“Mailbox looks full,” Mrs. Moore said from her seat at the dining room table. She held a steaming mug of coffee while playing the crosswords on the morning newspaper.
“It’s been awhile since I’ve grabbed the mail,” Mr. Moore replied. He rinsed the French press. He didn’t think it was dirty, but he wanted to make sure.
Mrs. Moore didn’t bother to look up from her game as he went about preparing himself a cup of coffee. Water boiled on the stove next to a pan of sizzling bacon. When he finished cleaning the French press, he grabbed his tin of coffee out of the top cabinet. It felt empty in his hands. He opened the lid to find only a thin layer at the bottom. Through the black grains, he caught his own reflection. Disheveled came to mind. He sighed and closed the tin.
“Looks like were out of coffee,” he said.
“I’m sorry, sweetheart. I thought I’d made enough for the both of us.”
“Don’t worry about it, darling. A cigarette will do. Want to join me on the front porch?” he asked. She slowly looked up from her game and smiled at him. Her coffee stained teeth and crows feet reminded him of her vulnerability. The same vulnerability he’d noticed when they first met almost two decades ago.
They were both so shy back then. Neither realized what would become of that night. How it would develop into a love so deep that their souls felt intertwined. How they became one and could never seem to pull themselves apart. Even when they fought or spent time away from each other, Mr. Moore’s heart would ache and he’d come running back to her like she was a drug he couldn’t get enough of.
“Of course. You know you can always have my coffee, if you’d like? I can go without, they aren’t expecting me at the school for another hour,” she explained.
“Ah, right. Summer,” Mr. Moore recalled.
“Don’t tell me you’ve gotten the seasons all mixed now.” Mrs. Moore chuckled. “Hey, five letters and grieving the dead.”
“Course not darling, and lament? No… that’s six… mourn?” he tried. She nodded her approval and scribbled down the answer.
Mr. Moore walked to the table she sat at and reached into the cigarette carton. His hand reached the very bottom and came up empty.
“I believe there’s still a couple on your desk,” Mrs. Moore said. She took a swig of her coffee before standing to face him. “I’ll be on the front porch.”
“Don’t leave!” He reached for her but she spun away, twirling her long black nightgown. It reminded him of their wedding, when they’d danced together all night. How beautiful and happy she’d looked. Sometimes he wished they could go back to that night again.
“I’m not going anywhere. I’ll just be in my chair,” she said, snatching her newspaper off the table. Mr. Moore kept his hand raised, ready to grab onto her. But, somehow, he managed to lower it. He could wait a little while. So he nodded and returned her smile.
“Right. Don’t forget your coffee.”
“Trust me, I won’t.” She laughed and put the paper under her arm before picking up her steaming mug. Then she turned and swiftly marched to the front door. Mr. Moore watched her the whole way.
When she’d closed the door behind her, he went to his office. Sure enough, sitting in a neat row on his desk were four cigarettes. He knew he’d been running low, but he didn’t realize it’d been this bad. He sighed and put one of them behind his ear.
Then he returned to the kitchen, where he shut off the stove and grabbed a piece of overcooked bacon. It stung his fingers and still sizzled in his mouth. He continued chewing anyway. He was in a hurry to get to the porch. There, the love of his life would be waiting.
Outside he found her seated in her old rocking chair, paper resting in her lap and coffee on the table between their chairs. Mr. Moore sat down in his chair and pulled out a lighter. He placed the cigarette in his mouth and lit it, taking a deep inhale.
“Are they growing on you yet?” she asked, still looking at her crossword.
“What?”
“The garden gnomes.” She nodded to their front yard. The grass had started to overgrow. But still somehow rising above, peaking over the green blades, was a small army of little heads. Their red, blue, green, brown, and yellow hats all stuck out like little cones. Some sat watching the road, and others were facing each other as if in deep conversation.
“Can’t say that they are,” he replied, exhaling a thin stream of smoke.
“I wish you’d get the mail. Three letters, mammals fighting for love.”
“Rut.”
“Thank you.” She smiled, writing the answer before taking another sip of her coffee.
“I want to get the mail, my dear. But I’d risk tripping over one of your gnomes.” Mr. Moore gestured into the field of miniature, bearded men.
“You worry too much. Besides, they’re just gnomes. They can be repaired. Anything can be repaired with a bit of glue,” she replied.
