“…‘Clyde Benton walked through the flood to bring my heart pills,’” the woman read, her voice trembling. “‘I was going to die on my kitchen floor. If any person in this town ever laughs at him, you tell them I lived to hold my grandbabies because of the mailman.’” She lowered the card. “My mother was Hazel Pruitt. She lived nine more years after that flood. She met all four of her grandchildren.”
The crowd around the pie tent had gone still. Clyde had taken his hat off and was holding it against his chest. The woman turned the card over. There was more writing on the back, and she read that too. “P.S. He also carried sandbags all afternoon for the Harlan family on the next road over, so their barn wouldn’t flood. Never told them.”
Dwayne’s grin froze. Harlan was his family name. His father had owned that barn. It’s where Dwayne started the feed business, thirty years ago. “My dad always said the National Guard saved that barn,” Dwayne said slowly. The woman shook her head. “The Guard didn’t come out to our road till Tuesday. My mother watched Clyde do it from her window.”
Nobody laughed now. Dwayne pushed his cowboy hat back, looked at Clyde, and then down at his own boots for a long time. “Clyde,” he finally said, “why didn’t you ever say something?” Clyde shrugged. “Your dad was proud of that barn, Dwayne. Didn’t seem right to take that from him.”
The woman pressed the index card into Clyde’s hand and closed his fingers over it. Then she hugged him, and half the people standing around that pie tent started clapping. Dwayne didn’t clap. He just walked over and held out his hand. When Clyde shook it, Dwayne didn’t let go for a while. The next week, there was a new sign on the feed store counter: “Mail carriers drink coffee free. Forever.” And Dwayne’s dog still walks up to mailboxes, but now Dwayne makes a point of saying it learned from the best.
