Tritia stood. "I have to go," she said.
"You can't go to the police," Irene said.
"I really think you should tell someone. This isn't right."
"No."
Tritia met her friend's gaze, then sighed. "Okay," she said. "It's up to you." She walked to the door, turning around before opening the screen. "Call me if you need anything," she said. "Anything. Doug and I can be right over, if there's an emergency."
"Thanks," Irene said. "But I'll be fine." She smiled. "Maybe I just won't open my mailbox."
"That's probably not a bad idea."
The old woman laughed, and for a moment she sounded almost normal. "Good bye,hon ," she said. "I'll see you."
Tritia walked slowly down the porch steps. " 'Bye."
She heard the sound of the door being locked behind her as she walked out to the car, the deadbolt being thrown.
Tritia waved as she drove off, not checking to see if her wave was returned. She turned onto the street, heading toward home. She'd known that the mailman was responsible for the deteriorating state of affairs in town, for the unpaid bills, the misdirected mail, the hate letters, and yes, probably for the deaths. But the extent to which he was willing to go in order to get someone, the extent to which he was _able_ to go in order to get someone, had never been brought home more forcefully than when she had looked in that box and seen the toe. Such random but well-thought-out malevolence was impossible for her to comprehend.
What frightened her even more was the realization that a mailman was the only person who had access to everyone in town, who dealt daily with each household, each individual. She had never been a religious woman, had not even been sure if she believed in such nebulous and culturally variable concepts as "good" and "evil." But she believed now. And she thought that evil had chosen a perfect form in which to do its work. If John Smith had been a preacher or a teacher or a politician, he would not have had access to nearly the number of people he did now and would not have been able to insinuate himself so subtly, so easily, so effortlessly into people's lives.
That bothered her, too. The passiveness of the town. The unwillingness of the people of Willis to face what was happening and do something about it. She and Doug themselves, for all their talk, had done very little to try to block the mailman, to put a stop to his plans. It was as if they were waiting for someone else to take on the responsibility, someone else to solve the problem.
But, then, what could they do? Even though they were aware of what was going on, had tried to effectively gird themselves against it, the mailman had made unwanted inroads into their lives. They had resisted the siren song of the mail, had turned deaf ears and blind eyes to the obvious psychological assaults on themselves, yet the ordeal had still subtly changed the dynamics of their family life. They had not drawn closer in the face of adversity but had, in a sense, retreated into themselves. There were no obvious walls or barriers, relationships were not tense or strained, but the comfortable spirit of joking camaraderie Doug and Billy had always shared was gone, replaced by a friendly but slightly more formal and less intimate set of roles. Her own relationships with Doug and Billy had gone through similar changes. She and Doug were more distant with each other; even their lovemaking seemed less a giving form of loving expression than the gratification of selfish needs, although the outward techniques had changed not at all. And lately she had taken to lecturing Billy in an authoritarian manner she had sworn she would never adopt.
She knew Doug had noticed these differences too, although neither of them had spoken of it to the other. She could see it in his eyes, read it in his attitude. It was expressed more by what he did not say than by what he did. They still talked of current events, household affairs, even, tentatively, of the mailman, but there was a superficiality to their conversations, a superficiality that extended even to subjects and thoughts that were not superficial, a failure to meet and communicate on the deep and important level so necessary to lasting relationships. More than once she'd felt as though they were talking at each other rather than to each other.
And it was the mailman's fault.
But she would not let him win. She refused to let him tear apart her family. It would be easy to succumb, to allow the breach between her and Doug to widen. But she vowed that she would not let things deteriorate any further. She was going to reach out to her husband and son, to put an end to this emotional lethargy, and she was going to force them to do likewise.
Part of her wanted to stop by the post office, to let the mailman know that she was no longer going to put up with his attempts to break her, that she was going to take a stand against him, but she remembered the last time she had tried to confront him, and the emotional clarity of the encounter remained horrifyingly undimmed. A field of goose bumps arose on her bare arms, the peach fuzz hair at the back of her neck pricked. She was angry now, she was determined, but she was not stupid.
_You're nice_.
Never again would she go to the post office alone.
Tritia was nearly to thetumoff that led toward home when she realized she had forgotten to pick up food for dinner. She had come to town this afternoon not merely to see Irene, but also to pick up groceries. They hadn't been shopping in days and were in desperate need of milk and butter and other essentials as well as something for tonight's meal.
She made a U-turn, turning back toward the store. Usually, she planned out the family's meals a day in advance, but for the past week or so she'd been too tired and distraught to do anything but throw something together at the last minute, an attitude so entirely out of character for her that she wondered why she hadn't noticed it before. This craziness had affected not only the emotional life of her family but its culinary life as well.
She decided to stop by the delicatessen to see if they had any fresh fish.
