The Mailman

by Bentley Little

  Lane nodded. "Yeah," he admitted.

  "That was dumb." He looked at his friend curiously. "Where'd you get the money anyway?"

  Lane glanced away. "My old man."

  "You stole it?" Billy was shocked.

  "What am Igonna do? Tell him I want ten dollars to send to Tama Barnes so I can get her pictures and address?"

  "Youshouldn't've stole it."

  "Fuck you. My old man has plenty of money. He didn't even notice it was gone."

  Billy looked down at the open magazine on his lap, saying nothing. He and Lane often fought, often argued, often insulted each other, but there had been something else in his friend's voice just now, a hardness, a belligerence, a seriousness that said this was not a subject for argument, at least not for their usual temporary playful form of argument.

  They were silent for a while, the only sound in The Fort the quiet whisk of turning pages.

  "You're probably right," Lane said finally. "I probably won't get anything. I probably won't even get my pictures. But who can tell?"

  "Yeah," Billy said.

  "I bet she has a nice beaver, though."

  Lane's voice was normal again, but underneath the superficialities something had changed, something that could not change back, and Billy somehow knew that this mundane moment was a turning point in their relationship. He and Lane might never again be as close as they had been, or even as close as they were now. It was a sad realization, a depressing discovery, and though Lane soon tired of looking at the _Playboys_ and wanted to ride down to the dig and see what was happening there, Billy convinced him to stay in The Fort, as if by remaining within its boundaries they could stop the change from occurring and freeze everything exactly as it was now.

  The two of them remained within the HQ for the rest of the morning, talking, looking at the pictures, reading aloud the party jokes, like the friends they had always been and had thought they always would be.

  15

  The entire town was talking about The Suicides. For that was how they thought of them now. The Suicides. In big capital letters. It had been easy in the aftermath of the funeral and the outpouring of public sympathy for Bob Ronda's family to focus on the mailman's life rather than his death, to dwell on his good points. But the fact remained that he had killed himself. He had blown his brains out with a double-barreled shotgun and had, in the process, pushed his wife over the edge of sanity and let down an entire town that had loved him, cared about him, believed in him.

  And now Bernie Rogers had done it as well.

  It was all Doug and Tritia heard about at the grocery store. The Suicides.

  Willis had had suicides before --Texacala Armstrong had shot herself last year just after her husband had been finally taken by cancer -- but the deaths had been isolated and understandable: people dying of disease, people who had recently lost a loved one, people with no hope. Never, in anyone's memory, had there been two suicides within two weeks of each other. And by seemingly normal people for no good reason.

  The bizarreness of the coincidence was not lost upon anyone, and shocked grief was mixed with both morbid curiosity and superstitious fear as people talked in hushed whispers about what had happened. Even the worst gossips in town seemed to approach the subject reverently, as if suicide was a communicable disease and by not trivializing or sensationalizing the deaths they could somehow vaccinate themselves against it.

  The afternoon before, after returning from the meeting, Doug had told Tritia about Bernie Rogers, about seeing the body, about his suspicions. She, in turn, had told him about the call from Ronda's wife and about the letter from Howard, although she still, for some reason, could not bring herself to tell him of her nocturnal experience with the mailman. He wanted to go immediately to the police, to explain to them that he thought the mailman was somehow behind or responsible for both deaths, but she convinced him, after a heated name-calling argument, that as a teacher and supposedly respected member of the community, he could not afford to damage his credibility by making wild accusations. He still had the envelopes they'd retrieved from the creek, but he realized that everything else was entirely unsubstantiated and required not only a tremendous leap of faith but also a belief in . . . what?

  The supernatural?

  Maybe he was crazy, but he didn't think so, and he knew that behind Tritia 'slogical arguments she didn't either. He still thought he should go to the police and tell them what he knew, or what he suspected, but he was willing to hold off for her sake. She was right. News spread in a small town, and if he happened to be wrong, if the mailman was just a normal man with pale skin and red hair, he would forever be branded a nut. In the back of his mind, though, was the nagging thought that someone else might be in danger, that by remaining silent and passive he might allow something else to happen, and he was determined to keep his eyes and ears open for anything unusual, anything out of the ordinary, and to report everything to the police if he suspected that anyone was going to be hurt or injured. Or killed.

