Earl apologized, but said he had to ask Frank and his family to come back next time and dinner would be on the house. And anyway, he’d have Mely bring by the leftovers tomorrow morning—that roasted pig always tasted better the second day, when the juices had settled and the flavors aged.
“Well you kin jest ferget it, Earl. It wouldn’t be right for us to accept somthin from people who treat us like dirt.” Frank got his family up from the table, and they marched out of the restaurant in a huff. The girls were crying.
Earl knew he was going to have to apologize profusely tomorrow. But tomorrow, everything would be different.
Although they were the last to arrive, Elias Rathmartin and Dr. Weimaraner were the first to be served, and, unlike the other guests, were presented with a bottle of wine, mostly full, that Earl had taken from Mely’s private cooking stock. The townsfolk did not fail to notice this, and began to grumble about Earl’s catering to the rich Yankees.
“What’s he want from them Yankees, anyway?”
“I wouldn’t want to be too nice to them folks. They might come back.”
“An bring more with ’em.”
“An they’s plenty more where they came from.”
“I curse the day that I’ve lived this long to see a Southern man grovel before a fat-cat Yankee carpetbagger.”
“It’s them Yankee shoes Earl got. They done turned him into a Yankee!”
“I wouldn’t mind being no Yankee if I had me a pair a shoes like that!”
“Keep yer mouth shut, boy.”
They were a little angry and frightened by this Yankee invasion, but they also couldn’t help feeling honored by the presence of such distinguished gentlemen, though they’d never admit to it.
Earl played the obsequious waiter to the pair of Yankees and didn’t seem to hear the complaints of his neighbors. They got their food in time, and when everyone had Mely’s pork with citrus sauce stuffed happily into their mouths, they quickly forgot Earl’s injustices and forgave him his foolishness. That was just Mayor Earl up to his old tricks again. How could they get upset about that?
Everything was going smoothly for Earl, as if the event had been rehearsed a thousand times over and revised in the process to iron out the kinks. The restaurant looked and sounded like he’d always imagined it would, and he had complete confidence that the day would soon come when every night would be just like this, only the local clientele would be replaced by more and more rich Yankees, praises rolling off their tongues and bankrolls out of their pockets. Like red carpets.
But there was one thing he couldn’t have counted on, and like a demonic apparition, that one thing soon made its appearance in the doorway. Earl stopped in midstride when he saw him, and then the guests stopped chewing and looked at him, too. The entire restaurant silenced itself in nervous tension. The man stood in the doorway, his face grizzled, his clothes tattered, and his lips quivering with malice. Earl had seen him only once before, but recognized him as the mail carrier whom Josef Steinmetz had replaced. He’d nearly ruined Earl’s life before when he’d punched Josef in the face, and here he’d come to try it again.
The man had learned of his dismissal when he’d wandered into the Biscayne Post Office a few days after Josef Steinmetz. Furious, he’d gone on a drunken rampage and tried to set fire to the post office, the city hall, and several beachfront hotels. Fortunately, none of the fires took hold, but he did spend several days in jail for violating the new law about urinating on the beach. In those sober moments in the Biscayne jail, he vowed to investigate any and all persons responsible for his joblessness.
Now, his investigations complete, he had come to seek revenge. He spotted Earl across the small room and pointed a finger at him. “You stinkin son of a bitch,” he said.
Earl dropped the tray of dirty plates he was holding and put himself behind a table.
“You Yankee-lovin sewer rat,” he continued, taking an unsteady step in Earl’s direction and shaking his fist. “You put me out of a job ’cause I did what any respectable Southern man ought to do when he meets a Yankee. And then you replaced me with some half-breed Injun.”
“I got no idear what yer talkin about, mister,” said Earl, from behind Josh McCready’s table. “Now why don’t you run along and find another pint a that whisky I can smell from clear over here.”
“Don’t lie to me, Injun-lover. I read all about it in The New York Times. You replaced me—a hard-workin up-standin Southern man—with a dirty Injun savage.” Then he addressed the whole restaurant, as if he’d just noticed he had an audience. “Jes when we finally beat them cannibal savages back into the swamps, this Injun-lover decides ta start hirin the red devils to deliver our mail. Tell me, who here wants a dirty savage handlin the letters we send to our mothers and ladyfriends?”
