The Mailman

by Bentley Little

  "It'll be this afternoon before we'll be able to put a man on it," she said. "There's a five-dollar hookup charge --"

  "Look," Doug said, keeping his voice intentionally low and even, "you guys screwed up. You turned off my water and electricity without me asking you to, and I'm sure as hell not going to pay for your mistake."

  The girl stiffened, her manner suddenly defensive. "It's not technically our mistake. We received a letter --"

  "I'm not going to waste my day playing word games," Doug said. "Let me speak to your supervisor."

  "The manager's out of the office right now, but I can leave your name and number and have him call you when he returns."

  "Do that. And do you think you could have my water and power turned back on? My wife and son would like to take a bath sometime today, and it would be nice if we could cook our dinner tonight."

  The girl nodded. "We'll get this straightened out. I'm sorry for any inconvenience." Her voice was conciliatory, with a hint of worry in it, and he realized that she was worried about what he would say to her supervisor.

  "It's not your fault," he told her. "I don't mean to take it out on you.

  I'm just frustrated right now."

  "I understand. And I'll have the manager call you as soon as he returns,"

  she promised.

  "Thanks." He turned and walked out the door, reaching into his pocket for his car keys.

  His hands were still shaking.

  His anger grew stronger after his trip to the phone company. Here, again, they had received a letter supposedly from him telling them to discontinue service, but when he asked them to reconnect his phone, they told him there would be a twenty-dollar charge and that the earliest phone service could be reinstated would be Thursday. He went up the office hierarchy, telling his tale to increasingly authoritarian men until he had reached the district manager, who told him, unequivocally, that service would be reinstituted only after he paid the charge and that the earliest possible hookup date would be Wednesday. He could, if he so desired, file a refund request explaining the particulars of his situation. The request would be sent to Mountain Bell headquarters and its merit judged there.

  He angrily pulled out of the small parking lot and nearly backed into old Mrs. Buford, who honked her horn at him. She yelled something he could not understand through her closed window. He waved his apology.

  Letters.

  Who would send letters to the phone company and the water and power company asking them to discontinue his service?

  No, not who? Why? He already knew who had sent the letters, or at least had a good idea who'd done it.

  The mailman.

  John Smith.

  It was not logical, and he had no idea why the mailman would do such a thing, but there was no doubt in his mind that it had been he who'd sent the false messages. There was something about the almost perfect calligraphy of the forged signature that reminded him of the professional-caliber speaking voice of the mailman. There was fear mixed in with his anger, but anger definitely had the upper hand, and he drove directly to the post office, intending to voice his opinions, his suspicions, his accusations to Howard.

  The parking lot was crowded, but a Jeep was pulling out just as he arrived, and Doug quickly drove into the spot. He picked up the envelopes from the seat next to him. They were still damp, the paper smooth and softly pliable against his fingers. He nodded politely to the old men seated on the bench outside the building, then pushed open the door.

  The first thing he noticed was the heat. It was warm outside, but it was absolutely hellish in here. The air was humid and stagnant; nothing came out of the ceiling vents, and the familiar low whistle of the swamp cooler was absent.

  The office was crowded anyway, though. Six or seven people stood in line, letters and packages in hand, and he could smell the sickeningly tart odor of women's perfume and men's deodorant mixed with the scent of freshly flowing sweat. He glanced toward the counter, but Howard was not there. Instead, the mailman stood behind the front desk, talking in low patient tones to the elderly female customer before him. There was sincerity in his voice and on the expression of his face, but it was a false smarmy sincerity, the superficial interest shown by a salesman to a mark, and Doug found the mailman's attitude both condescending and offensive.

  The mailman was not sweating.

  Doug tried to peek behind the paneled partition in back of the mailman to find out if Howard was somewhere in the rear of the post office, but he could not see anything. He was surprised that Howard would let the new man take charge of the front counter, particularly after what the postmaster had revealed to them the other night. He could not remember ever seeing Ronda within the post office unless it was to pick up or drop off a batch of mail, and he had never seen anyone besides Howard working behind the counter.

  Somehow that made Doug even angrier.

  The old woman accepted the change given to her by the mailman, put it in her purse, and turned to walk away. Doug quickly stepped past the other patrons up to the counter. "Excuse me," he said shortly. "I'd like to talk to Howard."

  The mailman looked at him, with a hint of a smile playing about his thin lips. "There were other people in line before you, sir. Please wait your turn."

  His eyes rested for a second on the soggy letters in Doug's hand. He said nothing and his eyes betrayed no recognition, but his smile grew broader.

  "Could you just call him out here for a moment?"

  "I'm sorry, sir. Please wait your turn."

  He was about to argue, but when he turned to look at the people behind him, he saw them gazing at him with impatience. "Fine," he said. He moved to the rear of the line.

  Ten minutes later he finally moved up to the counter. He had been watching the mailman constantly, studying him, looking for a trace of anything out of the ordinary, but aside from his air of natural superiority there seemed to be nothing amiss. The mailman did not look at him once.

  The fear and the anger were in about equal portions now.

  He stepped up to the counter, wiping the sweat from his forehead with his palm. "I'd like to talk to Howard."