She was in the mood for trout, and if there'd been a good catch, she'd pick some up for dinner. Barbecued fish sounded wonderful right now.
She pulled into the parking lot of the shopping center. Although the spaces in front ofBayless were filled with cars, she was surprised to see that the area in front of the delicatessen was nearly empty. That was weird. Todd had the finest selection of cheeses and the best fresh fish in town, and usually whenBayless was busy, his store was even more crowded.
She parked in an empty space directly in front of the small store and walked inside.
She noticed the difference immediately. It was nothing she saw, more like something she felt. A tension. A strange uncomfortable feeling in the air that was entirely uncharacteristic of the store's usual atmosphere. She looked around. The deli was empty save for her and Todd behind the counter. She moved forward, examining the meats in the meat counter. She smiled at the shopkeeper, but he did not smile back, and she decided to quickly buy her food and get out of the store.
She pointed toward a selection offileted trout on ice behind the counter.
"Fresh catch?" she asked.
Todd nodded silently.
Her unease increased, and she said quickly, "I'll take three large fish."
The storekeeper opened the back of the counter, pulled out three trout, and placed them on the scale. "Tell your husband I don't appreciate what he's doing," he said.
Tritia frowned. "What are you talking about? What is he doing?"
"Tell him I don't appreciate it at all."
"Don't appreciate what?" Tritia stared at him. "Todd, tell me what's going on here. I don't know what you're talking about."
His reserve broke. He smiled at her as he wrapped the fish, and there was sadness in the smile. "I know you don't."
"Todd?"
"I believe you. Otherwise you wouldn't be here." He gestured around the empty store. "You're my first customer today."
"What's wrong?" she asked. She leaned forward over the counter. "Is it the mail?"
His face grew stony, cold. "That'll be three-fifty," he said.
"Todd?"
"Three-fifty."
/> She paid for the fish and walked out of the store. As she backed up in the parking lot, she saw him standing in the doorway, staring after her. It looked as though he was crying.
28
Billy sat in the darkened living room watching TV. _Dick Van Dyke_ segued into _Andy Griffith_, which segued into _The Flintstones_, which segued into _The Brady Bunch_. There was something comforting about the unchanging characters of the people on television, a reassuring element in the familiar plots and predicaments of the shows. Outside, things might be getting stranger, more chaotic. But on TV Mike and Carol Brady were still good-naturedly understanding parents trying to quell a war between the sexes that was brewing between their children.
A commercial came on and Billy got up to get something to eat. He had been glued in front of the TV set for most of the past three days, and though he enjoyed watching the shows, he was starting to feel a little restless and stir crazy. He also felt a little guilty. His parents had never let him watch this much television before, and he could not help feeling that he was doing something wrong, that he should be doing something productive instead of wasting his time vegetating in front of the tube.
But his parents didn't seem to care. They were too preoccupied with other matters. His dad had not even commented when he'd walked through the house a few minutes ago, had not even seemed to notice that he was there.
Billy made himself a peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwich, then moved back into the living room and sat down in his chair before the TV. He had tried finding other things to do the past few days, but had been spectacularly unsuccessful. He had called everyone he'd known, asking if they wanted to go biking or go swimming or come over to The Fort, but his friends either weren't home or didn't want to talk to him. He had ridden by himself to the hill above the dig, but he knew without venturing down the slope that the archaeology students had gone, that the dig was over. He had pedaled as quickly as he could back toward home. The hill frightened him.
He wondered what Lane was doing.
He found himself thinking a lot about Lane lately, wondering how this estrangement could have happened to the two of them. He was aware that friendships often ended quickly and bitterly. He remembered how he and Frank Freeman, his best friend from fourth grade, had broken up after a relatively minor argument, and how alliances were quickly shifted, effectively redrawing the social map of the playground. He and Frank had ended up enemies, hanging out with rival factions of students, never missing an opportunity to hurt each other as deeply as possible.
And no one knew how to hurt more than an ex-friend.
But he and Lane had been buddies for a long time, had weathered rights both minor and major, and had still remained friends. It was hard to believe something like this could happen.
But Lane had changed.
A lot of people had changed.
_The Brady Bunch_ ended and Billy switched the channel to the Flagstaff station to watch _Bewitched_.
He finished his sandwich, wiped his hands on his pants. He had never thought this was possible, had never thought this would happen, but for the first time in his life he was looking forward to the end of summer. He could not wait for the start of school.
Doug sat on the porch thinking about the mail. Brooding about the mail.
This morning, he had received a slew of returned envelopes, some of them bills made out weeks ago, stamped with the notice "Not Deliverable as Addressed."
There had also been an envelope addressed to Tritia , written in a flowery hand, smelling of perfume, which he had torn up and thrown away without opening.