The townsfolk shook their heads, mumbling words to the effect of “Not us.”
“And he puts loyal Southerners outta work ta do it. I tell ya, this man’s infiltratin the U.S. Gov’ment with bloody savages and means ta give back what we all worked so hard ta take. Why? ’Cause he wants ta be king a the savages, I tell ya. King a the bloody red devils. He wants ta woo-woo aroun a big berlin’ pot with yer heads in it. Well, you good folks know what we do with heathen cannibals, don’t ya? We string ’em up and watch their bloody red cannibal tongues roll outta their heads. An that’s what we oughtta do here tonight.”
Earl feared for his life. He saw in the eyes around him a reflection of the unjust service he’d given them tonight, and he suddenly knew how little it takes for a man to be hanged, how the little wrongs he’d done to a dozen people suddenly become one big wrong when those people start thinking with the same mind. And though it is true that any self-respecting Southern town would have been stirred to action by such words, the inert soul of Figulus could not be dragged so easily from under its rock. They all looked at each other and mumbled words to the effect of “Mmm.”
Fortunately for Earl, Elias Rathmartin was there. He’d heard it all, and he had had enough. He rose from his chair to address the ex-mail carrier.
“You have no business talking to our host this way. I know the story of which you speak, and this man was right to hire that barefoot lad. Why, I don’t believe you read the story at all. In fact, I doubt you even know how to read. The man you say took your place is no half-breed Indian, he’s a full-blooded American lad who had the misfortune to fall in with savages after his family was killed in a shipwreck. If anyone doubts me, I have the complete five-part series here in my good doctor’s medical bag. Now, I don’t know why you were replaced, sir, but I think I can guess.” He addressed the entire room now. “Look at this man. Is this whiskey-drinking, foul-mouthed ruffian the man you want as a representative of the United States Postal Service?”
Someone spoke up boldly, “No!”
“Why, this man isn’t good enough to lick our boots,” continued Rathmartin. “It’s clear to me that, whatever his reasons at the time, your gracious host and postmaster did a good deed in replacing this smelly monster. From what I know of him, the man who took his place is the finest example of courageous American youth I’ve yet to lay eyes on. This man has no business here. I don’t say we lynch him, because that’s the kind of lawlessness that belongs to men of his own kind. But a thorough tarring and feathering ought to teach him not to disturb the good people of this town again.”
The townsfolk were mesmerized by Rathmartin’s speech. A few even clapped.
The ex-postman was enraged and stepped up to Rathmartin’s table, fists clenched and yellow teeth gritted.
“Who the hell do you think you are? Yankee! You another one a this Yankee-lover’s Yankee friends?”
“No!” shouted Earl from across the room, having seen once before what was coming.
“Sir, if it means anything to you, I am Elias J. Rathmartin of New York.”
“He’s lying!” shouted Earl, pushing aside tables and trying to leap between the two men. “He’s from Georgia!”
>
“Well, Mr. New York,” said the ex-postman, “welcome to Florida,” and he smashed his fist into Rathmartin’s face.
Rathmartin fell back into his doctor’s lap, holding his eye. Earl got there just in time to wonder if there was still some way he could turn back what had happened, for it was certain to destroy his promising and advantageous relationship with the shipping magnate. He helped the doctor lift Rathmartin into his chair. He put his hands on Rathmartin’s head, brushed the hair out of Rathmartin’s blackening eye, moaning, “Oh no, oh no.” But when he turned to call Mely for a wet towel or a piece of meat, he saw only the ex-postman’s fist, and the last thing he remembered that night was the taste of those salty knuckles.
Chapter 18
WHEN EARL AWOKE the next morning, his wife had a mirror ready and put it in front of his face. His nose was bloody, his teeth framed in red, and his upper lip split.
“I’m not gonna say ya deserve it, Earl, but ya ought to know better’n ta stop a drunken maniac with yer face.”
“Where’s that millionaire feller?” said Earl thickly, pushing himself up in bed. “Rathmartin.”