  "Mr. Crowell is not here today."

  The words were so simple yet so totally unexpected that they caught him off guard. Howard wasn't here? Howard was always here. "Is he sick?" he asked.

  "Yes he is. May I help you?"

  Doug glared at the man. "Maybe you can. My family and I went on a picnic by Clear Creek yesterday, and we found unopened, undelivered mail strewn along the banks of the creek."

  A light smile played across the mailman's lips. " 'Strewn?' "

  His mocking intonation was so much like Tritia 's that Doug faltered for a second. But he recovered almost immediately and put the envelopes on the counter. "Here are a few pieces of mail we rescued."

  The mailman reached for the envelopes, but Doug drew them back. "I'm going to give these to Howard."

  "I'm sorry. It is the duty and responsibility of the postal service to deliver mail. It is against the law for you to retain undelivered items."

  Doug could feel the adrenaline rushing through his veins. He was sweating profusely now and again he wiped his forehead. "These all seem to be bills," he said. "And there were hundreds of more bills at the creek. Now, I haven't been getting my regular bills lately. In fact, I don't think I've gotten a bill since your predecessor died. I don't know what's going on, but a large chunk of my mail seems to be disappearing."

  "I haven't gotten my bills lately either," the man in back of him said.

  Doug watched the mailman's face for a reaction, for a sign that he had hit a nerve. He'd expected the mailman to glare at him, to get angry, to somehow tip his hand and admit that he'd been dumping the mail at the creek, but the mailman's face remained serenely neutral.

  "I promise that we will look into these complaints as soon as possible,"

  the mailman said. His voice was pleasant, unperturbed, calmly reassuring. "Do you have anything else, Mr.A
lbin ?"

  "Just that someone's been sending letters to the department of water and power telling them to cut off my water and electricity. The same person sent a letter to the phone company telling them to disconnect my phone. I believe that's mail fraud."

  "Yes it is, Mr.Albin . And I assure you we will look into it immediately.

  I will tell Mr. Crowell of your concerns."

  Doug looked into the mailman's eyes and saw in them a blank hardness that bored right through him and made him want to glance away, but he forced himself to hold contact. The sweat felt cold on his body. "Thank you," he said tersely.

  The mailman stretched out a thin pale hand. "Now would you please hand over the undelivered mail in your possession?"

  Doug shook his head. "Take me to court. I'm giving these to Howard."

  "Fine," the mailman said, his voice eminently reasonable. "Now, would you please step aside? There are other people waiting behind you, Mr.Albin ."

  Doug turned away from the counter and strode out of the post office to his car. It was not until he was halfway home that he remembered that he had not told the mailman his name.

  The mailman had simply known.

  12

  Hobiearrived home feeling good. The pool had been crowded today, and not just with kids. A gaggle of women in their early to mid-twenties had arrived in the afternoon and had taken up residence near the deep end of the pool, far away from the children and their mothers. Before their arrival he had been casually scoping out Mrs. Farris, who was trim and fit and wore a pinkish-peach bathing suit that became nearly see-through when it was wet, but his attention shifted as the new group set up their towels and broke out the tanning lotion. They all had the brown smooth bodies of aerobic instructors, and they all had incredibly great tits. One of them, a brunette, was wearing a modified string bikini, and when she bent over, he could see almost up the crack of her perfectly formed ass. The others wore brightly trendy swimsuits cut so close to the crotch that he knew they had to shave.

  It had been a damn good day.

  He pulled out his keys and opened the door, taking his mail out of the box before walking inside.

  AlthoughHobie lived in a large brown-and-white mobile home near the center of town, just down the road from the shopping center in what was admittedly not the best section of Willis, he was comfortable with his place of residence. The houses here were close together and not as nice as those in the rest of town, but that suited him just fine. No one bothered him, no one told him to turn down his stereo, no one told him to clean up his yard or get rid of his automobiles. He knew that his property looked like a miniature junkyard.

  There was no lawn to speak of, only flat dirt, and there was a 1974 Vega and a 1979Datsun parked in the front and a 1965 Mustang on blocks in the back. His carport was littered with various auto parts and two old engine blocks. But he didn't mind it, and neither did his neighbors.

  The inside of the trailer was nicer. He kept it up, even though he lived alone, and it wasn't bad, if he did say so himself. He tossed his shades on the front table and went into the kitchen, grabbing a beer from the fridge. He popped open the tab, took a swig, and glanced at the return addresses on the envelopes in his hand: his mother, the Classic Mustang Club, his paycheck from the district.

  One piece of mail, a long yellowish envelope, had no return address at all, and he turned it over in his hand. Both the front and back were covered with smeared brownish red fingerprints. Frowning, he put down his beer and tore the envelope open. Inside were two photographs paper-clipped together. The top one showed a nude Oriental girl of fifteen or sixteen lying on a flat straw mat.

  He stared at the picture. The girl was beautiful, with large almond-shaped eyes and a full sensuous mouth. She was spread-eagled, legs in the air, the dark folds of her vagina clearly visible through her sparse black pubic hair.

  He unfastened the paper clip. The bottom photo showed the same teenage Oriental girl on the same straw mat.

