The Mailman

by Bentley Little

  The road wound past the trailer park before hitting the highway. She signaled and turned left. The town was quieter than usual. There were some cars in the Bayless parking lot, and a few campers and station wagons were on the road, going to or coming from the lakes, but the usual Monday-afternoon work rush was nowhere to be seen. She drove past the Exxon station, past the Circle K, and turned down Pine Street toward the post office.

  The post office was always crowded, and today was no exception. The small parking lot was filled with old cars and dusty pickups, and seemed to be more crowded than usual. Three cars were lined up in the street, waiting for the next available parking spaces.

  Rather than wait, Tritia decided to pull into the parking lot of the chiropractor's office next door and hike it in. She parked under the shade of a ponderosa and walked across the lot and around the low brick fence that separated the chiropractor's and the post office. She noticed that both the American and Arizona flag on the pole in front of the tan brick building were at half-mast and tried to recall if someone important had died on this date. She didn't think so.

  Maybe someone famous had died and she just hadn't heard about it yet.

  She moved up the sidewalk steps and pushed open the door, walking inside.

  The swamp cooler on the roof of the post office had lowered the interior temperature but raised the humidity, so the trade-off was just about equal. The line inside was long, stretching from the counter, through the double doors, into the lobby next to the P.O. boxes. Howard Crowell, the postmaster, was at the counter, and Tritia saw immediately that he was wearing a black armband. She felt a sinking in the pit of her stomach, an instinctive intuitive reaction. She got into line behind Grady Daniels, who, for once in his life, was standing completely silent, completely still, unmoving.

  He turned around to face her. "Shame," he said soberly. "It's a damn shame."

  "What is?"

  "Ronda," he said.

  "What happened?"

  "You didn't hear?"

  She shook her head.

  Grady lowered his voice. "Blew his brains out this morning. With a shotgun."

  The postmaster looked dazedly up as the customer he had been helping turned to leave. "Next."

  Tritia kept her eyes on Howard as she moved forward in line, feeling strangely cold. The postmaster's eyes were red and watery, his cheeks flushed, and it was clear that he had been both shocked and deeply hurt by the tragedy.

  His voice, ordinarily loud and boisterous, was a subdued whisper, and his hands shook as he handed out stamps and change. Bob Ronda had been not only his employee but his best friend, and it was a rare Saturday night that the two of them were not seen at The Corral, listening to the country swing of the Tonto Trailbiazers, downing a few cool ones, and discussing the fate of the world. It was no secret that Howard's wife had left him two years ago, though he continued to insist that she was in Tucson attending to her invalid mother, and since that time, he and Ronda had been nearly inseparable. Ellen, Ronda's wife, had even complained that he spent more time with Howard than he did with her.

  The line continued to move forward until she and Grady were at its head.

  "Next," the postmaster said.

  Grady moved forward. "I need to pick up my mail," he told the postmaster.

  Tritia 'seyes were caught by a sign taped to the front of the counter:

  "Mail will be delivered on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays until a new postal carrier is appointed. The post office will temporarily be open on Tuesdays and Thursdays only. Sorry for any inconvenience."

  Next to the sign was a funeral notice for Bob Ronda.

  "How long's it going to be before you hire a new mailman?" Grady asked.

  "I'm not going to be hiring one," the postmaster said. "Themam office in Phoenix holds an open enrollment once a year and they do the hiring. They're going to appoint someone. I called in this morning and put in an application for a new carrier, but it'll probably be a few weeks before they send someone down."

  "It's a damn shame what happened to Ronda," Grady said. "A damn shame."

  Howard nodded silently.

  Grady got his mail, waved good-bye, and Tritia moved to the front counter.

  "How are you, Howard?" she asked kindly, putting her hand on his.

  He shrugged, his eyes blurry and unfocused. "As well as can be expected, I guess."

  "I didn't hear until now. It's -- it's hard to believe."

  "Yeah."

  "Bob just didn't seem . . . I mean, it didn't seem like he'd do something like that."

  "That's what I been telling people all day. I can't believe he killed himself. People always say that when something like this happens, but usually there are reasons. A guy gets divorced, his wife dies, he loses his job. But there's nothing. I was just over at Bob's house last night, and me and him and Ellen sat down, had a good dinner, some good talk. Everything was normal. He wasn't depressed at all. He wasn't happier than usual or sadder than usual or more talkative or less talkative. There was nothing out of the ordinary. He hadn't been fighting with Ellen, 'cause when they fight me and him always go out and get something to eat instead of staying to home." He shook his head, looking down at the counter for a moment, then he looked up at her and tried to smile.

  The effect on his grief-stricken face was oddly gruesome. "Anyway, what can I do for you?"

  "I just came to deliver a letter and to buy a book of stamps."

  "A book of stamps it is," Howard said, reaching under the counter and placing the stamps before her.

  She paid him the money, then gave his hand a small squeeze. "If you need anything just call," she said. "Anytime."

  He nodded tiredly. "Will do."

  She stepped away from the counter. Behind her, she heard the postmaster's dazed voice. "Next."

