Susanne Davis

Susanne Davis

Why Mrs. Morrison Was too Busy to Die

Mrs. Morrison was too busy to die. That task, the most final of all, had been undertaken by too many in the small town of Asheville this year.

First, the seventeen- year old at the end of the street. He’d received a text from the girl he liked that she didn’t like him. He was found in the woods, overdosed.

Next, the middle-aged farm hand found in his car a day after he’d gone missing. No one knew if he’d taken opioids before or if this was the first time. A tragedy, people whispered, because the woman he loved was due to deliver their baby within the month, and she’d taken up with another man who had a better job, health insurance, and a house for them to live in. At the farm hand’ s funeral the farmer told the gathering of the man’s gift for working with the animals. He didn’t know what he’d do without him.

Most recently, a young woman overdosed after having her hours cut at Dunkin’ Donuts. While the first two overdoses affected Mrs. Morrison, the third one cracked her right open.

So, no way could Mrs. Morrison die now, even though her doctor had told her to get ready. Her tumor, found late, hadn’t responded to treatment. But Mrs. Morrison rejected the doctor’s timeline for her life. She couldn’t die now, not now with so many grieving the three lost to the opioid crisis. In this war against hopelessness, she was a warrior, determined to fight.

With the first two overdoses she’d fought the war with homemade chicken soup, and cheese casseroles, and chocolate chip cookies.

She’d fought with her favorite passage from the New Testament, “All things work together for good for those that love God.” She loved God and her town, and figured she’d see results, but none of these weapons seemed to stem the tide.

Then one night just days after the third overdose funeral, when she watched the evening news, trying to avoid the sunny photo on her mantel of a girl lost and buried, Mrs. Morrison saw an investigative report on how the opioids were getting into the country from China: through the postal system.

The next morning, Mrs. Morrison arrived at the post office door, 8 a.m. sharp. The postmaster, Tom Randall, ran the post office alone. He’d been doing so for 30 years. Mrs. Morrison waited for him to unlock the door and as soon as he did she said, “Morning, Tom. Did you see the evening news last night?”

“Can’t say I did,” he said.

Mrs. Morrison told him about the report. “Through the mail. Can you believe that?”

Tom shook his head. “What the hell,” he said. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

“Appreciate that,” Mrs. Morrison said. “Here we are feeling as though Death himself has walked in, tapping people on the shoulder. We’ ve all just been holding our breath, waiting to see who might be next. Each time it gets closer.”

“You might be right,” the postmaster said, shuffling through the mail in the bin beside the counter.

“Well, can’t you detect it, somehow?” Mrs. Morrison leaned across the counter, peering into the bin.

“How do you want me to do that?” Tom settled his knit hat firmly on his head.

“Can’t you open suspicious packages?”

Tom stopped shuffling through the bin and peered at Mrs. Morrison, head tilted to one side. “You know that’s a federal offense, right? Tampering with mail?”

“Seems to me this is an international problem. There should be a different rule on the law for this,” Mrs. Morrison slid it back to her side of the counter.

“Well we don’t get to make the laws, Harriet. Don’t you have enough going on in your own life right now?”

Mrs. Morrison wasn’t surprised that he kept referring to her troubles. Asheville was a small town, after all.

“I’m fine, Tom,” she said. “Don’t try to change the subject. You’ve been doing this job. You must know if you see suspicious packages?”

“They don’t come with a return address saying China,” he snapped at her. “They go to drug warehouses and get repackaged.”

“So you knew about this already?” she asked.

“We got a federal alert,” he admitted. “But I haven’t seen anything. I feel like you’re blaming me, Harriet.”

“Listen, Tom,” Mrs. Morrison said. “I don’t mean to. It’s just when I go by the Forrester’s Club seeing those guys drinking, trying to forget that they got no jobs and no money and when I go by the town playground and see two adults huddled together now, I worry about everything, especially the kids. I just want to see whoever’s selling this stuff face to face. I want to say, “You’re ripping the seam of our town right apart and we’re not going to let it happen. You know?”

“I know, Harriet,” Tom said. “I do.” But he set the mail bin more securely behind him on the shelf as he spoke.

“Is there anyone getting more packages than usual?” she asked. “Maybe you could just tell me that?”

Tom shook his head. “Harriet, trust me. If I see something that looks suspicious I’m gonna report it to the state police. I know you mean well, but,” Tom squared his shoulders and took a deep breath. “You’re a religious woman. And you’ve had a shock. Maybe the best thing you can do is pray. Let the law enforcement take care of the other part; you’re not equipped for that.”

Mrs. Morrison was a firm believer. She believed in the divine, and for whatever reason, she believed God was calling her now to do more, to be the hands and eyes and heart of His Love. But maybe Tom was right that she wasn’t equipped for handling drug dealers. She didn’t say that specifically, but she acknowledged his point. “You might be right, there, Tom. I appreciate all you do.” She slid a package of cookies across the counter before she slipped out the door.

Mrs. Morrison headed for the church across the street. She sat in a pew and prayed for a miracle. She prayed to hear God’s voice telling her what to do. She couldn’t hear a thing. It started to rain and she sat praying, until it stopped. Then, she went on, delivering cookies and casseroles to family members of those lost, going last to the home of the most recent victim of the opioid crisis. It had been one week since her funeral.

Mrs. Morrison sat with her daughter and two other, younger grandchildren, who cried for their sister. Mr. Morrison dried their tears and held back her own, even though she’d cared for that eldest grandchild each day before and after school, until she was old enough to be alone. She wished she’d never let go.

Later that afternoon, just about dusk, Mrs. Morrison was headed home when she saw a stranger in a black sweat suit and sneakers walking along the road, carrying a brown paper wrapped parcel. Mrs. Morrison stopped her car and rolled down her window.

“May I help you?” she asked.

The stranger took a step toward her car and looked at her with his pale eyes. She’d never seen such pale eyes, like the mottled cloudy sky behind him, constantly shifting.

“What have you got there, in that package?” she asked sharply.

The man turned away and began walking again, as if he’d considered her and decided it best not to engage with her at all.

Mrs. Morrison thought about the little pills, and the drug companies that sold them. She thought about the investigative news stories that chronicled the profit and the greed. She thought of all the meals she’d cooked, tears she’d dried, prayers she’d uttered. She thought about what Tom Randall had cautioned, that she wasn’t equipped for policing criminal acts.

And she decided to give this man one last chance. She pulled her car up along side him again, window open. “I’m not going to ask again. What’s in that package? Is it drugs?”

The man said nothing, but as he lifted his hood up around his ears, as if protection against her voice and her questions.

And he kept walking.

The road was deserted, the playground empty, lights out at the post office. The river ran swift with rain.

Mrs. Morrison waited just long enough, then she pressed her foot to the gas and shot forward, closing her eyes and letting her prayers loose with the

thunk and thump of the man’s body against the hood of her car. She closed her eyes so as not to see his face looking at her through the glass as she made straight for the river. When the car hit the water, Mrs. Morrison opened her eyes to see the man and the package washing clear out of town and above her, she saw the wavering stars of a world underwater.