Chapter 22: The Moon's Box

Gerda burned the Moon's letters at the stove at midnight, on Monday, when the almanac said the moon was full.

She did it every month, glasses on the end of her nose, feeding each folded sheet into the iron door with tongs.

"Nobody reads them," she said. "That's the custom. The wolf says it into the dark, and the dark takes it."

"You read them," I said.

"I'm not nobody. I'm a landlady."

The fire took the last page and flared.

I stood with my own letter in my hand.

It was one sheet, typed that afternoon at my table, with the low "e".

Lennart stood behind me, with his hand low on my back and his thumb under the hem of my cardigan.

"That's the last one," Gerda said, looking at the paper.

"Yes."

"Put it in the box, then. Let the man read it the proper way."

She hung up the tongs, took her coat from the hook, and went to the door.

"I'm going to bed," she said, "at the other end of the county. Lock up behind you."

The bell jingled, and the door shut.

We were alone in the dim store with the stove ticking and the forty brass doors shining along the wall.

I walked to box 9, took the cord from my neck, and opened it with the iron key.

I laid the letter inside, face up, and closed the little door.

"Now," I said, and held the key out to him.

He took it and opened the little door again with his own hand.

He took out the sheet and read it, standing under the lamp.

Dear L,

This is the last letter I will leave in the dark.

From now on I will say it to your face, in daylight, with the shutters up.

But the Moon deserves one more, and so do you.

Thank you for answering a stranger.

Maja

He read it twice.

He put it to his mouth, very softly, and then he looked at me, and his eyes were wet.

"You signed it with your name."

"I did."

"I thought you'd never."

"I thought so too."

He folded the page and tucked it inside his thermal.

"I'm keeping this one," he said.

"It's the Moon's."

"The Moon can take it up with me."

I laughed, and he kissed me, and the kiss changed halfway.

It went from soft to hungry between one breath and the next.

He backed me against the wall of letterboxes, and the little brass doors dug into my spine, a row of cold knobs.

"In front of fifty years of lonely wolves?" he said against my mouth.

"They'll want a story."

He growled.

He pulled my cardigan open and sucked at my throat, and his hands were already under my skirt.

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