The Anthrax Scare
by
Lois Francis
"Here's the mail," Bob said, closing the apartment door behind him, and carrying a stack of papers to where Clara was sitting in her favorite recliner. As usual, she was totally engrossed in a book. He could never understand how she could concentrate over the hum of the television news, demanding attention from the corner of the room.
"I got a paper too," he said bending, with arthritic care, to deposit the bundle on the coffee table in front of her.
"Uuhm," Clara murmured without looking up, but acknowledging that words had been spoken.
"Always got her nose in a book," Bob frequently told friends. "It's like she's in another world when she gets reading." He was not a reading man himself. Books required more time and effort than he was willing to expend, especially since the onset of cataracts made prolonged focusing a chore. Except for the Young-at-Heart seniors club and family socializing, he received his entertainment—and most of his information—from television.
The television reporter caught his attention now, talking about the latest anthrax scare at the Winnipeg Post Office, and listing the precautions ordinary citizens should take before opening their mail. For the fifth time in the last two days he settled himself to listen to the coverage once again. He sat down on the chair next to his wife, listening and sorting through the morning's mail — bills, fund-raisers, junk mail and flyers.
"Never open a package or envelope that looks like it has been tampered with," the television reporter warned.
Then he saw it. A bill from the Manitoba Telephone System had been torn open and re-sealed with large gobs of clear parcel tape.
"Look at that," he said to Clara. "This envelope has been tampered with."
Clara tore her eyes from the printed page for a moment to glance at the offending envelope. "Probably got caught in a sorting machine," she observed without interest.
"They say never open it if it's been tampered with," Bob insisted. He grasped the envelope by the corner, looking at it with distaste and trying to decide what to do.
"Uuhm," Clara agreed.
"Do you think I should call the police? They say you should call the police if you get any suspicious mail!" He examined his fingers. There didn't appear to be any powdery residue on them, but how could you tell?
"I don't think I'll call the police," Bob said. "I would feel kind of stupid of it's not anthrax."
On the other hand, he thought, you'd feel more than stupid if it turned out to be the lethal stuff, and you or Clara got infected. What else did the television say you should do? Nuke it! That was it. Put it in the microwave and that destroys anthrax.
"I'm going to put it in the microwave," he said to Clara. "The microwaves kill it."
"Uuhm," Clara said.
He carried the envelope in ginger fingertips to the kitchen and placed it on the turntable in the microwave oven. He closed the door and set the oven on high heat for 20 seconds. Relieved and satisfied that he had acted so prudently in a potentially dangerous situation, he returned to the living room to tell Clara all about it.
The crackle of small explosions, multiplying, getting louder, followed by an unbelievable stench brought Clara running. She passed Bob with uncharacteristic speed, dashing to the kitchen and to the microwave oven. She opened the door, grabbed an oven mitt from the wall hook, smothered the fire, and retrieved the crisp black ash within. Bob was at her side. She lifted out the disintegrated ex-envelope, and held it up between them. They looked at it. Then they looked at the microwave oven. Destroyed. Beyond repair.
They looked at the envelope again. Then they looked at each other. Moments passed and simultaneously they burst into laughter.
"You'll have to call MTS for a new bill," Clara said.
It was the most expensive bit of entertainment they had experienced in their sixty years of married life.
