The Mailbox War Never Ended

The mailbox sits three and three-quarter inches over the line. Margaret knows this because she's measured it forty-seven times with the same yellow tape measure her husband Frank used before his heart gave out. Dorothy Kensington knows Margaret knows, and Margaret knows Dorothy knows she knows. Neither woman has spoken about it in twenty-three years.

They haven't spoken about anything in twenty-three years.

This morning, Margaret notices the begonias are wilting despite yesterday's rain. She adjusts the spray nozzle—the metal kind that clicks through seven settings, though she only ever uses two. Mist for the delicate stems, jet for the aphids that migrate from Dorothy's garden. Everything has its proper setting.

Dorothy emerges at six-twenty, as reliable as the sunrise. She wears her blue terry-cloth robe and carries a coffee mug that says "World's Best Grandmother," though her grandson hasn't visited since Christmas 2019. She surveys her roses with the expression of a general reviewing troops, then glances toward the mailbox.

The mailbox has been three and three-quarter inches over the line since 1979, when Dorothy's late husband Eugene installed it after their old one got clipped by the Hendersons' teenage son. Eugene, bless his soul, was always terrible with measurements. Dorothy could have mentioned it then—should have, really—but Eugene looked so proud of his handiwork, and the roses were blooming beautifully that year, and what were three inches between neighbors?

Margaret turns off the hose. The silence hangs between their yards like humidity.

"Morning, Margaret." Dorothy's voice sounds rusty, as if the words had been stored in a damp basement.

Margaret's hand tightens on the spray nozzle. They've had this conversation before—not the words, but the weight of them. The last time Dorothy spoke first was December 15, 2003. Margaret remembers because it was the morning after the big snow, and Dorothy had asked if Margaret's driveway had been plowed yet. A perfectly reasonable question. Margaret had said yes, thank you for asking, and offered to share her plow service's number. Dorothy had said that would be lovely.

Two weeks later, Dorothy hired the same service. Margaret learned this by watching the truck arrive next door at six in the morning, its diesel engine rattling her kitchen windows. The driver cleared Dorothy's driveway first, then Margaret's—which meant Margaret sat through twenty minutes of engine noise before getting what she'd already paid for.

Margaret had cancelled the service that afternoon.

"Morning," Margaret replies now, because she is not rude, despite what Dorothy might think. Despite what Dorothy might have told the book club, or the ladies at St. Catherine's, or her sister Linda who visits every third Sunday and parks directly in front of Margaret's mailbox.

Dorothy sips her coffee. "Supposed to be hot today."

"Is it."

"Ninety-three degrees, the radio said."

Margaret nods. She's already checked the weather on her phone—ninety-one degrees, actually, with a heat index of ninety-six. But she doesn't correct Dorothy. Correcting Dorothy on small things would imply that larger corrections might follow, and Margaret Whelan is not ready for that conversation. May never be ready for that conversation.

Dorothy waters her roses with a green watering can, the old-fashioned kind with the long spout. She's precise about it, giving each bush exactly the same amount. Margaret respects this precision despite herself. The roses are beautiful, she'll give Dorothy that. Prize-winning beautiful. The kind of roses that make garden club ladies stop their cars and take pictures.

"The Brennans are selling," Dorothy says.

Margaret knows this too. The sign went up yesterday. She also knows the asking price—$347,000, which seems optimistic for a house that still has the original kitchen from 1974—and that the listing agent is Dorothy's niece Patricia. Margaret learned this by reading the fine print on the sign with Frank's old binoculars.

"Good for them," Margaret says.

Dorothy nods toward the Brennan house. "Forty-two years they've been there."

"Forty-one," Margaret corrects automatically, then immediately regrets it. But Dorothy just nods, as if she'd been testing Margaret's memory.

The Brennans moved in three months after Margaret and Frank bought their place. Margaret remembers because Linda Brennan brought over a casserole that first week—tuna noodle with the crispy onions on top—and stayed for coffee. They'd talked about the neighborhood, the good schools, the quiet streets. Linda mentioned how nice it was to see young families moving in, how the previous owners—the elderly Kowalski couple—had let the garden go something awful.

Margaret had nodded and agreed, not mentioning that she'd spent the previous weekend pulling weeds from the exact flower beds where her begonias now grew. Not mentioning that the "awful" garden had been full of vegetables that the Kowalskis gave away to anyone who asked. Dorothy's roses now grow where the Kowalskis' tomatoes once flourished.

"Wonder who'll buy it," Dorothy says.

"Someone young, probably. With children."

"Children are nice."

Margaret almost smiles. They'd both loved children once, back when the neighborhood was full of them. Back when Tommy Kensington and Sarah Whelan were best friends who built snow forts in the winter and caught fireflies in Mason jars during summer evenings. Before Sarah went to college in California and stayed there. Before Tommy moved to Portland and calls his mother twice a year if she's lucky.

Dorothy finishes watering her roses. Margaret coils her hose in perfect loops, the way Frank taught her. Neither woman moves toward their respective back doors.

"Your begonias look nice," Dorothy says finally.

"Thank you." Margaret pauses. "Your roses are beautiful this year."

Dorothy nods. "Eugene always said the soil was good here. Rich."

"Frank said the same thing."

They stand in their respective yards, separated by a property line that exists mostly in Margaret's yellow tape measure and Dorothy's careful watering patterns. The mailbox sits three and three-quarter inches over that line, a monument to forty-seven years of Eugene's enthusiasm and Dorothy's inability to ask him to move it two feet to the left.

Margaret looks at the mailbox. Dorothy follows her gaze.

"I could have Charlie move it," Dorothy says quietly. "When he comes to trim the hedge."

Margaret considers this. Charlie is Dorothy's neighbor boy—though he's thirty-five now with three kids of his own. He does odd jobs around the neighborhood, honest work for honest pay. Moving a mailbox would take him twenty minutes, maybe less.

"The mail truck would have to learn a new route," Margaret says.

"Jerry's been driving this route for fifteen years. He'd figure it out."

Margaret nods. Jerry waves at her every morning, whether she's outside or watching from the kitchen window. Nice man. Dependable.

"I suppose three inches doesn't matter much," Margaret says.

Dorothy sips her coffee. "Three and three-quarters."

"Right. Three and three-quarters."

They stand there as the morning heat builds around them, two women who've measured their grievances in inches and kept their distances in decades. The begonias nod in the slight breeze. The roses release their fragrance into the warming air.

"Hot day ahead," Dorothy says.

"Yes," Margaret agrees. "It'll be a hot one."