Mr. and Mrs. Scribendi and the Flying Scribendis

Jim was surprised. The package he had picked up for Mr. Scribendi at the post office that morning had looked like any other. Sure, the return address hadn’t been a publisher’s, but that, in itself, was not unusual. Often authors sent their work directly to Mr. Scribendi after getting the address from Mrs. Scribendi at the switchboard. The grains of glitter and – was that sawdust? – stuck to the underside of the packing tape had caused Jim briefly to raise an eyebrow, and he had noted that, although the handwriting was bad and the street name spelled Shurmun, the Scribendi name was perfectly, beautifully, almost magically executed.
But the surprise had come as Mrs. Scribendi opened the box. Jim noticed a slight pursing of the lips, a patting of that tight coil of hair at her nape and a glance downwards, as if to substantiate herself, before she took up the exacto-knife.
Sequins and satin spilled from the box; a glittering slipper dropped to Mrs. Scribendi’s hand-braided rug, immediately muting its colours.
Mrs. Scribendi, back straight, eyes closed, laid down the knife. She opened her eyes, drew the material, shiny reds and golds, from the box and found an envelope at the bottom. “Would you rather Jim left the room, dear?” were her first words.
Mr. Scribendi, seated, as always, at his desk, the green glow of the banker’s lamp casting heavy shadows under his eyes, shook his head. “No, Jim has work to do here. He won’t mind this.”
Jim smiled reassuringly at Mrs. Scribendi, realized he had temporarily forgotten all about work, and bent over his keyboard. He typed into his unfinished book review, “The reader who appreciates finely detailed historical information will be delighted; the reader who is merely looking for a cracking good tale will be no less pleased.” He read it over onscreen, rolled his eyes, and, in doing so, saw that Mrs. Scribendi had removed a letter from the envelope and was just about to read.
Our dearest boy:
Mr. Scribendi looked up.
We need you as never before. Dominico has broken his leg – yes, you warned that the Impossible Rubber Band Catch was impossible, we know – and mother is hysterical. You know so well that your decision to run away from the circus broke her heart. An editor! My son, my son, come back to us. Put on the costume. You know it suits you. Don’t listen to that wife of yours. Get her a costume, too, if you must. She can sell peanuts.
“Really!” Mrs. Scribendi put a hand to her forehead. The headache would be severe.
Come, son. The Flying Scribendis are lost without you.
Your loving father.
Mr. Scribendi rose from his wooden chair. He took both Mrs. Scribendi’s hands in his and looked into her eyes. She looked away. “No, dear. Please, no.” Her voice trailed off. Mr. Scribendi let go, turned and held up the costume, examining its saucer-sized buttons, its slim lamé trousers. He looked again at his wife, then carefully folded the material and packed it into the box. Mrs. Scribendi looked up, eyes shining. She opened a drawer and handed Mr. Scribendi the packing tape. He sealed the box. Was he smiling? Just a bit? Mrs. Scribendi had the black marker ready.
“RETURN TO SENDER,” she wrote.
Later that day, while Jim was out taking the package back to the post office, and while Mrs. Scribendi was in the kitchen fixing sandwiches for their lunch (extra pickles for her wonderful husband), Mr. Scribendi looked down at the rug. He quietly crossed the room and picked up the special trapeze artist’s shoe. It caught the light as he turned it this way and that. He continued to admire its flashing as he walked back to his desk. He tucked it away.
No one, not Mrs. Scribendi, nor Jim, nor their good friend next door, would come to suspect what lay in Mr. Scribendi’s bottom drawer.
(June 2002)