A Parcel for Jeremiah Crump

BB stands hesitantly before the run-down cottage hunkered back from the street. It lies behind a picket fence framing a front lawn overgrown with weeds and untrimmed bushes. A sign posted on the front gate reads: Please Go Away.

Baldhere Bullitt, or BB as town folk affectionately call him, is something of a fixture in Dead Man’s Creek. For as long as anyone can remember, he is the fellow one goes to when the town clock needs repairing or when Mrs. Teasdale’s cat won’t come down from the Elm in front of her house. He’s a favorite with the children, always available to replace a broken spoke on a bicycle wheel or to referee one of their games. BB is also the postman and the name on the parcel he has to deliver this morning is addressed to Jeremiah Crump, 102 Elm Crescent. The last time he had to drop off anything at this address was on the 29th of February, four years ago, and it had not been a pleasant experience.

Very little is known about Jeremiah Crump. His only companions are two cats and a mangy easily aggravated Wolfhound. Old man Crumpy, as less charitable souls are wont to call him, is something of a recluse. The only time he is apt to leave his house is when he and Beast, his Wolfhound, venture into town to purchase a few necessities at the General Store. On those occasions, it’s a brave soul that does not cede the sidewalk to the rangy gray shaggy-haired dog with the yellow feral eyes and the darkly clad gangly Jeremiah Crump in his wide-brimmed black hat crowning his skull-like face.

Some years ago it had been rumored that Jeremiah Crump had been an undertaker in a neighboring town. Since then, the old man’s house has become the focus of children’s attentions on Halloween and on moonless nights when the wind whistles through the leafless branches. To their delight the noise never fails to elicit frenzied barking from the Wolfhound, which is guaranteed to draw a scowling Jeremiah Crump out on the porch. Waving his skinny long arms about to shoo them away, the old man reminds them of a lean scarecrow flapping in the wind.

BB cannot ignore the meaning behind the message posted on Jeremiah Crump’s gate. The emphatic ‘Go Away’ in bold letters brooks no argument. He’s reminded of other messages such as: ‘Keep Off the Grass’ and ‘Keep Out’ that carry an ‘or else’ hidden within the words. However, there is something less threatening about ‘Please Go Away’. The italic ‘Please’ makes the statement sound more like a plea. But then it also makes the message sound more insistent.

"I be damned if I be scared off by a sign on a gate. An’ no amount o’barkin’ from a toothless fleabag of a dog will prevent this postman from completin’ his appointed rounds,” grumbles BB, nearly tearing the gate off its rusty hinges as he abruptly swings it open. Deaf to the Wolfhound’s barking, chin jutting in a show of determination, and leaning forward as if facing a headwind, BB strides with purpose down the narrow walkway. Upon reaching the front door he finds no bell or knocker to announce his presence. He pounds on the door causing the window to rattle in its frame. The Wolfhound’s barking has reached a pitch such as to suggest the animal is on the verge of apoplexy.

“Quiet Beast,” shouts a voice above the din, “It’s only those kids.” And the door swings open revealing the gaunt figure of a sullen Jeremiah Crump. “Can’t you read?” he growls.

“A parcel for ye, Mr. Crump,” says BB holding out the package. “Ye’ll be signin’ for it.”

“I didn’t order anything,” says the old man, glaring at the box with suspicion.

“It’s from a Mrs. Ethel Fairin’ in Halifax,” says BB reading from the label on the box.

“Glory be! She remembered my birthday,” says Jeremiah Crump. Smiling, he gently takes the parcel from BB’s hands. “She remembered,” he mutters and holds up the package like an offering. Eyes glistening, he looks at BB as if calling on the postman to witness a unique event. “She really remembered,” he whispers.

“And a happy birthday to ye, sar,” says BB, presenting the receipt form for the old man to sign.

Pocketing his pen and taking back the receipt pad, BB is about to leave when he asks: “Would it be too bold to ask how old that makes ye, Mr. Crump?”

“Today, I am celebrating my twentieth birthday, son,” Jeremiah Crump says chuckling. And he gently closes the door.