A Strange Evening on a Quiet Street
Usually by early evening Brighton Avenue was tranquil. Little row houses on both sides of the street softened deeper in the street, burning the same soft, central fire in their windows, and the street lamps began to give off a mild hum as they, one by one, came to glow. The air was cool and carried in its breath the smell of the ocean, though the shore was still a few blocks away. It was the sort of place where the sound of your own footsteps made an echo.
Mira had been working as a delivery helper for only three weeks. She was still getting used to the long routes and the way the scanner beeped loudly each time a package was marked as delivered. She liked the job though. It gave her time to walk, to think and to see the little things in each street. Brighton Avenue was her last stop of the day. She felt like going home. But then something caught her eye.
In the middle of the sidewalk near House Number 42 lay a brown packet. It was not large or great, but heavy enough so that its corners were a little scuffed. There was no broken tape and no print mark, but it obviously did not belong to the ground upon which it was lying. Mira glanced at her device. No deliveries were left. This package was not hers and it should not have been here.
She bent to pick it up. The smudged label made it look as if someone had smeared water over it. Only two words were clear: For Eleanor.
Mira looked around. Nobody was outside. In most houses, the curtains were drawn. A car started by without slowing down. She felt a little prickles on her neck, the kind that comes when something unexpected happens in a usually predictable place.
She checked the address again, but it was not there. Only the name. She thought that maybe somebody had let it slide by accident. Or maybe a driver had been in a hurry and dropped it somewhere. So she did not want to leave it there. Sometimes people need packages. Sometimes important things are inside them.
At the end of the street was an old house with a porch light that flickered more than it shone. Mira knocked on the door even though she did not know why. There was no answer. She knocked a second time. Still no one appeared. She tried the house next to. A woman in her late sixties because She opened the door a little.
Sorry to bother you, Mira said. Do you know anyone named Eleanor in this street
The woman’s eyes blinked slowly. They seemed to soften. You found something? she asked.
A package. But the label only said For Eleanor.
The woman opened the door wider. She looked uncertain for a moment, but then she shook her head. Sorry dear. There used to be an Eleanor in the house here many, many years ago. She passed away. I don’t think that’s who you are looking for.
An odd shift came over Mira—part confusion, part something else—with the woman’s words. She thanked the older woman and stepped back onto the sidewalk. The street seemed quieter than before; a dog barked far off. A window was opened anywhere, way off in the middle.
She turned the package in her hands. She did not believe in strange things, but something about this made her uncomfortable. She thought about leaving the package at the nearest store or with her supervisor. But something told her to keep walking. Maybe the street was long, lined with old houses. Maybe someone back there would know something about it.
Halfway down the block she noted House Number 18. It appeared to be empty. Dark but clean windows and a trim front garden gave the impression someone looked after the place. If nobody lived there, it was odd. Mira paused before finally climbing the few small steps to place the package on the porch. She didn’t know the reason why but finally felt that it fitted there. All she knew was that the street suddenly became warmer somehow, as if the wind had softened.
As she went away, she heard a faint creak behind her – the sound of an old floorboard under someone ‘s foot. She spun round quickly. There was no one there. The package was still in place, only the porch was empty.
She shook herself. Her bus stop was another two blocks away. The evening still, and for an instant everything seemed a bit suspended. She did not hear any voices Any sound of footsteps except her own. When she got to the corner, she turned back.
Now there was a light on in House Number 18. Not bright, but warm like a candle glow behind the front window.
The next morning Mira went back to Brighton Avenue for a delivery. Out of curiosity, she passed by House?18.
The porch was empty. The package was gone. And the house looked exactly the same way as before. Quiet. Dark. Still.
Mira paused thus for a moment; she did not know what happened to the package or who this ‘Eleanor ‘was in reality. But she felt alight something in the atmosphere, like a gentle thank-you whispered on the breeze.
Brighton Avenue was quiet again. Perhaps it was no longer the same to Mira.