  2

  The funeral was well-attended. Almost everyone in town knew Bob Ronda on a first-name basis, and almost everyone liked him. The cemetery was packed and many of the latecomers were forced to stand outside the wrought-iron gates on the side of the small hill. Bob had never been a churchgoing man, and Ellen had decided to have the entire service conducted outside at the gravesite. She stood next to the preacher, dressed in a simple black dress, staring down at the ground. A wilted wet hanky was clutched in her right hand, and she twisted it absently between her fingers. Rumor had it that she had nearly gone crazy when she'd found her husband's body, screaming and yelling, tearing apart the house, even ripping off her own clothes, and that Dr. Roberts had had her heavily sedated ever since. Looking at her now, supported on both sides by her grown sons, Doug could believe it.

  The newspaper account of the mailman's suicide had been sketchy and general, a polite glossing over of the facts in deference to the survivors, but in a town the size of Willis news sometimes traveled through quicker and more efficient channels than the press, and by noon the day after, nearly everyone had heard the full story. Apparently, Ronda had gotten out of bed before his wife had awakened, had walked into the garage for his sawed-off shotgun, and had gone into the bathroom. There he had taken off his clothes, stretched out in the tub, placed the tip of the shotgun in his mouth, and blown a hole through his brain. The blood and bone and tissue had splattered against the tile behind him and was dripping into the tub by the time Ellen had run in.

  There had been no note.

  There were other versions of the story. One version, one in which Doug put no credence, said that Ronda had sat on the shotgun, greasing it, placing it to his asshole and blowing out his insides. Another said that he had shoved the barrel deep into his eye socket, putting out his eye before pulling the trigger.

  These false reports had died almost immediately, however, and by the day of the funeral there was only one story circulating.

  Billy had been very shaken by the news of the mailman's suicide. He still had all four grandparents, had never lost a pet, and this was his first real experience with death. He had also liked Ronda a lot, as had most of
the kids in town, and it had been a shock to learn that the mailman had killed himself.

  Billy had been quiet and subdued for the past two days, unusually pensive and well-behaved, and Doug and Trish had discussed at length whether the boy should go to the funeral. In the end, they decided against it, agreeing that the sight of the mourners and the coffin would probably be too traumatic for their son, and they had found a babysitter to watch him for the morning. When they returned, they would talk the funeral over with him, make sure he understood what had happened.

  Standing at the head of the grave, in front of the closed casket, the minister read selected excerpts from the Bible. He tactfully refrained from mentioning the cause of the mailman's death and instead discussed the positive aspects of Ronda's life and the loss to his family and to the community his death had wrought.

  Doug listened to the preacher's generic comments but found his mind wandering. Although he felt sad, he should have felt sadder. He should have been as moved by the words he was hearing as by the thoughts and memories in his head. What was missing from the minister's well-meaning words, he realized, was the spirit of the man himself, and he thought that there were many people who could have given a better, more heartfelt eulogy, people who had known and loved the mailman on a personal level. The bartender at The Corral, for instance. Or George Riley.

  Or Howard Crowell.

  His eyes scanned the crowd until he found the postmaster. Howard was standing next to Ronda's family, dressed in a new black suit bought especially for the occasion, sobbing openly. He was obviously listening to every word the preacher said, and his gaze appeared to be riveted on the casket.

  Doug frowned. Standing next to the postmaster, wearing a light-blue postal uniform that contrasted sharply with the somber black conservative attire of the other mourners, was a man he had never seen before. Tall and thin, with a shock of red hair topping a long pale face, he was staring off into the distance, obviously bored with the funeral. Though Doug was not close enough to see clearly the expression on the man's face, he sensed an arrogance in the newcomer's stance, a disdain in the tilt of his head. The man turned lazily to look at the minister, sunlight glinting off a series of gaudy buttons on his jacket. On anyone else, the uniform might have looked dignified, even respectful, but on him it seemed mocking, clownish, and it served only to trivialize the proceedings. The man turned again, gazing outward across the crowd, and Doug had the sudden inexplicable feeling that he was looking directly at him. It was an unnerving experience, and he glanced quickly away, his eyes shifting back to Howard.

  Tritia , too, was looking at the postmaster, but she did not notice the stranger next to him. Her gaze was focused on Howard's face, on his wet cheeks and shattered expression. He looked so lost, so hopeless, so helpless. They would have to invite him over for dinner sometime, she decided. Probably half the town had extended similar offers to him this week, but she knew that he liked her and Doug more than most, and she thought they might be able to cheer him up a bit.

  She glanced over at Ellen Ronda, on the other side of the postmaster. She had never really liked the mailman's wife. Ellen had always seemed too hard, too driving, too status-conscious for Bob, who had always been an amiably laid-back man, but it was obvious from the pain, evident even through the drug-induced haze of her eyes, that Ellen had loved her husband deeply and that his loss would not easily be borne. Tritia 's heart went out to the widow, and she felt welling in her eyes the tears that had eluded her until now.

