The Letter That Wouldn't Go

Some letters are easy to write. This was not one of them.

Emma had taken out the good paper: the one with the thin gold edge, the one that stays in the drawer all year long while you tell yourself that someday you'll have something important enough to write on it.

Theo had taken out fourteen crayons. He would use two. But he liked having them all lined up in front of him, like a small army standing by.

"What do we ask for?" said Theo.

And that is where they got stuck.

Because that is the trouble with December letters: as long as you don't write, you can ask for everything. The moment you write, you have to choose. And choosing gives you a funny feeling in your stomach.

Theo started with a dinosaur. Then he crossed out the dinosaur. Then he wrote a scooter, and crossed that out too, because he already had one, and asking twice for the same thing is not very elegant.

Emma knew exactly what she wanted, but she didn't dare write it, because it wasn't an object, and she wasn't sure it counted.

In the end she wrote it anyway, right at the bottom, very small:

That Nougat gets to stay.

Then they folded the letter in three. They put the stamp on crooked, which is the only correct way to put on a stamp. And out they went.

The mailbox is at the end of the lane, near the gate, where the wind turns.

You should know that the wind, in that particular spot, is not an ordinary wind. It comes in from behind the hedge, makes a sharp turn, and heads back the other way. Grown-ups say it's because of the shape of the garden. Emma has always thought that wind does it on purpose.

They were three steps from the mailbox when it happened.

The wind made its turn. The letter left Theo's hand. It went up, spun once, very high, and sailed off toward the back of the garden as if it had decided, all on its own, that it wasn't going anywhere.

Theo shouted. Emma ran.

But a child running, even a fast one, is never as fast as a letter with the wind behind it.

They watched it pass over the apple tree. They watched it skim the garage roof. They watched it come spinning back down toward the hedge, all the way at the back, where nobody ever goes because it's prickly.

And they watched a brown shape come out from under the apple tree.

Nougat was not in a hurry. Nougat was never in a hurry. He crossed the garden at his calm little trot, raised his head at exactly the right moment, and caught the letter between his antlers.

Then he stood perfectly still, a letter wedged between two branches, looking extremely pleased with himself.

"He got it," Theo breathed.

Emma walked over slowly, the way you walk toward someone holding something fragile.

The letter was a little crumpled. One corner had picked up the damp from the grass. The stamp was still hanging on, crooked, bravely.

"Thank you," said Emma.

Nougat lowered his head, and the letter dropped into her hands.

They went back to the mailbox. This time they held it together, one hand each, and slid it through the slot in a single motion.

Clack.

The wind made its turn again, but it was too late. There was nothing left to carry off.

On the way back, Theo asked:

"Do you think he read it?"

"Who?"

"Nougat. It was in his antlers a long time."

Emma thought about it. It was a very good question, and very good questions deserve to be given some time.

"Maybe," she said at last. "But I think the part about him, he already knew."