Beware of Cat by Vincent Wyckoff Page B

him. Jermaine kept a constant watch on me. I realized that to a casual observer this might look improper, that perhaps the mailman was up to no good, but people could think whatever they wanted. Jermaine had been through enough already, and I wasn’t going to abandon him.
    Once we got moving again it took only a few minutes to reach his house. We pulled up in front of a modest dwelling with the telltale signs of a resident child: a deflated basketball in the yard and action figure stickers in the window. Jermaine watched as I climbed the steps to ring the doorbell.
    Getting no response at the door, I asked him, “Do you have any friends in the neighborhood?”
    He shook his head.
    “How about neighbors? Do you know any of your neighbors?”
    Negative. “My mom might.”
    Coming down the steps I decided to check the backyard. “Wait here, Jermaine. I’m going to try the back door. I’ll be right back, okay?”
    With no luck in the backyard, either, I had to decide which neighbor’s house to approach. That’s the other thing about a letter carrier’s uniform; complete strangers will open their doors to talk to you, and the time had come to enlist some help so I could get back to work.
    But now there was a taxi parked behind my jeep, its back door hanging open. Jermaine was in the arms of the woman I knew must be named Danielle. Both were in tears, even though Jermaine was bawling his mother out for leaving him all alone. He was really mad, and I couldn’t blame him.
    On my way to the jeep, I told her how proud she should be of her son. “He’s a smart kid,” I told her, bringing on a fresh round of tears. “He figured out what he needed to do to take care of himself.”
    She explained that her car had broken down, and she had to get a tow truck and a cab. She had been worried sick about not being home when her son returned from school. For his part, Jermaine wouldn’t let go of her and didn’t look back at me. Even though he hadn’t really been lost, I was glad he’d found me.
    I’ve never spoken to him again. He’s much older now, and I see him walking through my route or shooting hoops in the schoolyard with his buddies. He never waves or acknowledges me, but when our eyes meet, I know he remembers.

A Cup of Coffee
    Snow had started falling around dinnertime the day before. Big fat flakes, without a wind to disturb the soft edges of accumulation. Coming down in thick swirls, it alighted so gently and swiftly you would swear you could see it pile up. By mid-morning of the next day, eight or ten inches of new snow redefined the landscape. The sun came out, sparkling with an eye-piercing brilliance off the glittering white surface.
    Delivering the mail that morning was like walking in loose sand. Icy granules of snow packed down underfoot, then slid out from beneath my boots, making each step a lung-busting challenge. By lunchtime I was exhausted. Breaking new trail is hard work, and I still had four or five hours of walking ahead of me. My pace slowed. Instead of simply struggling and pushing through it, however, I decided to try to admire the beauty of the wintry landscape.
    All the classic winter snow scenes appeared: cedar fence rails and posts bearing a delicate mantle of snow; dark green boughs of pine and balsam weighed down under fresh white drifts, occasionally revealing the brilliant red flash of a cardinal. A small charcoal grill, neglected for the winter on a front stoop, became a rocket ship with its cone head capsule of snow. Other items lost their identities altogether, indiscriminate lumps under the thick white blanket.
    At one point I spotted a strange imprint in the snow near a row of bushes. A large bird, perhaps a hawk or owl of some sort, had scooped up a morsel of food. Individual feathers from the tips of the raptor’s outstretched wings marked the snow. From the impressive length of the wingspan, and the depth of the feathered imprints, I deduced that he must have been struggling as