To George Denton

George Denton was late for the market.

Not that the market was expecting him, or that anyone was there waiting for him, but it was Thursday and it was nearly 10:00, and every Thursday at 10:00 George went to the market.

This morning, however, while reading the paper and having his usual cup of tea (earl grey with lots of milk and a small teaspoon of sugar), George had knocked over his favorite cup, pale blue with a border of marigolds, which had promptly shattered on the floor. Appalled with himself for creating such a mess, and deeply devastated at the loss of his favorite teacup, George had wiped and mopped and swept, making certain to get every last shard of cup and drop of milky tea.

As he was cleaning, George mentally went through his shopping list. He never wrote down his lists anymore. He had read an article about how writing lists wasn't good for your memory, as you didn't actually need to remember anything. His Thursday list was always the same – milk, eggs, bread, apples, bananas, and yogurt. This morning he had noticed that his stock of tea was running low, so he added that to the list. Milk, eggs, bread, apples, bananas, yogurt, and tea.

He also needed to stop at the hardware store. While watering his garden the night before, he had noticed that his hose had a small hole and was leaking water. George found this extremely inconvenient, as going to the hardware store was not something that was usually done on a Thursday, but a broken hose would not do.

Finished with tidying the kitchen, George hurried upstairs to brush his teeth. As he swished gentle circles over his gums, George considered something outlandish. There was a bakery near the hardware store which made lovely lemon poppy seed muffins. Usually, George went to the bakery only on Tuesdays to treat himself to two muffins and a double macchiato. However, since the bakery was so close to the hardware store, where he was going anyway, he considered maybe stopping in. His mouth nearly watered at the thought. But no. Go to the bakery on a Thursday? Ridiculous. “Really George, I’m surprised at you,” he muttered to his reflection.

George wiped the traces of toothpaste from his chin, and examined himself in the mirror. For a man in his early sixties, he still had a full head of hair, which settled in cloud-like poofs around his head. Deep lines grooved the skin around his eyes, and a smattering of freckles lay across his nose. George resented each and every one of these freckles; freckles on a man his age were unseemly. He blamed his red-haired, fair-skinned Scottish mother. In the mirror he caught a glimpse of the clock on the wall behind him – 10:05. He really must get going.

George dashed down the stairs, grabbed his keys and wallet from the table near the door, stuffed them deep into his pockets, struggled into his jacket, and turned toward the front door. As he reached for the doorknob, George had an odd feeling, which he couldn't quite name, in the pit of his stomach. It was almost like something was telling him he shouldn't open the door. Ignoring the feeling, he grasped the knob, pulled open the door, and stepped through.

George nearly tripped as his foot hit something hard and he heard the crunching of cardboard. He looked down to find a box, wrapped in brown paper, now slightly dented. On the top, in bold black letters, in a strangely familiar handwriting, was his name. George bent to pick up the package.

What on earth could this possibly be, he wondered. Being the beginning of May, it was nowhere near his birthday, nor any of the major gift-giving holidays. There was no return address, and his relations were not in the habit of randomly sending gifts. George shook the box, which provided no answers, but only made a soft thudding sound.

Should he open it now, or wait until he got back from the market? He was already so terribly late, but the mysterious box certainly should be opened. George stood on his front step for several minutes internally debating what to do before impulse caused him to quickly rip through the paper and throw open the box.

Inside, shiny and green, was a new hose. It was exactly the garden hose that George had planned on buying when he went to the hardware store. George lifted the hose, inspecting the box to see if anything else was inside. Nothing.

Who would send him a hose? George wondered. Was this some kind of strange coincidence, or did someone know he needed a new hose? How would they know that? Was someone watching him? Maybe the hose had been meant for someone else, and had been left on the wrong doorstep. But no, he remembered his name in big black letters. The hose was definitely meant for him. Stepping back inside the house, George placed the box on the hall table. He would deal with it later. Time to go to the market.

*****

The next morning, George sat at his kitchen table, eyeing the hose in its box, sipping tea from his second favorite teacup. After going to the market, he had slowly driven past the hardware store, watching the people going in and out. They all appeared highly suspicious. George had not stopped to buy another hose, but also had not hooked up the mysterious one. Instead, he had watered his garden with the old, leaky hose, while the new hose remained in its box in the kitchen. He didn’t trust it.

Today George had a dentist appointment. He detested booking appointments on a Friday, having the week’s worth of dread and anxiety leading up to it, but one of his molars was bothering him and the dentist had no other days available. His appointment wasn’t for another two hours, so he thought he’d spend some time outside. Giving the hose one last, glaring look, George went out through the back door.

Blinking in the morning sunshine, George admired his yard, a large part of which was dedicated to his flower and vegetable gardens. The grass bordering the garden was longer than George usually liked to keep it, but it had been a very sunny week, and he hadn’t wanted it to burn. He would take care of that this weekend.

“Hello, George!”

George looked over to see his neighbor, Ms. Byrnes, waving at him from her deck. “Hello, Lydia,” George called, moving closer to the fence to chat.

