Care Package (Microfiction)
It was Byron’s first time seeing the postman be anything other than friendly, but then again it was also his first time trying to post barbeque ribs.
“What the hell is this?” demanded Mr Clifton. The triangular parcel Byron had cobbled together from brown paper lunch bags and sticky tape drooped in his hand like a soggy, oversized samosa.
“Ribs,” the boy replied helpfully.
“Ribs,” the postman repeated. He gave Byron the same look Bryon’s Mum gave him when he interrupted her watching TV. “I’m assuming not human.”
They were standing outside the door to Byron’s apartment building, Mr Clifton’s motorbike leaning casually against the mail-slots. Just like normal, he’d rung the intercom and Byron had hurried downstairs in his pyjamas, eager to collect today’s mail – only to find that the letter Mr Clifton was holding wasn’t for Byron, but from him. For some reason the postman seemed unhappy at this, and now stood staring at Byron with furrowed eyebrows, while Byron stood without any shoes on and wondered if he was in trouble.
“Barbeque ribs,” Byron answered truthfully, “From Bubba’s.” Loud grinding and drilling sounds screeched from the smash repairer next door, and many floors above someone was shouting and breaking things – but that was pretty standard for a Wednesday. Neither of them paid it much heed.
“Byron, it’s dripping,” Mr Clifton complained, pointing to one corner that was indeed sticky and moist.
“That’s the barbeque sauce,” said Byron. He frowned – that should’ve been obvious. “You can’t have ribs without barbeque sauce.”
“It jingles.”
“Coins,” explained the boy, “To pay for stamps.” Byron hadn’t known how much sending letters cost, and so had included every coin he had.
“Jesus,” Mr Clifton sighed, though Byron wasn’t sure what He had to do with anything. He rubbed his temples. “Byron, why are you posting ribs?”
“It’s for Billy.”
“Yes, I see that.” The postman glanced at the front of the parcel, where ‘Billy Kane – Canida’ was scratched in Byron’s best handwriting. A drop of sauce had smudged some of the lead pencil. “But why are you sending it to him?”
Byron hesitated. His gaze dropped and he shuffled his feet uncomfortably on the cement.
“I thought he might like it,” he murmured, “They might not have ribs in Canada.”
“Oh, Canada,” Mr Clifton muttered, squinting at the address. He looked back at Byron. “Did your brother really like Bubba’s?”
“I guess,” Byron mumbled. He didn’t look up. “He’d take me there. On weekends. When Mum was yelling.” He tried really hard not to cry.
There was a long pause.
“Byron,” Mr Clifton asked finally, “Is your Mum home?”
“No.”
“Do you know when she’ll be back?”
“No.”
Another pause.
“Do you want to write Billy a letter?”
“Yes,” sniffed Byron, and this time the crying just happened. Mr Clifford’s hand clasped gently around his shoulder.
“Come on,” the postman smiled. He reached into his front pocket and drew out a pen. Click. “I’ll help you.”
