Onion Songs

THE MESSENGER

Morgan staggered to the door half-asleep. Then he opened his eyes. Then he opened the door. The Western Union man was there.

Still dark outside; it was three o’clock in the morning.

“I’m… I’m really very sorry,” the messenger said, fumbling with the piece of paper in his hands. “I don’t know what brings me here. I…” He cleared his throat. “But I’ve really terrible news.”

Morgan frowned at the little man. “This must be difficult for you. But we all have our tasks to perform. You have your duty.”

The little man’s eyes darted about nervously. “But you don’t understand. We don’t deliver these by hand anymore. I don’t understand why I’m here. I’ve been behind a desk for years; I’m not even a messenger anymore!”

“You know, in the ancient world they put to death the bearers of bad tidings.” Morgan smiled grimly, then chuckled.

He let the messenger in. The man’s clothes were disheveled, his cap awry. Apparently in his rush to get dressed, the messenger had forgotten his tie.

Morgan clucked to himself softly. “Such a mess…”

The messenger was beginning to weep, wringing his hands, crumpling the paper, wiping his bald pate beneath the front edge of the uniform cap with trembling fingers.

“I’m really very sorry,” the messenger said.

“Oh, that’s quite all right. Have some tea? Perhaps some cake?”

“But I’m afraid I have quite bad news.”

“Well then, by all means, tell me. You have your duty, remember?”

The messenger cleared his throat. He looked small and vulnerable in his too-small cap and baggy, wrinkled uniform. He stared at the paper in his hands, as if for the first time, then back at Morgan. He lowered his eyes and began to read.

“Your wife and children have been killed in a fiery car crash.” He paused. “Wait… there must be some mistake. The rest of this… no responsible official…”

“Read me the message.” Morgan’s voice was firm.

“But, sir…”

“Read me the entire message. You have a job to do.”

The Western Union man read rapidly. “The bodies were burned almost beyond recognition. Their faces were fixed in expressions of… agony. Your little girl still clutched the charred remains of her doll.” He looked up. “I’m so sorry.”

Morgan sighed and looked past the messenger at the endless row of streetlights leading down into the city. “Oh… oh, I appreciate your going to this trouble for me, delivering such a personal message and all.” He stared at the messenger’s sweaty face. “You’re really too kind.”

At four in the morning the messenger had returned. He was pale, his eyes bright red from lack of sleep. “Oh… ohhhh. I’m so sorry. You see, they keep calling me, telling me to come down here. With these horrible messages. I don’t understand it.”

“And who, exactly, are they?”

The Western Union man just stood there, watching him.

“Who?”

“I… I don’t know.”

Morgan looked down at the messenger’s hands. “You’re holding the message in your hands.” He smiled at the little man. “I’d suggest you read it.”

“I haven’t slept for days,” the man whispered, shaking his head.

“You’re a very dedicated man. Won’t you come in?”

The messenger appeared suddenly frightened. “No… oh, no. I’ll just deliver the message and be off. I don’t… don’t want to bother you longer than necessary.”

“And the message?”

The messenger read slowly. “Your parents have murdered each other. They… they were found with their fingers wrapped around each other’s throats. You’re all alone now.” He opened his mouth, gulping for air. “It says here… the message is dated fifteen years ago!”

“You do well at your assigned task. Your employers must be quite pleased with you.”

The Western Union man shuffled his feet, staring at the welcome mat beneath them. “I suppose I should be leaving you… to your grief.”

At six in the morning the messenger returned. He was agitated, running his thin hands up and down the front of his uniform blazer. He squinted as if he could barely see.

“Why?” The messenger gazed at him helplessly. “Why does this continue to happen? I haven’t slept. I don’t even remember how I received these messages. I lie down to sleep and the next thing I know I’m ringing your doorbell, and you’re answering the door.”

Morgan looked at him impatiently. “You have your task to perform.”

The messenger clutched at Morgan’s sleeve. “Please. Please, this has to stop.”

“You have your sacred task. Read me the message.”

“I really need this job, you know? I have an old mother to support. And the prices these days, you know what I mean? It takes money.”

“Just read me the message. I don’t need to know all that; I don’t want to know all that. It’s not your job to relay your life history to your customers.”

“There’s so little caring in the world. We’re strangers to other people.”

“That’s simply human nature, my man. Just read me the message.”

The messenger moaned and stared at the paper. After a few seconds Morgan reached over and pulled the paper out of his hands, almost tearing it, the messenger’s grip was so tight.

Morgan began to read. “You will commit murder.”

The Western Union man whimpered. Morgan put his hand on the little man’s shoulder. “You’re a fine messenger, a credit to the company.”

“I’m really tired. This must stop.”

“Get some rest. Drink some coffee. Soon you must make your rounds again.”

Morgan closed the door on the slumped figure of the messenger and walked back into his study.

He sat at his desk. He gazed up into the memorial alcove he had prepared above the desk, at the black-framed pictures of his parents, his dead wife and children. “You do a good job, little man.”

He ran his narrow fingers over the top message scribbled hastily on his message pad. Morgan read the message silently to himself.

You will be cruel. You will have no compassion. The world has treated you badly.

At seven the doorbell rang once again. He was chuckling as he walked down the hallway from his office. By the time he reached the door there were tears in his eyes from the paroxysms of laughter wracking his body. He was barely able to nudge open the door, so great was his hilarity.

The Western Union man was down on his knees in front of the door, one hand out beseechingly, his eyes white coins, speechless. The little man was weeping.

Morgan howled with a raw laughter as he removed the gun from his coat, aimed, and pulled the trigger.