Rear-View Mirrors by Paul Fleischman

1 / Mailbox
    I grew up acquainted with my father neither by sight nor by scent, but solely by report. He was like a distant land known only through travelers’ tales, an inhospitable realm where strange and shocking customs survived. There, moths and butterflies were stalked, caught, dried, labeled, and displayed on the walls of every room, as if they were charms against evil spirits. Pea soup and bagels were the staple foods. The Boston Red Sox were noisily worshipped there and the tobacco leaf ritually burned, its foul-smelling smoke, unknown in our house, constantly rising upward like incense. My mother had been there, carrying me out of that country when I was eight months old. As my father, in the sixteen years after, hadn’t found time to once call or write, I grew up to be grateful she’d taken me with her. She was his ex-wife; I was his ex-daughter.
    I’ve found myself musing on all of this while making my way down Hatfield Road. I gaze out across the field to my left, hear a meadowlark singing, smell freshly cut hay, amazed by my present circumstances: to be strolling at dusk in North Hooton, New Hampshire, having started the day in Berkeley, California; to be in my father’s town, walking down his road, heading intentionally toward his house, a destination I’d long vowed to avoid; to find the sight of the “Eggs” sign ahead and the row of sugar maples to my right not only familiar, but welcome. For this is my second trip here. My first was a year ago. In the interim, my father was killed by lightning while up on his roof, replacing shingles in a storm. I pass a beech tree, study the trunk, and remember what he said about beeches. The road is lined with such rear-view mirrors in which I behold the summer before. I round a curve, then pass by a mailbox—and at once think back a year, to his letter.
    ***
    It was after my next-to-last day of eleventh grade that my mother came home from work and delivered it to me.
    â€œLetter for Miss Tate!”
    She announced this like a town crier, but seemed slightly anxious underneath her good cheer. I studied the envelope. It was addressed to me, in care of my mother, in care of the Sociology Department, University of California. In the corner was a return address in some town I’d never heard of in New Hampshire.
    I peered down at the postmark, then up at my mother. “But I don’t know a soul in New Hampshire.”
    â€œBeen writing your address in telephone booths?” She fiddled nervously with an earring. “‘For a good read, write Olivia Tate, 1521 Cedar Street, Berkeley.’”
    We both smiled. I thought about New Hampshire: maple syrup, snow in the winter, the first presidential primaries. But no one connected with the state came to mind.
    â€œOlivia, dear—I’ve got a pile of papers on Lenin I have to read after dinner. If you don’t plan to open the letter by then, or want some professional help in reading it—”
    I turned it over and slit it open. In the midst of which act I suddenly recalled hearing my mother speak of spending weekends, long ago, with my father at his parents’ house, somewhere in New England.
    I pulled out the contents of the envelope and felt my mother bending over my shoulder. In my hand I found an airline ticket, one way, in my name, from Oakland to Boston. Beneath it, a bus ticket from Boston to North Hooton, N.H. Under that, a handwritten note:
    Olivia,
    Remarkable opportunity. Return trip paid. Come if you can.
    Your father
    My mother seemed dazed. “My God,” she murmured. “Truly remarkable.”
    I stared at the unfamiliar handwriting, reread the telegram-style message, and found an old Rolling Stones song playing in my head: “Under My Thumb.” Which was where, it gradually dawned on me, I finally had my father. Begging for me to come to him. I smiled inside to realize our reversal of roles and my sudden advantage. And I decided