  But her head had been cut off and placed on top of her stomach.

  On the photo were the same smudged brownish red fingerprints as on the envelope.

  He felt suddenly sick to his stomach. Against his will, he had been aroused by the first picture of the girl. She was young, but she was gorgeous and her body looked luscious, inviting. But the second photo was like a punch to the gut. He closed his eyes, turning the picture over so he wouldn't have to look at it, but he could still see in his mind the girl's dead staring eyes and round-O mouth, the twisted veins and tubes protruding like spaghetti from her open throat, and the puddle, no, _pool_ of blood spreading outward from her neck across the mat.

  Who would have sent him such a thing? Who could have sent him such a thing? And why?

  And what about those fingerprints?

  He quickly crumpled up the photos and the envelope they'd come in and dropped the whole thing in the trash. He washed his hands off in the sink, scrubbing them with Lava the way he did when trying to get grease off his fingers. The kitchen seemed darker than it had before, although the sun would not set for another two hours, and he flipped on the lights, grabbing another beer after downing the first in three large successive swallows. He sat down at the table, forcing himself to read the other letters, but even the message from his mother could not cheer him up, and when he tried to recapture his earlier good mood, tried to think again of the bathing beauties at the pool, he saw them lying on the hard concrete, decapitated, their heads placed on their tan stomachs and staring at him with dead open eyes.

  13

  Hobiecame over just after breakfast, knocking once, perfunctorily, on the doorjamb before pulling open the screen and walking into the living room. He cocked a finger at Billy, sprawled on the couch. "Hey, sport."

  Doug was putting away the last of the breakfast dishes, and he glanced at his watch asHobie headed toward the kitchen. "It's only eight-thirty."

  "Yeah, well, the meeting starts at ten, and I figured we should get there ahead of time and discuss things, plan what we're going to say. I tried to call yesterday after I finished at the pool, but a voice kept saying your line had been disconnected."

  Doug shook his head. "Someone forged a letter from me and sent it to the telephone company, telling them I was moving and wanted my phone service stopped."

  Hobielaughed. "Really?"

  "They sent a letter to the department of water and power, telling them to cut off my water and electricity too."

  Hobie'ssmile faded. "That's a little more serious. One letter might be a joke, but two . . ." He shook his head. "Who do you figure it was?"

  The mailman, Doug wanted to say, but he shrugged instead.

  "You think it was a student? Who did you flunk this year?"

  "No one. Besides, I don't think I had any students who hated me this time.

  The closest I can figure is Duke Johnson, but even he didn't dislike me that much."

  "And even if he did, he wouldn't be smart enough to think up something like this."

  "Exactly."

  "Did you call the cops?"

  "I told them everything and gave them copies of the letter, but they said there wasn't a whole hell of a lot they could do."

  Hobiesnorted. "What else is new?"

  Doug wiped the counter and hung up the dishtowel. "You want to head over there now?"

  "Yeah. I called Mark Pettigrew, and he's going to meet us there. I tried calling the coach and Donovan, but neither of them was home. I think they're on vacation. I heard Donovan say something about going up to Durango."

  "All right, let's get it over with, then." Doug stepped into the hall and knocked on the bathroom door. "Hobie'shere. I'm going."

  "Okay," Tritia said through the closed door. "Good luck. I hope you get your books."

  "I'm not holding my breath." He returned through the kitchen into the living room.Hobie opened the screen door and stepped outside. Doug turned to his son, still on the couch. "I'll be back around lunch. Mind your mother."

/>   "I always do."

  Doug laughed. "That'll be the day." He followedHobie onto the porch and the two of them walked out to the auto teacher's truck.

  "Speaking of water and electricity, I didn't get my utilities bill this month,"Hobie said.

  "We haven't gotten any bills at all."

  "Come to think of it, I haven't either.Ain't that weird? I shouldn't say anything bad about this new guy -- I mean, he's just getting started, just learning the ropes and all -- but I think he's losing a lot of mail. I usually get a ton of mail every day. Lately, though, I've been getting two or three letters at the most, some days nothing at all."

  Doug climbed into the cab and slammed the door, digging his safety belt out of the crack of the seat. "Bills and junk mail, right? You're missing bills and junk mail."

  "Yeah."Hobie seemed surprised. "You too, huh? Maybe I should go in and talk to Crowell and bitch about this, find out what's going on." He started the truck and backed up the drive, swinging around on the road.

  They took off, a spray of gravel shooting up behind them. Doug held on to the dashboard with one hand for support. Although he taught driver'sed ,Hobie himself was a scary driver and Doug needed as much reassurance as possible whenever he went someplace in his friend's truck.

  As they drove through the trees toward town, he toldHobie of their picnic at the creek, of the dumped and scattered letters. He reported the facts objectively. He didn't come out and say that he thought the mailman had been stealing and dumping mail, that he thought the mailman had sent the fake letters to the telephone company and department of water and power, but the implication was unmistakable. The other teacher's face became more serious and more set as he spoke.

  Hobiewas silent as they drove past the trailer park and turned left onto the highway. "There's a lot of weird things going on," he said finally. "A lot of weird things."