“He left early this morning. Said he had to catch a boat down in Biscayne.”
“How could you let ’im go without me apoligizin? You can’t let a millionaire slip through yer hands like that. He could make us rich, Mely, and famous.”
“Earl, I got no desire to be rich and famous, specially at my age. “She cut a piece of bandage to put on Earl’s lip. “Anyway, he said he’d be in touch.”
“Yeah, he likely wants to sue me.”
“He can sue all he wants: we ain’t got nothing to give him.”
Mely washed and bandaged Earl’s poor face while he yelped and winced in pain. He knew she was right. But if he was to sue us, he thought, there’d be some publicity in that. Still, he might just have let the opportunity of a lifetime slip through his hands. His mediocrity, which he’d for so long held as an asset, might just have doomed him to a full life of inconsequentiality.
RATHMARTIN AND THE doctor reached Biscayne the next day, thanks to the speedy paddling of China, who could smell their desire to leave. There, they found a Southwind trader docked in the port. Rathmartin had a throbbing headache and a fine pair of shiners that made him look demonic, so that, when he boarded his ship, the crew stood back, curious and a little frightened. He went straight to the captain and demanded to know what had taken him so long to get here. The captain explained that he was on his regular trading route, that he had no idea Mr. Rathmartin was in Florida, but that Mr. Rathmartin’s sons mentioned that he, the captain, might inquire after their father while he, the captain, was in the Caribbean, since Mr. Rathmartin had been away for several weeks without communication.
“Without communication?!”
Rathmartin was furious that his letter had not reached its destination, and he cursed the United States Postal Service for its ineptitude, and himself for inquiring after such a dull-witted character as this Barefoot Mailman. If the man could not get one simple, lightweight letter to its proper destination, then what kind of example was he setting for other young carriers—indeed, the whole of America’s youth? Anyway, what kind of man would be foolish enough to walk such long distances in his bare feet? There must be something not right in the man’s brain.
“May I ask what happened to your face, sir?”
“No, Captain, you may not.” As soon as Rathmartin spoke, though, he realized he’d let his discomfort and his anger get the better of him. He was being a foolish old geezer. When he calmed himself, he began to recall the events at the restaurant in a different light. There was the pain, of course, and the embarrassment, but when he looked at it objectively, the event seemed like something out of one of his adventure novels—he’d been there, to a little saloon in the midst of a tropical jungle. He’d mingled with the locals and won their admiration with his bravery and his oratory skills. True, he was scarred from the experience, but no man passes through the dark, wild jungle unscathed by her needley claws. At least he’d left there sitting up in his boat, which is more than he could say for that drunken Johnny Reb. Of course, he’d got a little help in that regard from his oversized Indian guide. She’d heard the ruckus in the restaurant and presented herself on the scene just in time to catch the reb’s fist before it struck him again. She’d twisted it back and knocked him out cold. Then how the whole town had laughed and cheered when that drunk was put back in his skiff and shoved off into Lake Worth, feet first, with his tongue lolling out of his mouth. But Rathmartin had thanked his Indian enough for all that, and she’d seemed all too happy to pound an Indian-hater to the ground. So there was no real need to thank her publicly. The key to a good story is what you leave out, after all.
“Actually, Captain,” said Rathmartin, “if you pour me a drink, I’ll tell you a story.”
Rathmartin continued to tell the story all the way back to New York, and when they arrived there, he told the story some more—to his friends and family, and most of all to the Explorer’s Club, where he was quickly made a most respected member, not only for his adventurous exploits, but for his ability to tell a ripping good story about them.
The story was so popular with everyone he told it to that one day it came to him: if so many people enjoyed a good adventure tale, why not let them live it? Southwind Cruise Lines was experiencing intense competition from White Star and Cunard, both of which had added new routes for pleasure cruises to Florida and the Caribbean. So he briefly turned his attention away from his personal quest for adventure and made the last and what he considered the most brilliant business decision of his life. When he’d set the idea down on paper, he summarized it in a letter to the postmaster of Figulus.