  They moved up and down the aisles of the store, Tritia going through the coupons, reading aloud from the shopping list, Doug taking the items from the shelves and putting them into the cart.

  "Mr.Albin !"

  Doug put a box of cornflakes into the cart and looked up. A tan young woman wearing tight shorts, a tight T-shirt, and no bra waved at him from down the aisle. She smiled, radiant teeth lighting up her pretty face. He knew she was an ex-student, though he could not immediately place her, and he tried desperately to connect a name with the face as she walked up the aisle toward him.

  "Giselle Brennan," she said. "Composition. Two years ago. You probably don't remember me --"

  "Of course I remember you," he said, and now he did, although he was surprised at himself. Giselle had been one of those fringe students who had shown up for class only when she felt like it and had barely eked out a C for the semester. Not the type of student he ordinarily remembered. "How are you doing?"

  "Fine," she said.

  "I haven't seen you around for a while."

  "Yeah, well, I moved to Los Angeles, worked as a temp in a law office while I went to school part-time, but I didn't really like it much. Los Angeles, I mean. Too crowded, too smoggy, too everything. I'm back here visiting my parents right now." She smiled brightly at him. "The place seems to haveweirded out since I left."

  Was it that obvious? Doug wondered. Could even an outsider sense it?

  Giselle gestured toward Tritia . "Is this your wife?"

  "Yes. This is Tritia ."

  Tritia nodded politely. "Hello."

  "Hi." Giselle beamed. "You know, your husband's a really good teacher. I

  bet you're really proud of him. I never liked English much -- I was always more of a math person -- but I sure enjoyed his class."

  "But did you learn anything?" Doug joked.

  "I did. I really did. I learned the difference between 'that' and 'who.' "

  Doug chuckled.

  "Don't laugh. I'm serious. That's something that always stuck with me.

  Before I had your class, I used to say, 'The person that went to the store,' or 'The guy that sold me the car.' But ever since you gave us that lecture, I say 'The person _who_ went to the store,' "The guy _who_ sold me the car.' "

  "I'm glad I got through to somebody."

  "You did. And it's helped me a lot. Now I'm a real snob about it, in fact.

  Once I went to this party and there was a guy in really trendy clothes playing the serious intellectual. Only he kept saying 'that' when he should have said 'who.' , It made me feel so superior! Here was this man who should have intimidated the hell out of me, and I wasn't intimated by him at all. I felt sort of embarrassed for him, if you want to know the truth. It was great!"

  Doug wasn't sure what to say. "Thank you, I guess."

  "You're welcome."

  "You're giving him a swelled head," Tritia said. "Now it's going to be even more impossible to live with him."

  Gise
lle didn't pick up on the humor. "He's the best teacher I ever had,"

  she said seriously. "Even though he gave me a C." She looked toward her shopping cart at the end of the aisle. "Well, I've got to get going. I'll be around for a while, though. Maybe we'll run into each other in town somewhere." She looked shyly away. "Maybe we can meet for lunch or something."

  Doug nodded. "Maybe. Nice seeing you again."

  The girl returned to her cart, retreating down the aisle, and Tritia raised her eyebrows. "Ha," she said.

  "What does that mean, ha?"

  "You know exactly what it means."

  "The poor girl obviously came to the store to get herself a quarter-pound Hoffy, and you're picking on her."

  "You're nasty!" Tritia laughed and hit his shoulder, and he felt a little better. He put an arm around her waist. They continued down the aisle and up the next one to the produce department and didn't hear a single word about The Suicides. When they reached the checkout stand, however, he heard snatches of words from various conversations, and the words "killed himself and "death" seemed to pop up an awful lot. His eyes rested on the _Willis Weekly_, displayed on its stand next to the counter, and he thought of BenStockley , the editor of the paper. He didn't know why he hadn't thought of the editor before. If anyone in town would listen to him, hear him out, perhaps even believe him, it would be Stockley. He said nothing to Tritia , but he decided then and there that he was going to pay the editor a visit later in the day.