“Yeah but they’d never quite be the same. You’d always see the cracks and you’d always know they are there. The glue can only do so much.” He took another drag.
“Six letters, not afraid but a…”
“Afeard?”
“Yes. Thank you dear.”
“Of course. And I don’t worry too much. I just… I like the spot I’m at. I like where I’m at right now. If I start to change that course, then other things will change,” he explained.
Mrs. Moore looked up at him. Her deep blue eyes seemed to swallow and digest every word he spoke and expression he made. He adored that quality about her. How intently she always listened to him. Even when he was dead wrong, she listened like his opinion mattered the most. Like he mattered the most.
Mr. Moore wiped a tear gathering at the corner of his eye before turning back to the field of gnomes. Then he took another, long drag from his cigarette. The mailbox, at the end of the lawn, was indeed overflowing. A massive collection of letters seemed to protest against the walls of the box. Mr. Moore knew he needed to get it soon. Otherwise the mailman would stop delivering. Then he’d have to add another person to the list of people who’d given up on him.
“Nine letters, James Cook and spacecraft.”
“Discovery?”
“It ends with an r,” Mrs. Moore added. Her eyes narrowed at the paper and Mr. Moore watched her out of the corner of his own. He loved mornings like this. How they both would sit, rocking in their chairs while the sun worked its way above the trees. How both of them still wore their nightclothes. How neither cared to join the world just yet. Instead, they shared those waking hours of the day together.
“Endeavour?”
“Correct!”
“How far along are you?”
“Just a few more. But that one helped a lot,” she said, taking a sip of her coffee.
Mr. Moore took a final drag before smashing the burning butt into the ashtray. Then he leaned back in his chair and looked out into the front lawn. A pair of orange and black butterflies had started to dance around the hats of the gnomes. One occasionally landed on the pointed tops. But they didn’t stay for long and eventually they made their way to another yard. Animals, he thought, they never settle down and they’re always on the move. What do they call that, again?
“Restless,” Mrs. Moore said. His attention snapped to her.
She was no longer looking at her crossword. Instead, she stared at the lawn. Her eyes were glazed over, like she’d been staring for a while.
“What did you say, darling?”
“They’re restless. Animals are,” she said. Mr. Moore gulped.
“I uh… I didn’t say that out loud… did I?”
“Of course not,” she said, turning to face him. Her cheeks were sunken in, the bones protruding from beneath. Both blue eyes looked darker than before, and emptier.
“I… I…” he stuttered, unsure of what to say.
“I have to get to the school.”
“Don’t go,” he pleaded, reaching for her as she stood. But she ignored him and started down the porch stairs, still wearing her nightgown. She’d left the mug of coffee and newspaper on the table.
She turned back while standing on the walkway. Her hair had started to fall out and her skin was starting to drift away like pieces of ash, exposing nothing but air beneath. The light morning breeze carried the pieces of her away with it.
“You should really get the mail,” she said. Then she turned and started walking into the overgrown grass. More of her feet chipped away with each step. Her entire body was falling apart. Mr. Moore stood and reached out for her, but stopped at the edge of the porch.
“Please don’t go! I need you!” he shouted at the fading figure in front of him.
“Four letters, Elmer’s adhesive,” she said. Then the breeze picked up and carried the rest of her off with it. Mr. Moore felt tears stream down his face.
“Glue.” He smiled.
He looked down at the ground in front of him. The walkway that led to the drive, then the yard. Gnomes guarded the path, standing in the grass at attention. Protecting the way. Protecting him. He decided to take just one step off the porch. His barefoot flattened against the cold walkway. It stung, at first, but he adjusted. He raised his head to see the mailbox. It once seemed miles away. But one step made the distance feel much shorter than it had before. He started to feel more comfortable, more confident, and set his other foot on the walkway too. The gnomes watched in patient silence. He noticed so many of them smiling, as if they were proud of him.
He glanced down at the nearest statue and nodded. I have glue in the garage, he thought, I could at least make an endeavour. Then he took another step. And another. And another, as he ventured deeper and deeper into Gnome Land.
Hayden Garris is a writer of prose and poetry, with a special focus on character-driven fiction. He has several works published in the IU Indianapolis literary and art magazine genesis, and is the recipient of writing scholarships like the Eric Sharp Gateway Fiction Award.