The Night Shift
By Linda Berlin
Lester Sunday sat most days by the yellow push-button phone mounted on the wall of his kitchen. He refused to step into the modern day and it made his whole body ache. The long, tangled cord brushed the vinyl floor. Lester often tripped over it when he cleared the dishes after a meal. He’d curse, but he would never replace it. Around sunset, he changed into overalls and a flannel shirt, slouched into a quilt-lined coat and left the tidy home for work.
Each evening, he cleaned the local UPS facility near the train track on the outer edge of Rock Springs, Wyoming. It was a thirty-minute drive from the double-wide. Full time. Swing shift. Five to midnight. Lester swept, scrubbed, emptied trash bins, polished sinks and toilet bowls, and wiped down two bathroom mirrors. The lofty windowless warehouse creaked when the wind blew and smelled of fresh milled paper. He cleaned the entire warehouse all by himself, but it never took as long as he’d hoped.
By ten, Lester tucked the broom and dust pan in the janitor’s closet. He rolled back the rubber gloves and hung them inside out on the two hooks beneath the shelf that held the cleaning supplies. He still had two more hours to go in his shift, so Lester made his way to the shiny delivery van parked in the building’s southwest corner. He would rather drive the van than mop the warehouse, but he would not give up the hope that she might call some day.
On most evenings, the van’s back doors were locked, but he checked them once again. Tonight, they swung open like the pearly gates. Lester’s mouth went dry. Boxes were stacked on either side of a narrow aisle. He climbed up into the van, his knees popping on the way. His hand quivered as it swept over the packages waiting to be delivered to loved ones. Lester examined the one closest to him and startled at the loopy letters written with a Sharpie pen in the top left corner of the box. Her name. She always did this. Lester touched the inscription as he held his breath. When he finally let himself breath again, he could smell her lavender soap, taste her apple pie, feel her small hand in the crook of his elbow. Lester plucked the package from the pile and backed out of the van in one swift motion. He stowed the box in the cab of his rusty pickup truck parked out back.
Returning to the warehouse, Lester bounced around like a high school kid, remembering when he first met her. Back then, he had mounds of energy. He swept the entire warehouse once more, anxious for his shift to end. He couldn’t remember the drive home, rushing as he did, jittery from discovering her name on the package. His head buzzed from the memories of the gifts they’d exchanged over many years. The wool vest at Christmas. The Timex watch still clamped to his wrist. The dresses. She would try one on then return it to the rack. Lester always called the dress shop afterwards. The sales gal took notes on her favorites.
When he parked in the dirt driveway, the wind wrestled him for the package. He tucked the box in his armpit and walked with new purpose toward the front door, his head bent forward, his shoulders curled against the weather. He struggled with the key in the lock, but finally made it through the door, closing it behind him with his boot. Lester set the precious box on the couch and went to the bedroom to change out of his work clothes. He put on the red and green flannel pajamas she’d bought him for Christmas three years ago. He’d forgotten how comfortable they were. Returning to the living room, Lester carried the box to the kitchen table where they’d eaten countless meals together. He used her knitting scissors to cut it open, careful not to damage its contents. A rush of blood in his ears made him feel dizzy. The present, wrapped in snowflake paper, had a silver bow on it. Lester smiled for the first time in years.
“Mr. Sunday.”
Lester looked up at the judge. The man’s impatient tone interrupted Lester’s memories and he frowned at him.
“You thought all these packages were from your wife?”
Lester looked around the crowded courtroom as if noticing all the people assembled there for the first time. He nodded, just once, then froze like a startled deer. The judge had salt and pepper hair and the saddest eyes Lester had ever seen. He hunched over the bench, the skin of his neck loose and blotchy, but his voice was as gentle as a steady rain. “Why did you do it?”
He seemed like a nice enough fellow.
Lester cleared his throat, but his words, raw and distant, surprised even him: “Because it brought her back to life. ”
Bio: Linda Berlin has published in The New York Times, the Los Angeles Times, and the San Francisco Chronicle. She currently pens a Substack, Perpetual Motion, about adventure travel, books, and aviating. Her debut novel, The Perfect Pianist, is out on submission. She lives in northwestern Wyoming with her spouse Rodeo. Visit her author website at lindaberlin.com.
Author’s Notes: I read a story in a local Wyoming newspaper about a thief who took packages from a UPS facility in Wyoming. I immediately visualized an older gentleman still struggling with the death of his wife. The packages brought her back to life for him. I wanted to write about someone who had no criminal background, but who found himself still struggling to accept the loss of his one true love.
