The Cups on the Post Box

Ilan has emptied the village post box every morning for eleven years. He arrives at twenty to seven, when the road is empty and the air smells of cut grass. He opens the little door with his small key and slides the letters into his bag. Then he drives to the next village. It is a quiet job, and he likes it that way.

On a Monday in May, something new sits on top of the box. It is a stack of paper cups, about thirty of them, held down by a flat stone.

Ilan frowns. "Somebody's rubbish," he says to the empty road.

He picks up the cups and carries them to the bin by the school gate. He puts the stone back in the hedge, where he thinks it belongs. Then he collects the post and drives away.

On Tuesday, there is another stack and a different stone. Ilan throws them away too. On Wednesday, the stack is taller, and the stone is bigger. He sighs, and he throws them away again.

Kalani, meanwhile, is having a very bad week.

She is nineteen, and she has just come home after her first year at college. She wants to do something useful in the village. So she has started a morning running club for beginners. Twelve people have joined. They meet at seven o'clock by the post box, and they run once round the lake.

Kalani is in charge of everything. She plans the route, she counts the runners, and she worries a lot. Every morning at half past six, she leaves a stack of cups on the box. Later, she comes back with a big jug of water for the runners.

But every morning, the cups are gone.

"Someone is stealing them," she tells her friend on the phone. "Or someone doesn't like us. I don't know which is worse."

"Just ask around," her friend says.

"I can't," Kalani says. "What if I sound silly?"

On Thursday, she writes a note and puts it under the stone. It says, "Please stop taking our cups. They are for the runners."

When Ilan finds the note, he goes very quiet, as he always does when he is annoyed. He reads it twice. Nobody tells a postman what to do with his own post box, he thinks. He takes a pen from his pocket. Underneath, he writes, "Please stop leaving rubbish on a public post box."

He puts the note back under the stone. Then he feels a little pleased with himself, and a little ashamed.

Later that morning, Kalani reads his answer under the stone. She feels her stomach turn over. Rubbish! Those are good cups, and she paid for them with her own money.

She decides that notes are not working. She sets her alarm for five o'clock. At twenty past six, she is sitting on the low wall next to the post box. She has a jug of water and her phone. She is determined to say something to the person who takes her cups, and to say it clearly.

At twenty to seven, the white van comes round the corner. Ilan gets out with his small key and his bag. He sees Kalani on the wall, and he stops.

"Good morning," he says carefully.

"Are you the person who throws away my cups?" Kalani asks. Her voice shakes, but she keeps going.

"Are you the person who leaves rubbish on my post box?" Ilan says.

For a moment, they look at each other. Then Ilan looks at the jug and at the sports bag beside her. Last, he looks at the stack of cups on the wall.

"Rubbish?" Kalani says. "They are for the running club. We meet here every morning at seven."

"I didn't know about a running club," Ilan says slowly. "I just saw cups. Nobody ever leaves anything on this box. I thought somebody was making a joke."

"I thought you were stealing them," Kalani says.

"I was," Ilan says. "In a way. I put thirty of them in the bin at the school gate."

Kalani laughs suddenly, and the laugh surprises her. Ilan starts to laugh too. It is a rusty sound, because he does not laugh much before breakfast. They stand there for a minute, two people laughing at a post box.

"I should have asked someone," Kalani says, when she can speak again. "I wrote a note instead. A rude note."

"My note was ruder," Ilan says. "I am sorry. If you had put your name on it, I would have understood."

"I was afraid," Kalani says. "I'm not very good at telling people things."

Ilan scratches his chin. "At your age, I left my first job because I wouldn't ask one small question," he says. "It took me three years to find another one. Ask early, and ask out loud. That is my only advice."

Kalani nods slowly. For a long time, nobody has given her advice that did not feel like an order. She thinks about it all the way round the lake that morning, with twelve runners puffing behind her.

On Saturday, Ilan arrives at twenty to seven as usual. This time, he brings something with him. It is a small wooden shelf from his garage. He screws it to the wall beside the post box, a handspan from the ground.

"Cups can go here," he says to nobody in particular. "Out of the way of the letters, and out of the way of my bin."

When Kalani comes with her jug, she finds the shelf and the cups already lined up on it. She says nothing for a second. Then she pours the first cup of water and holds it out to him.

"For the postman," she says.

Ilan takes it, drinks it in one go, and gives the cup back. "Better than coffee," he says. "Don't tell anyone."

By Monday, the runners have a new rule. Every morning, someone brings a stack of cups for the shelf. Every morning, Ilan checks that it is neatly done. If the cups are straight, he gives two short beeps on his horn. If they are crooked, he gives one long one.

On Friday, Kalani lifts the last stack from the shelf to pour the water. She turns the bottom cup over in her hand and stops. Inside the rim, in thin blue pencil, someone has drawn a tiny bird.

She did not draw it. She looks at Ilan, who is locking the post box, and he shakes his head.

"Not mine," he says. "I can't draw a bird to save my life."

They both look at the empty road. Then, far away, at the other end of the lake, a single runner starts to wave.