Special Delivery

The fattest thing on the tall, red-haired young man who stood on the steps of the little whitewashed house was his Adam's Apple. He knocked on the door just once, and from within came a sudden burst of frenzied yipping. The young man sighed. "Never fails. Poor loyal old pooch."

Then came a soft, bell-like voice. "Hush, Mickey darling! It's not him. He wouldn't need to knock." The door swung open and a little black spaniel cross dashed out to leap up and sniff the young man joyfully, tail wagging so hard it jiggled the little body. After a few moments, though, the tail drooped and the dog whined, looking up in confusion and disappointment. The young man bent to pet him.

"Hiya, Mickey boy. Who's a good pooch?" The young man gave him one last fond scratch behind the ear before he rose and smiled at the petite middle-aged woman who stood in the doorway.

She was what some called a black Irish beauty: fair skin, large, clear blue eyes, and once jet black hair now frosted salt and pepper grey. That grey was barely a year old. Like the faint lines on her face and the shadow behind her smiling eyes, it was all part of the sea-change caused by one night of storm.

"Hi, Mrs. Gilligan. You sure look pretty this morning."

"God bless you, Kevin. How you haven't made money with that silver tongue of yours, I'll never know." She glanced down at the little dog. "There's a nice bone in your dish, Mickey. Better get it before Herman does."

As the dog padded off down the hallway, the young man raised his eyebrows. "Herman's still around? How old is that turtle now?"

"I'm told they live a long time. She has her own little pond in that old tub you used to bob for apples in."

He laughed. "Be sure to warn me again at Hallowe'en! I don't want to lose my title because some turtle bites me on the nose! Gosh, I remember how I fooled him. He thought I could stay underwater for two hours and twenty-six minutes! What a laugh! Nobody could last that long. They'd drown! I mean…" he suddenly stopped, horrified. "Oh, my gosh, Mrs. Gilligan, I'm sorry! I'm so sorry! I-I didn't mean--"

She smiled sadly, gently. "It hurt you as much as anyone, Kevin. I can see how it's aged you."

He looked down and swallowed, throat momentarily clogging. "Oh, geez. How long has it been now? Sometimes it seems like only yesterday."

"Four years since he went away to join the navy. And barely a year since…"

The young man shook his head bitterly. "We had it all planned out, him and me. I was supposed to join the navy with him. I would have if I hadn't been such a dumb-bell and flunked eighth grade. By the time I finally cut the mustard he'd already finished his tour and was working in Hawaii. Maybe if I'd been there I could have—"

She laid a hand on his arm. "Hush, Kevin. That's nonsense, and he'd tell you himself."

The young man fished out a voluminous handkerchief and blew his nose. As he tucked it back into his sleeve he suddenly noticed the heavy crimson blooms that hung on the thick, vine-covered arch over the doorway. "Wow. I still remember the day he and I helped you put these roses up...and then fixed the hole he knocked in the siding. Boy, they sure look swell. Must be the prettiest ones in all Pennsylvania. Bet you take first prize at the State Fair next week."

She reached out to finger one of the velvet petals. "They have come out nicely, haven't they? Tom's very proud of them. They'll make a fine bouquet for us to take out this afternoon."

The young man nodded solemnly. "You two going there today?"

"Tom likes to make sure there are always fresh flowers there. He says it's the least we can do for him. But it's just a marker, after all. He's not even there." Those clear blue eyes suddenly shone with a fierce conviction. "Call me crazy if you like, Kevin, but I know he's not gone. He's alive, somewhere. A mother knows."

There was a momentary silence as each was lost in their memories. At last the woman shook herself back to the present. "Oh, Kevin, how you let me go on. Wherever are my manners, keeping you here on the stoop like this! Won't you come in?"

"No thanks, Mrs. Gilligan. I've still got some errands to run for Dad. I just stopped by to give you this. Special delivery!"

The woman laughed, astonished, at sight of the envelope in the young man's hand. "But it's Sunday! Your father doesn't work today; the post office is closed! What's this all about?"

"Neither rain nor snow nor dark of night! Naw, the truth is Dad realized he'd forgotten something at the office and went in this morning. While he was there he found this. It must have arrived Friday night after his shift. And knowing what a big Perry Mason fan you are and how you love a mystery, I thought I'd bring it straight over!"

The woman took the letter and examined it carefully. "No return address…but postmarked New York. That's funny. Brian Flanagan's the only person we know in New York, and this isn't his writing." She suddenly noticed something else odd. "And the address is wrong! Brian wouldn't do that; he knows our address better than he knows his own!"

The young man chuckled fondly. "That's for sure. Fatso and I hung around here enough over the years! But that's how the letter got to you, Mrs. Gilligan, even though the address is wrong. Because of Fatso."

"But how?"

"Well, you see, Fatso's got himself a job with the post office up in New York. He always was the quickest off the mark of the three of us. Anyway, a note came with this letter, addressed to me. Fatso says he found this in the dead letter office--doesn't know how long it's been there. And he says there were five others in the same handwriting with the addresses wrong, and no return address. Well, he knew where yours was supposed to go. He's trying to figure out where the other five are meant to go, too. He says it's real important."

The woman shook her head in puzzlement, turning the letter over and over. "I can't imagine who it's from!"

