No. 62

Chas. In 1895 (Winning)

Stewart King c/o

John C. Davant, Attorney

501 Cleveland St.

Clearwater, Florida

December 11, 1939

Dear Stewart,

The day your uncle Charles pulled me out of that saloon, in the electric year of 1895, I felt the train start to move in more ways than one, for the winds shifting!

Charles got me on the railway mail car and, as if nothing had happened moments before my rescue, he and the other clerks went on to read the labels on the bags at their feet. Bending and leaping, he handed and tossed his pals their bags, and they dragged and stuffed them.

For a moment I felt a chill between the men, for their silence, causing me to think Charles had done something terribly wrong by bringing me onto this car, but when one of them smiled, the rest of them broke out of this strange silent ritual, as if the men were forgiving each other, or letting go of their own family stuff left on their own family dining room tables, and I blessed them, as an illiterate mute can, and I finally relaxed.

Pieces of mail were soon flying out of the bags like carp fish. They landed in other hooked bags or scooted in wooden cubbies. The men spoke in a strange language, their shorthand for the routing, and occasionally someone yelled out the symbols or nickname for the next stop, and whether or not it was a stopping or just a catching.

The steam locomotive was in front of the postal car. Occasionally some of its smoke entered the car, if there was a twist in the winds, which was a black blessing, I suppose, for it reminded me to cover my eyes and nose, which hid my face from every angle, for I still worried my boss could see though the windows and I would be found out, even though we were far from that place, I imagined the cloud was voicing its disapproval ever-over me, crawling under my hat, harassing my scalp and the base of my neck.

I took off the cap for a good scratch and let my hair fall. It was still wet and I was afraid of ruining a pile of labels.

With this annoyance, I was moved to another corner of the car until the next stop, where Charles smuggled me off in a more isolated spot with no rush or trouble, no witnesses, as if he and I were related not by this episodic stain but instead by agape.

Next, Charles and I got off, waving to the other clerks who wanted nothing to do with it, and I never would in my life mention their names or descriptions, ever. Charles hired a wagon so that we could loop back into town from the north. This ride gave Charles time to give me instructions.

“My name is Charles Brother. My sister needs a domestic servant for her new home. Complains she can't find help. She won’t refuse,” he said, “She won't turn you away. Just do what you do, Miss.”

He didn’t even know my name, he didn't even ask, which I thought was only kindness. But I told him, "My name is Wilhelmina Catarina Anna de Boer. My sisters called me Minnie for short."

"You are short. Let's go shorter." And after a short pause, he said, "I will call you WIN."

I wanted to respond, but he immediately hit the reins and the horse obeyed the rush.

When he did slow down, we both stayed quiet. I was too upset, my nerves shot. I faded in and out while we headed to your mother's mansion. I imagined my old master riding to my poor father, who set up the position for me to work there when I was 14, but my father, not being able to read the agreement or, see through the thick black smoke the clues I tried to give him, could not know the severity of my place. Of course I wanted to tell Charles to find a way to protect my father, but could not get it out, stammering only a few moments and I kept looking back, listening to a voice that came from inside of me—how it felt to be out of there—to be running, moving my legs in one hard, intense direction for once in a very long time, I felt childish, and it was such a break for this-a-way-and-no-that-a-way and pivoting all the live long day—and today this clean burst of energy to zoom, and, well, go, go, far away and the answering of prayers. Maybe I could see a park or touch grass there?

Charles shoved my torso back to center with one hand, pointed, nodded, and insisted, “Ahead. Look straight. Win.”

As if he was pointing through the clouds to some pearly gates, Charles nodded again that the mansion before us, that one, my lands, was to be my new assignment.

Look, jaw dropping for back peddling and blinking, I had no references. No experience in any docile arts other than mending the clothes at the hotel. This turn could be a trick.

But I looked again at Charles. I had 30 minutes, every Thursday, with Charles. He appreciated how quickly I got things done, to please people, anything to avoid their touch and the smoke of their cigars.

Back to the letters.

--Miss Minnie

2025 Copyright Christine Friesel