Lydia Byrnes was a good neighbor. She was very nosy and very chatty, but she was also very helpful. She was quiet and kept her yard neat. Every now and then, she would bring over a pie or some cookies. All in all, a good neighbor. He considered telling her about the hose, asking her what she thought. Instead, not wanting her to think him strange, he made small talk about the weather. As Ms. Byrnes turned to go inside and check the oven, promising to bring him some brownies later, a thought struck him. What if Ms. Byrnes had left the brown box with the hose on his doorstep? She might have known his hose was broken if she saw him out in the yard with it. But then, why wouldn’t she openly give him the hose? Why be so mysterious? George narrowed his eyes at her retreating form.

Pushing his suspicious thoughts aside, George turned to his garden. He toed carefully between the rows, inspecting for weeds. Not that there would be many. George made these rounds several times a day, and any weed bold enough to grow in his garden was swiftly ripped out.

Nearly an hour later, a handful of weeds, and two ripe tomatoes later. George went back inside. Setting the tomatoes by the sink, he checked the clock. Just enough time for him to walk to the dentist and still be his customary fifteen minutes early. George grabbed his keys and wallet, and opened the front door.

Sitting on the front step was another box, wrapped in brown paper, with his name in the same big, bold, black letters. George stood staring. One mysterious brown box might have been a coincidence, but two mysterious brown boxes? He stepped over the box, looking up and down the street, searching for anyone who may look like they were recently delivering questionable mail. The only people out were a few small children on bikes, and the man who lived across the street walking his dog. George gingerly picked up the box and went back inside.

This time, George didn’t hesitate, but tore open the box. When he saw what was inside, his stomach dropped. Nestled in layers of white tissue paper was a teacup. The cup was pale blue, with small yellow flowers dotting its surface. Marigolds. It was very much like the cup he had broken yesterday – his favorite teacup, which had belonged to his grandmother. His grandmother had loved marigolds.

George carefully picked up the cup. Beneath it, in the same strangely familiar writing as his name on the box, was a letter.

“Dear George, This is as close as I could find. You can use the hose. It’s okay. Sincerely, Not Ms. Byrnes”

Baffled, George stared at the note. He was unsure which part of this was most confusing. Firstly, he had not told anyone about breaking his grandmother’s cup, so how did this person know? Was someone watching him inside his home? And if they were, how were they doing it? Secondly, how did they know that he was nervous about using the hose? Was it actually okay? Lastly, how did this person know that he had suspected Ms. Byrnes, when he himself had not known it until forty minutes ago.

Unsure what else to do, George set the teacup on the table, and turned on the kettle.

*****

George missed his dentist appointment. He did not even call to cancel, which was very unlike him. He heard the phone ring, heard the answering machine pick up, and heard the assistant at the dental office leave a message asking him to call back, but he didn't. He spent his weekend feeling frazzled and watched. He was constantly glancing over his shoulder, wondering if someone might be close by. On Saturday, George went to check the front door every thirty minutes, wondering if there might be another package, but there was nothing. Sunday was much the same. But again, no package. By Monday, his nerves had calmed a little, and he was only checking the door every hour or two. Again, nothing.

Then it was Tuesday morning. George always looked forward to his Tuesday trips to the bakery – to his double macchiato and his two lemon poppy seed muffins. He enjoyed the walk there, appreciated how the girl who worked Tuesday morning knew what he wanted. This Tuesday, while George was still feeling very apprehension, he still very much wanted to go. He had already checked the front step three times this morning, and so far there had been nothing waiting there for him. The force of habit overcame George's hesitancy, and he prepared to leave. For a minute, George stood staring at the door, apprehension building in his stomach. He took a deep breath, and let it out slowly. Then he opened the door.

A brown paper bag and a black coffee cup sat before him, both stamped with the logo of a bakery across town. Taped to the bag was a note that read “Don’t go today.” Knowing what he would find, George opened the bag. Two lemon poppy seed muffins. The cup must hold a double macchiato.

As George stood on his front step, the coffee cup in one hand and muffin bag in the other, he felt a new emotion replace his nervousness. George’s stomach tightened and his neck tensed. His grasp on the muffin bag tightened; he could feel the muffins being crushed. Stomping into the kitchen, George poured the coffee down the sink. The flattened muffins were thrown in the trash. George was angry.

Whoever this person was, they were not going to tell him what to do. He would go to the bakery and get his own coffee and muffins. George slammed the door on his way out, and glared threateningly at every person he passed on his way.

Approaching the bakery, George noticed a line outside. Irritated, he stood behind a large blonde man to wait his turn.

George had nearly made it inside the door when he heard an odd screeching sound. People started yelling. George looked around in time to see a motorcycle skidding straight at him. His view was blocked as a large body jumped in front of him and knocked him aside. The air was filled with a horrible crunching, and the smashing of glass. The back of a blonde head was the last thing George saw before he fainted.

****

George sat at his kitchen table, an ice pack held to his forehead. After the motorcycle had crashed into the bakery, George had had to stay and speak to the police. The bakery, obviously, had closed, and George did not get his coffee or muffins. Luckily no one but the driver had been injured. An ambulance had come to take him away. George had overheard someone say that they thought it might have been a heart attack.

The doorbell rang. George eased himself up, and crossed the hall. He wasn’t expecting anyone, but thought it would probably be someone asking about the accident.

On George’s doorstep were a brown paper bag and a black coffee cup. Both were stamped with the logo of a bakery across town. Taped to the bag was a note that said “I told you not to go.”

Leaning heavily on the door frame, George bent to pick up the cup and bag. He sipped his double macchiato and went back inside.