The young man took a step backwards off the stoop. "Well, enjoy the mystery, Mrs. Gilligan. And when you go there today, be sure to say that Skinny Mulligan says hi."

"I will. Goodbye, Kevin."

"'Bye, ma'am."

Still looking curiously at the letter the woman walked slowly back through the little house and out into a green carpeted backyard with tall, shady trees. The little dog followed her, nosing among the hedges that bordered the yard. Reaching the white cushioned swing that hung beneath the trees, she sat down, fished a pair of reading glasses out of her apron pocket, and opened the letter.

Dear Sir and Madam,

I hope you excuse me for writing to ya when I don't even know ya, and excuse my spelling too. I ain't even seen a book for thoity years except a manual for the Krieder Wrightner KR21, and that don't say much on writing ettyquit.

Maybe you hoid of me in the news a little while ago? On the radio or on them new fangled television sets? Boy, they really sold radio down the river, didn't they? Oh, don't even get me started. I really liked some of them old radio shows. Anyways, like I said, I got kind of famous lately. Lost Woild War One ace, gone for thoity years, suddenly turns up again? That's me.

Oh, they gave me one of them ticker tape parades in Manhattan an' everything. All kindsa hooey. And me sittin' there in one of them open top cars, pickin' confetti outta my hair…they got a lot faster, them cars, ain't they? I can't believe it. An' the photographers an' their bright lights flashin' in my eyes…well, it was all a big deal then, but after a while, it started to be a kinda soicus. Everybody wanted to hear my story, but nobody believed me – not them bigwigs in New York, or Washington, or the Pentagon – just as screwy as they was in my day, if ya ask me.

Anyways, what happened was this. Thoity years ago I was tryin' to beat Lindy's 'round the woild record, only I got lost and went down somewhere's near Hawaya. Don't ask me wheres…navigation never was my strong suit. I managed to land the plane on a little desoited island, but my engine was fried to a crisp and after three years I give up tryin' to fix it. Now I can hear you sayin' oh my gosh, this poor guy, how can he even have all his marbles, bein' all alone for thoity years? Well, I wasn't quite alone. Some oriental lookin' guys showed up in the foities but they didn't look too friendly. Seemed to be diggin' some kinda pit and had lotsa weapons. So I gave them a wide boith. Then every so often there was these natives in grass skoits with their faces painted like they was goin' to a Yankees game. They didn't look too friendly either. I thought I saw a kid in a loincloth sometimes but I wondered if that was just my imagination and I'd had too much foimented coconut milk. And this crazy Russian painter – I tried to make friends with him but all he'd yell was "Phooey on people!" and go back to paintin' his weird paintin's. It was some kind of freaky island, believe me.

And then, not that long ago, after a huge storm, I got the idea there was new people on the island. I saw smoke, and footprints, kinda like that Robinson Crusaw guy did, but the tide washed them away. Then one night there was this huge explosion, like a whole houseful of explosives goin' off. I thought who are these people? Are they crazy or what? And then finally I saw this young guy in a red shirt and white sailor cap nosin' around my plane, and I went up and talked to him. And that's how I met your son.

He's alive, Mr. and Mrs. Gilligan, he's alive. They're all alive: all seven castaways of the Minnow. Your son never did tell his first name – he kinda uses his last name for a nickname, ya see – well, I guess ya probably knew that – but I looked up the navy lists and found him, and that's how I found ya. Then I started tryin' to track down the others. I only hope I didn't mix up anybody's addresses.

He's doin' fine on that island; in fact, ya know, they got it fixed up pretty ritzy compared to how I done. Fruit and fish and lobsters humidor, cooked up as nice as the fanciest restaurants on foity second street! You should see their clothes! Not like the rags mine toined into! Clean and pressed every day! And them goils always look like they just come outta the salon or something. Hey, that Mary Ann sure is a cute little number. I kinda think she's got her eye on your boy. He's kinda shy though, 'specially 'round that movie star. Not that I blame him, though. She comes on a bit too strong for me.

He's a good kid, that boy of yours. Brave as a lion. When the Professor fixed my engine (Gosh, that guy is a soitified genius. Used the engine off the Minnow to fix the engine on my Krieder Wightner KR21! Can't seem to fix a hole in a boat, though. Go figya.) Your boy wanted me to teach him to fly it, but I wanna tell ya, he should stick to the sea. Somethin' simple. Somethin' where the Skipper can keep an eye on him. So I flew back myself, after thoity years! Your boy helped me find my lost noive. I'll never forget him for that.

Now like I said, them authorities, they don't believe me. They think I'm not flyin' on all cylindas. I tried everything, I tell ya. So I hope you an' the other families maybe get somewheres where I didn't. I was hopin' Thoiston Howell's people might have enough dough to mount a rescue mission but if they're half as greedy as he is, they're probably afraid of losin' what they got in his will.

So keep your flaps up, Mrs. And Mrs. Gilligan. The Skipper's takin' good care of him. You ain't lost a son, you've gained a future legend. Just like me. I'd like to swing by your place sometime and meet ya and talk about him, if I can find your town. I always did wanna see California.

Yours very sincerely,

George "Wrongway" Feldman

Finis

Of course, this is an AU ending to the episode, "Wrongway Feldman," that presupposes "The Return of Wrongway Feldman" never happened. In that episode, he surely would have told the castaways if he'd notified their families. I would have liked him much better if he had.