by C.G. Banks
*
A vague disquiet began to creep upon him soon after. He couldn’t put his finger on it initially, but it came on soon enough, in fact descended while he crossed the street at the corner of Achin and Valhalla. Stopped him cold, instantly, right there in the middle of the street with the asphalt seam running away out of sight. The neighborhood was deserted. Usually, when he delivered there were cars in and out of driveways, kids racing down the street on bikes, ice cream trucks idling in the road, lawn mowers throwing out their plumes of grass. But not today. He’d passed down Samane to the first right, Stickler, and down to a left on Achin and hadn’t seen the first soul. Not even a dog. Curtains were drawn, windows empty, gates usually left open now uniformly barred, no shouts of children even from the hidden backyards. Damn strange. And here the public schools had let out a little over two weeks ago. Probably all the kids were inside playing video games; not like when he was a kid and you were outside from daybreak till dusk. Lazy, he thought, shaking his head. He opened the Smithfield’s box and placed their mail inside. Stood there for a second, lost, because the explanation didn’t fit, simply didn’t feel right. There was something else afoot here. For just a moment he felt the icy chill down his spine and actually shivered in the high daylight. He reached to his side and turned Stevie off. What the hell? Less than half an hour ago he’d been on top of the fucking world and now here he was getting the nerve-crawls standing on the side of the street with the sun beaming down on a perfect summer day.
Just like the porch, something wicked inside his mind whispered and he swallowed hard. No, it wasn’t. Not like that at all…not like…except it was. “Now just wait a goddamn minute,” he said bitterly. This was not like him, dammit, it just wasn’t. His hand went back to the Walkman and he turned Stevie back on, louder this time. So loud it almost hurt. He determined right then to make the block and get back to the Jeep. This was not turning out as planned and he really, now, just wanted to be done. You need a break, his mind told him, though he knew he did not. But he did need to be finished, and the sooner the better.
It was while passing back down Samane, about halfway back to the Jeep and feeling a little better, even starting to wonder why, exactly, he’d had a case of the nerves on Valhalla, that he got the scare. At first the name, Patsy Standish, didn’t ring a bell. And then he remembered the nut (what was his name?), oh yes, Miles Placard. He’d lived here and moved a good while back. A very nervous fellow, wouldn’t hardly look your way unless you were running his direction. Always fidgeting with his hands and looking like he stole something. He’d packed up all his stuff and just left, never any word at the post office at all about stopping delivery. Jester recalled now (looking at the box) that by the time the For Sale sign had gone up in the front yard he hadn’t been able to stuff any more mail in there and had had to report it to the Post Master. After that there’d simply been a memo in his carrel not to deliver anything else and as far as he’d been concerned the matter was closed. He stared down at the circulars in his hand with this Patsy Standish’s name on them. He hadn’t seen her yet though he had seen her gray Impala in the carport a few times. He flipped through the small bundle, the circulars (junk really) and something from the electric company. Probably welcoming her on her first billing cycle. “Hmmm,” he said, noticing the name. Mrs., it read. Well that would seem to designate a Mister but he’d never seen any other car in the carport. In fact, he’d noticed a couple of times that she tended to park right smack in the center. Interesting, true, but none of your business, his mind reminded as he went to pull down the mailbox door. From where he stood, looking down, he thought he saw something scrabbling out from the darkness inside and instinctively took a step back just as a large, black spider raced into view and launched itself from the mailbox in his direction. In the split second before he jumped back he saw the fat, glistening poison sack gleaming in the air. Then the thing fell short and swung back and forth from a thick strand of silk, twirling around and around. Jester drew his hand back and watched the creature dangle, its legs reaching out in his direction. Every time it turned he caught a brief glimpse of the bloodred hourglass on its abdomen and disbelief spread across his face. “A black fuckin widow?” he said incredulously; the thing was huge. He kicked out with his boot and knocked it away from the mailbox, out onto the concrete drive that led to the carport. Crushed it under his heel in the next instant. Took notice that his hands were shaking when he looked back at the mail. He could no longer find the joy of the moments at the pond during lunch. He bent down and looked carefully into the mailbox. Nothing. He placed the mail inside and quickly made his way down the street back to the Jeep.
As he rounded the corner of Willow (almost back now, the voice kept saying) he saw the old man standing by the mail truck. Big guy, old-looking, tall, a rangy beard billowing out below his face. He had on jeans, brown boots, a red-checked flannel shirt. Long sleeved. In June? Jester stopped walking. The old man was in fact leaning against the locked gate in front of the Jeep, looking down the street right at him. Jester had never seen the man before. Of that he was certain. He tentatively waved but the old man just stared, never taking his hands off the metal bar that blocked access to the dirt road beyond. As Jester got closer the old man spit into the dirt at the end of the blacktop and ran a hand through his beard. Jester was close enough to see; whatever the man had spat seemed a bruised, blood red. He tried to keep his eyes off it. The old man pushed himself away from the gate and walked into the street, five or six feet away from the mail truck. He didn’t say anything, stared.
Jester eased up, looking at the man’s hands, gauging whether or not he had anything to fear. “Hey,” he tried. He stopped before the door of the Jeep. The old man turned his face away and spit again. Jester followed it with his eyes and suddenly knew the man was spitting blood. “Hey, you all right?” he found himself asking automatically.
“You know me, boy?” the old man said. His eyes screwed up into two tiny points of malice.
Now it was getting personal and Jester didn’t like it. He’d heard too much of this shit in his time. Fuckin cracker. “Can’t say I do, old timer. Who are you?” he said, glad for the impetus of anger though he hardly felt it. In fact, he didn’t like being back here right now, no way. Reminded him too much of that walk to the pond that day. There was still no one else moving he could see. Not one goddamn mower going.
“Well, you will, boy,” the old man said. “Names Carol and you’ll get to know me real well by the time this’s over.” He spit again, this time on the ground at Jester’s feet. Blood again, deep red, coagulated. When Jester looked back up the old man was already on the other side of the gate, walking off down the dirt trail. He wasn’t looking back anymore and turned left on the gravel track ahead and disappeared moments later in the underbrush. For just a moment Jester thought about calling out, or pursuing the old man, but in the end all he did was get in the Jeep and get the hell out of there.