loud, and nearly drowned out his instincts for empathy. Although that would always be the tight rope walk between many a Spring and Wintered men.