  They moved forward in line.

  The Bronco seemed to hit every bump and chuckhole on the road home. There were eggs and other fragile food items in the back of the vehicle, and Doug tried to drive slowly and carefully down the dirt road. They drove over the creek and around the turn, and were heading along the straight stretch toward home when they saw, in the distance, what appeared to be two figures kneeling in the middle of the road. As they drew closer, they saw that the figures were Ron and Hannah Nelson and that they were crouched on the dirt before the unmoving form of a German shepherd.

  "Oh, my God," Tritia said. "It's Scooby. Stop."

  Doug pulled the car over to the side of the ditch just in front of the couple. They could see, this close, that Hannah Nelson's face was streaked with tears. Both of them hopped out of the car, hurrying forward. Ron stood up as they approached.

  "What happened?" Doug asked.

  "Scooby's dead." Ron's voice was choked and halting, and it seemed as though he too was about to cry. "I think he was poisoned. There's not a mark on him, but there's, like, saliva still dripping from his mouth. The saliva's kind of red."

  "Do you need some help? Do you want me to take him to the vet?" '

  "No. We'll take him. There's nothing that can be done now."

  Doug looked down at the dog. There were, indeed, no marks on him, but the animal's eyes were open wide in an expression of terror and agony. The drool that hung in threads from his open mouth had pooled on the dirt in a muddy, bloody mixture. He met Tritia 's glance and saw in her eyes disgust and pity and anger. "WhocouJd've poisoned him?" she asked. "Do you have any idea?"

  Ron swallowed hard. "No. But theWilkersons ' dog was poisoned yesterday, and someone told me that two or three dogs in town have been poisoned the last couple days."

  "But how could they have gotten Scooby? I mean, you always have him tied up."

  "Actually, he broke his chain yesterday and ran off," Hannah said. She closed her eyes, took a deep breath, obviously willing herself not to cry. "It took us a few hours to find him."

  "He was up past your place," Ron added.

  Hannah began sobbing again, turning away from them.

  Doug put a comforting arm around Tritia . "You sure there's nothing we can do?"

  Ron shook his head. "Thanks, though."

  "Let us know what you find out." Tritia moved forward and put a hand on Hannah's shoulder. "Call me."

  The other woman nodded silently, and Doug and Tritia made their way back to the Bronco. Doug put his key in the ignition, started the engine, put the car into gear, and they pulled away from the ditch, moving slowly around the Nelsons and heading toward home. Glancing in the rearview mirror, Doug saw Ron pick up the dog and carry him toward the driveway.

  Neither of them said a word as they pulled into their own drive. Doug parked next to the house and got two sacks of groceries from the back of the vehicle. Tritia carried the other sack. They walked into the living room. As usual, Billy was sprawled on the couch, watching TV. _The Brady Bunch_. Doug put his sacks down on the kitchen counter. Next to the sacks was this morning's mail. It had been delivered before breakfast, before they had even awakened, but neither of them had been brave enough to open the envelopes.

  Now Doug shuffled through the mail and set aside the three envelopes addressed to himself. As Tritia put down her sack, he tore open the first one and unfolded the enclosed letter: "Dear Tim . . ."

  His name wasn't Tim. He frowned, reading on:

  You missed the meeting, so I'll fill you in on the details. We passed resolutions five through nine unanimously and hired the new custodian. That assholeAlbin gave us a sob story about books and we told him we'd find the funds just to shut him up, but to be honest, there are several more important items we could be spending the money on. I'd like you to write him a letter explaining that our budget for this fiscal year does not allow for new curriculum expenditures other than those already approved, etc. etc. . . .

  His eyes jumped to the bottom of the letter. It was signed by Willard Young, the president of the school board. "Tim" had to be Tim Washburn, the only board member who hadn't attended the meeting.

