It came from nearby Killig and was piloted by a man named Jack. The islanders all called him by name, though they suspected he deserved some loftier title, but whether “captain” or something more postal, nobody knew. Jack’s craft, though official, was unassuming, which confounded the matter even more. Whether in any given week Jack arrived on a Monday, a Wednesday, or at all, depended on what he ate for breakfast. If his wife gave him pancakes with butter, he took her back to bed, their stomachs heavy with sleep. If she made him toast with jam, he took her back to bed the same, their inclinations sweeter and stickier. If, though, she fed him farina, he climbed atop his bicycle and pedaled straight to the Post. There the sacks of mail awaited, for delivery to Oh and Walou and Esterina, Killig’s tiny island neighbors. With the help of the Postmaster, Jack dragged the sacks to the dock nearby, and in his burdened government vessel set off on his rounds. Oh was always Jack’s first stop.
