Percival Primble & the Depository of Love

Short Story by Mark Ready

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Agatha Jones received the hand-addressed pale pink envelope from Lois, the young chubby blonde woman who brought her lunch.

“You got a pretty letter, Agatha. Would you like me to help you open it?”

Lois’s tone oozed insincerity, and it sounded like she was speaking to a child. Agatha took the envelope and eyed the plastic-wrapped egg salad sandwich, thin brown coffee, and a tiny bowl of applesauce on her lunch tray.

“My fingers are stiff, but I’m still perfectly capable of opening my mail. I assume the egg salad includes a mixture of this morning’s leftover scrambled eggs and some from the container in the freezer?”

The lunch lady studied the cellophane-wrapped pieces of soggy white bread stuffed with chunky orange mayonnaise.

“Those eggs are still perfectly fresh frozen. They’re only a few weeks old. Besides, that’s all your insurance will pay for.” She picked it up. “I can get you tuna fish or peanut butter and jelly if you like.”

“No, thank you. I’ll have the egg salad.” Agatha hated being poor and old. She missed Benny. They had been together for sixty-six years. Now, she was alone in a bottom-of-the-barrel nursing home, waiting to die. Worse yet, all they fed her were sandwiches. She waited for the girl to leave before examining the letter. In looping blue script, the return address read Mr. Percival Primple, Depository of Love, P.O. Box, Thirteen-Thirteen, Harmony, Pennsylvania.

Dear Mrs. Jones,

There are times when the needs of our members dictate that the Depository of Love open its ledgers to match those with a lifetime of love to those most in need. In your case, we have found a match between a young couple whose marriage is in tatters and your need for companionship. I will call on you this afternoon at twelve-fifteen to explain the ramifications of this match. It will require you to donate some of your and Benny’s love, but I assure you it will benefit all.

Respectfully,

Percival Primple

A man in a black suit knocked on the door of her room at exactly twelve-fifteen. “Mrs. Jones? I see you received my letter. I’m Percival Primple. It’s nice to meet you. May I speak to you for a moment?”