EARL WAS IN limbo while he let his face heal. He’d lost control again and let fortune slip through his hands. Now anything could happen. The question was, who had absconded with his fortune? And in what condition would it be returned? If the millionaire carried it, it might return in the form of a lawsuit or a wrecking crew to level his little restaurant. If that drunken ex-carrier had it, it might return again and again in the form of a fist. And what if that huge Indian woman had taken it? She could crush it as she’d crushed that drunk’s face. And who knows what sinister ceremonies those Injuns could perform to shape his destiny toward their own ends? The Injuns knew about things like that; they knew the power of the unseen. And that scared him.
For many weeks Earl waited. He sat all day in the shadows of the bedroom and waited for the world to come crashing through his door. He left the house just once a week to perform his postmaster’s duties, which he did in dread of finding the fateful letter that would spell out his ruin. Certain enough, a letter arrived addressed to the postmaster and postmarked in New York City. It wasn’t at all what he expected.
With trembling fingers, he read the personal letter from Elias Rathmartin, scrawled on Southwind letterhead. He read each word more than once, because it took that much to get the meaning through to his paralyzed and unbelieving brain. When he finally set it down, he rushed out of the post office, leaving the unsorted mail on the counter, and ran along the banks of the lake to Mely’s little garden behind their house.
“Mely,” he yelled. “We done it! We finally done it!”
He showed her the letter, which explained how Rathmartin was going to make Figulus a regular stop on Southwind’s cruises to Biscayne. Biscayne was all right, Rathmartin said, but its refinement made it too much like the North. His idea was to give his passengers a taste of what the Florida wilderness was really like. He wanted everyone to know the excitement and also the hardships that pioneers such as Mr. Shank experience on a daily basis. The ships would anchor off the inlet at the north end of the lake, and passengers would then be ferried through the inlet and down the shore of Lake Worth to the town of Figulus, where they would meet with real pioneers and sample the local flavors at Mr. Shank’s restaurant.
The letter enclosed a contract detailin
g the plan and also stating how much Earl would be paid per customer. A few quick calculations made Earl’s heart leap into his throat, and he squeezed the breath out of his wife.
“This is it!” he shouted. “We’re going to be famous. And that’s just for starters!” He hopped from foot to foot, and when he let her go he did a little jig, swinging his arms and crossing his feet with astonishing coordination for a big man, as though he’d practiced for it all his life.
Mely smiled, trying to catch her breath. She was happy for him, but also a little hit dazed and frightened. Things like this didn’t happen to anyone she knew, and she’d never expected anything from Earl except big, boyish dreams and the healthy lies he’d tell himself when they didn’t work out. It all seemed unreal to her, like she’d entered someone else’s fairy tale, like Earl had finally created such a complex and overwrought fantasy that he’d succeeded in pulling her into it, making her believe for a moment it was real. She fully expected to snap out of it after a good night’s rest. She hoped she would, too, because as marvelous as this fantasy world was, it was just too different and scary for a simple woman like herself.
Earl never doubted it for a minute. When he finally returned to his room that night, after telling everyone in town the good news, he took out the loafers he hadn’t worn since he’d been punched out in his own restaurant. He’d been afraid they’d put some sort of curse on him. But now he took a rag and dusted them off and buffed them to a shine, so that he could see his big smile in the cherry brown leather. My fortune never left me at all, he thought. It was right here all the time, smiling away under the dust I let collect on these here lucky shoes. Well, I’ll never let that shine dull again, and I’ll never be so foolish as to take off my lucky shoes.
Chapter 19
THINGS BEGAN TO happen quickly for Earl, too quickly for him to think much about them. When Rathmartin received the signed contract, he immediately sent Earl a sizable advance to cover the costs of expansions and renovations to the restaurant. Up to this point, most of the town had been wary of this new development. The last thing they wanted was a bunch of rich old Yankees invading their solitude. But when Earl hired them all to help with the renovations and the decorations, the objections somehow slipped their minds. Even the Bardos, who had remained cool to Earl after they’d been kicked out of their restaurant seats to make room for the two Yankees, somehow found forgiveness in their hearts when they saw that money was being passed around. “Earl’s a man with foresight,” said Frank Bardo. “We got ta rally behind him and move this town into the twentieth century.”
The Legend of the Barefoot Mailman Page 17