  Above them, the sky was a rich deep blue, the sun hot already at ten o'clock. From here could be seen most of the town: the dull-blue wall of the diner peeking out from behind the Valley National Building and the small Chamber of Commerce office; portions of the shopping center revealed through the trunks and branches of the trees; the brightly colored signs of the gas stations and fast-food restaurants in the newer section beyond. Closer in, across the meadow that separated the cemetery from the golf course, was the original nucleus of the town: the newspaper, the library, the bars and the police department conveniently located within a block of each other -- and, of course, the post officer The post office.

  Tritia found that she could not look at that empty building for any length of time. It seemed sad and forlorn, almost abandoned, though it was only closed for the day. She wiped her eyes and concentrated on the words of the minister, focusing her gaze on the dark rosewood of the casket. Smooth and rounded, it looked almost like a large polished stone. Tritia knew that Ronda's family couldn't afford such an obviously expensive coffin, and she was pretty sure that the insurance provided by the Postal Service would not make up the difference.

  She would have Doug find out if someone in town had started a memorial fund to help defray the funeral expenses. If no one had, they would institute one. The mailman's family would have a tough-enough time just living with the pain and getting on with their lives without having to worry about financial burdens as well.

  "Ashes to ashes," the minister said, "dust to dust."

  Tritia and Doug looked at each other, then grasped each other's hands, holding tightly.

  "Amen."

  Ellen and the boys moved forward as the casket was lowered into the grave.

  Between the sobs of mourners, the quiet hum of machinery could be heard as the motorized jack folded downward. The town was silent. Since most of the residents had come to the funeral, there were not even the occasional noises of car engines or power tools to mar the stillness.

  Ellen reached down to pick up a handful of earth. Before dropping it into the open grave, she mouthed something inaudible, pressing the dirt to her lips.

  Then she collapsed, dropping to her knees and pounding her fists against the ground. She began to scream and one of her sons lifted her to her feet while the other spoke softly to her, trying to calm her down. Dr. Roberts pushed his way through the crowd toward them. Most of the people in attendance looked away out of deference, out of politeness, but Doug saw that the newcomer was staring boldly at the widow, bouncing a little on the heels of his shoes as if enjoying the sight.

  A moment later it was over. The doctor held Ellen's hand and she stood stiffly erect next to the grave as her sons dropped symbolic handfuls of earth on top of the casket.

  The minister said a final prayer.

  They walked up to Ronda's family after the service, waiting in line to pay their condolences. After her emotional outburst, Ellen once again seemed dazed and drugged, and her teary-eyed sons found the strength to support her between them. The minister stood with the family, as did Dr. Roberts and Howard. Next to the postmaster, on the outer ring of this inner circle, was the newcomer. This close, Doug could clearly see the man's features: the small sharp nose, the piercing blue eyes, the hard knowing mouth.

  Tritia grasped Ellen's outstretched hands firmly. "You're strong," she said. "You'll get through this. It may seem as though the pain will last forever right now, but it will pass. You'll survive. Just try to take things one day at a time. Just try to get on with your life. Bob would have wanted you to go on."

  Ellen nodded silently.

  Tritia looked from one son to the other. "Watch your mother. Take care of her." "We will, Mrs.Albin ;" said Jay, the eldest.

  Doug could think of nothing to say that wasn't trite and ineffectual. But then words from others at a time like this were bound to be meaninglessly superficial. "I'm sorry," he said simply, taking Ellen's arm for a moment, then shaking each of the boys' hands. "We liked Bob a lot. We're going to miss him."

  "That's the truth," said Martha Kemp in back of him.

  Tritia was already talking to Howard, echoing similar sentiments. She gave him a quick hug. Doug moved next to her and clapped a sympathetic hand on the older man's shoulder.

  "He was the best friend I ever had," Howard said, wiping his eyes, looking from one to the other. "Usually your childhood friends are the best, the people you grow up with. It's not often you find someone who's as close as that."

&n
bsp; Tritia nodded understandingly. Doug took her hand.

  "I miss him already," Howard said.

  "We know," Doug told him.

  The postmaster smiled wanly. "Thank you. And thank you for the card and the call the other day. Thank you for listening to a crazy sentimental old man."

  "You're not crazy, and you're not that old," Tritia told him. "And what's wrong with being sentimental?"

  Howard looked at Doug. "Keep her," he said. "She's a good one."

  Doug nodded, smiling. "I know."

  "We want you to come over one night this week," Tritia told the postmaster. She looked him in the eye and there was something in her voice that forbade argument. "I'll make you a good home-cooked meal, okay?"

  "Okay."

  "Promise?"

  "I promise."

  "Okay, then. We'll see you later. And if you don't call us, we'll call you. Don't think you're going to get out of this."

  Howard nodded good-bye as they began to move off. He had not introduced the man next to him, but Doug knew without being told that he was Ronda's replacement. The man held out a pale hand, which Doug reluctantly shook. The man's skin was warm, almost hot, and completely dry. He smiled, revealing white even teeth. "Nice day," he said. His voice was low and modulated, almost melodious, but there was an undercurrent of mockery in his tone, an attitude that only amplified the casual callousness of his words.