  "Those sons of bitches," he swore softly.

  "What?" Tritia asked.

  "They're not going to give me my books."

  "But I thought you said --"

  "They lied to me." He handed over the letter. "I can't believe it."

  "I can." She read the letter, then threw it down on the counter. "What else is new? They've been screwing the teachers every year since we've been here. What made you think they were going to change?"

  Doug picked up the second envelope. As he'd suspected, it was an official letter from the board, apologizing for not having enough money in the budget to buy his requested copies of _Huckleberry Finn_.

  He tore the letter up and opened the cupboard under the sink, throwing the pieces into the garbage sack.

  Tritia was starting to unload the grocery sacks, but Doug handed her the single envelope addressed to her. "Open it," he said.

  "Now?"

  "I have a theory."

  Tritia took,theenvelope from him and carefully opened it, reading the short enclosed note. No, she thought, this can't be real. She read over the letter once more:

  What makes you think I would want to meet with you? You were always a smug self-satisfied bitch, and I have no reason to believe that you have changed . . .

  Smug self-satisfied bitch.

  It was a phrase Paula had often used to describe women she did not like, and it lent the message an authenticity not found in the stilted phrasing of the rest of the letter. Tritia 's lips suddenly felt dry. Of course, she had never told Doug of her last meeting with Paula, of what had been said on both sides.

  She had let him believe that they had simply drifted apart after the move and she had kept up the pretense of a friendship long after contact had been cut off. But after all these years, and after reading that letter, she had honestly thought that Paula might want to get together again. Lord knows, she had often thought of Paula in the intervening years, had often regretted the things she'd said. The two of them had been such good friends and their falling out over such a relatively minor item that she'd had no trouble believing that Paula wanted to meet.

  _Smug self-satisfied bitch._

  "What is it?" Doug asked.

  She quickly folded the letter, not wanting him to see. "Paula's not going to be able to come," she said. "She changed her mind."

  "Apparently so d
id Don," Doug said dryly. He handed her a letter from Don Jennings. There were only two words between the salutation and the signature:

  "Fuck you."

  Tritia blinked, not believing her eyes. She could not recall hearing Don ever use profanity. Not even "shit" or "hell" or "damn." She glanced up at Doug.

  "That's not like him," she said. "Not unless he's changed an awful lot since we knew him."

  "I don't think it's from Don."

  "Do you --"

  "I don't think the first one was either," he said, anticipating her question. "I don't think Don got a job in Phoenix, I don't think the Jennings are moving to Arizona, I don't think he wrote to me at all."

  Tritia felt a tremor of fear pass through her. "That's an awful lot of trouble for someone to go through just to play a practical joke," she said.

  "That first letter was so detailed. Whoever wrote it either knew Don or knew you, because there were things in there that a stranger couldn'tpossibly've known."

  "It wasn't a joke," Doug said. "I don't know what it was, but it wasn't a joke." He held out his hand. "Let me see your letter."

  She didn't really want him to read the letter, but she handed it to him anyway. She watched his eyes dart quickly from left to right as he scanned the words.

  "That's what I thought."

  They were silent for a moment. Tritia looked over at Billy, who was watching TV, pretending he hadn't heard what they were talking about. He'd heard, she knew. But she was glad he was pretending he hadn't. She didn't want to talk to him about this, didn't want to explain what she couldn't explain.

  She turned away from Doug. She didn't want to talk about it to him either.

  She didn't want to talk about it at all. She began unpacking groceries.

  16

  "That's a very interesting theory,"Stockley said. "Very interesting." He broke open a fortune cookie, reading his fortune, throwing the slip of paper away and slowly chewing the cookie as he mulled over what Doug had just told him.

  A slovenly paunchy man in his mid-fifties, BenStockley looked like a stereotypical reporter. His pants were always black, his shirt always white, and both were always wrinkled. His hair was gray and thin, combed back over his scalp, and was slightly too long for both his age and contemporary fashion.