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Postal workers are held to a high degree of confidentiality. Tampering with the mail is a federal crime, indeed. This is universally understood, even in the quaint town of Riverton, Wyoming, where the sole post office is run by a friendly middle-aged couple. The Andersons would never admit it, of course, but they greatly enjoyed the intimate knowledge they had of their neighbors. Chatting with customers was part of the job.
To help the woman sending handmade scarves and socks to her daughter in the big city every winter.
To assist the man writing in to order birthday presents for his grandkids.
To sort through the many postcards addressed to Ennis Del Mar.
Jack’s postcards were always a delight to process. They depicted watercolor landscapes of America’s mountains - some out west, some out east, and even a few scenes in Wyoming. Prominent snow-capped peaks in the faint sunrise, framed by the dark pine forests. Mr. and Mrs. Anderson privately placed bets on what the next one would be, and they were never correct.
What really made Jack’s postcards so interesting was the effect they had on Mr. Del Mar. He was never very talkative and tended to keep to himself as he picked up various bills and mail for his family. He mostly spoke in quiet thank yous and half-muttered pleasantries. When one of Jack’s postcards sat among the usual junk mail, the man immediately brightened.
The first time Mrs. Anderson witnessed it, she couldn’t believe how much younger he looked. The weight of responsibility and stress seemed entirely lifted as Ennis struggled to contain his happiness. He fumbled around the post office desk for a pen and a slip of paper, hastily writing a reply: “You bet. ”
Mrs. Anderson dutifully stamped the paper as she recited the standard delivery times and expected pickup information. The normally-elusive man seemed lost in his own world, but nodded along regardless.
She hadn’t discussed it with her husband at the time, but she sometimes remembered the odd interaction when she saw Ennis in town, wife and daughters at his side.
Several years passed, and several more postcards made their way to Ennis Del Mar’s mailbox. Nosy as they were, the Andersons were captivated by this mysterious fishing buddy. Mr. Anderson speculated that he was an old friend from school, until Mrs. Anderson pointed out that Ennis never had much in the way of schooling. Mrs. Anderson floated the idea of Jack being a distant relative, but it was common knowledge that Ennis didn’t have hardly any living kin.
They never shared the details of their work with others, but there were certain advantages to running a post office with your spouse.
Eventually, Ennis and Alma divorced. Both of them were tight-lipped during and after the affair, and were on kind enough terms - for their daughters. The folks in town had their own ideas about why, but the Andersons noticed something odd about the same time.
The frequency of Jack’s postcards increased. Notably. And their tone shifted ever so slightly - more sincere.
The thing about postcards is that they were easy to catch a glimpse of. Something plausibly deniable for any curious postal worker. And it’s not like Ennis and Jack ever said much - a location, a date, a confirming of plans. But what was once every six months or so became every 3-4 months.
And the letter.
Mr. Anderson almost couldn’t believe it. Just a week or so after overhearing the news about the divorce while at a church social, a letter arrived addressed to Ennis Del Mar from one such Jack Twist. It wasn’t so easy to read a letter, and he wouldn’t dare.
But it was easy to read between the lines.
Understandably, Ennis hadn’t opened it in the post office. His usual enthusiasm for Jack’s correspondence was quickly replaced with something trickier to place as he turned the letter over in his hands - regret, or maybe heartbreak? A few days later while processing the outgoing letters, Mr. Anderson noticed a slightly crumpled envelope addressed to Jack. Were those… tear stains? After sorting it, he put the letters out of his mind.
The Riverton post office never received another enveloped letter from Jack.
The Andersons and their curious patrons continued their routine - every few months a postcard, every few months a reply - for several more years. The couple sometimes wondered about the two men. Would they ever meet Jack? Did Ennis ever go down to Texas to fish? And they still weren’t sure how they’d even met.
But they never spoke aloud the quiet implications of the arrangement.
They’d been around long enough to have heard the rumors about Ennis’s late father. Had he been sending his son a message? It was too cruel for the Andersons to imagine.
It wasn’t until one day many, many years after this all began, when the Andersons were reaching their own retirement, that Ennis wrote the first postcard. Not much different from the ones they received from Jack, but lacked the scenic watercolors.
“ Jack,
How about november 7 for you. I can meet you at pine creek
Ennis Del Mar ”
His hand trembled ever so slightly with nerves, his cursive not as tight and neat as Jack’s script tended to be. This was an upset to the careful balance he’d struck with Jack, and Mrs. Anderson did her best to keep her own concern from showing. She assured him that his message would arrive promptly, knowing that she couldn’t comfort him in a way that mattered. They were hardly more than friendly strangers.
Stamping undelivered mail with a notice of death was one of the hardest aspects of the job. The Childress postman teared up a little as he did so on Mr. Del Mar’s postcard.
It never got easier.
Neither of the Andersons intended to be at the desk when Ennis’s truck pulled up to pick up the mail that day. He’d been agitatedly checking his mailbox for days, restless for a reply. When his postcard arrived after being returned to sender, they privately grieved a man they’d never known, knowing that their sorrow would be a fraction of whatever Ennis felt for the man.
But, if anyone had asked around about the small, unmarked bouquet of flowers that found their way to Jack Twist’s service down in Texas, the postal workers of Riverton and Childress would have denied any knowledge whatsoever.