The walk to the mailbox was really frightening him, he realized. Much as he tried to hide it, much as he tried to deny it, he felt nervous walking down the drive and was now almosthypersensitively aware of the bushes and trees on the way to the mailbox, knowing they could be used for possible hiding places.
He thought of moving the mailbox to a spot right next to the door, like mailboxes in the city, but he rejected that idea immediately. He did not want the mailman coming up to the house, coming that close to Tritia and Billy. He also thought of taking the mailbox down entirely. If they had no mailbox, they could get no mail, right? But that was not only cowardly, it was crazy. What the hell was he doing hiding from the mail? Did he think if he ignored the problem or tried to avoid it that it would go away?
Tritia pulled into the driveway. Doug looked away, toward the trees. He heard the muted clicking of the emergency brake being put on, the slam of the car door, followed by the sound of Trish's steps on the wooden porch. "I'm back," she announced.
When he did not respond, she walked over to him. "I said I'm back."
He looked up at her. "You want a medal?"
Her expression went from anger to hurt to a calm neutrality. He felt guilty and looked away. He didn't know why he was being so mean to her. She was only trying to be friendly. But there was something about her Pollyanna attitude, her pretending that everything was okay, that grated on him and made him mad. Made him want to hurt her.
He had been mad at her a lot lately, though he didn't really understand why. "We're having fish tonight," she said. "Barbecued trout. I'll let you set up the barbecue."
"Did you buy any charcoal or lighter fluid? We're all out."
She shook her head. "Forget it. I'll broil it, then."
He stood up. "No. I'll go buy some. I want to get away from the house for a while anyway."
Tritia put a hand on his shoulder. "Are you all right?"
He stared at the hand, surprised. It had been days since they'd touched each other. He looked into her eyes and his voice softened. He felt some of his hostility, some of his tenseness, dissipate. He knew she was trying hard not to fight with him. "Yeah," he said. "I'm fine."
"Okay." She opened the screen door. "Better put some gas in the car too.
We're almost out."
"Yeah."
As he walked down the porch steps and across the gravel to the Bronco, he heard the television shut off, heard Trish talking to Billy. The sound of her voice, used not in anger but in concern, was nice and familiarly comforting, like the voice of an old friend not heard in a while, and suddenly he felt much better.
The Bronco was nearly out of gas, the fuel gauge on empty, and the first thing he did was stop by the Circle K and put in five dollars' worth.
The second thing he did was drive to Howard's house.
He pulled to a stop in front of the low ranch-style home. It now looked definitely abandoned. The lawn was tan, even the weeds dried up and dead. Next door, a man was just getting out of his pickup and Doug quickly got out of the car and tried to wave him down. "Hey," he called.
The man took one look at him and hurried into his house.
Doug stopped walking. The whole damn town was acting squirrelly. He considered approaching Howard's neighbors on the other side, knocking on their door, asking if they'd seen the postmaster, but he had a feeling that he wouldn't get much cooperation from them. Or anyone else in the neighborhood.
He noticed that several other lawns were starting to look kind of ragged.
Knowing he would probably get no answer or response, he walked up Howard's driveway and knocked on the door. Pounded on the door. Yelled for Howard to come out. But his entreaties were met with no response. Again he checked the front door, the back door, the windows, but again everything was locked up tight. A
darker, more solid drape seemed to have been put up behind the original curtains because now nothing could be seen inside the house, not even a shadow.
He wondered if he should call the police. Howard's house now showed definite signs of abandonment, and since no one except the mailman could claim to have seen him at all within the past few weeks, there seemed to him good cause to break into the postmaster's house and see if he was all right.
But he knew calling the police would do no good. He had told them the same story last time, and they'd donezippity shit. Besides, they'd never even try to get a search w
arrant or break into Howard's house unless they saw the mailman run inside the door with the postmaster's bloody head in his hands.
Doug shook his head. If there was one thing he hated about Arizona, it was the almost fanatic worship of land and property common to nearly everyone in the state. Here, people still had an Old West mentality, a perverse worldview that placed possessions above people in importance. He remembered one time when he and Billy had gone hiking out toward Deer Valley. They had been walking through a drycreekbed , following its course, when they happened upon a cabin in the woods. They turned immediately around, but not before they heard a young boy's voice call out, "Intruders, Pa!" A minute or so later, they heard the thunderous echoing sound of a shotgun blast. He'd felt like he was in some sort of damn movie. The noise was not repeated, but he and Billy had run the rest of the way back to the car, keeping low to the ground. When he told the police what had happened, the desk sergeant had merely smiled tolerantly and told him he shouldn't have been trespassing, as though death would have been fair punishment for a person who had inadvertently stepped on someone else's land.
It was this attitude that a man should be allowed to do whatever he wanted, with no restraints, that led to situations such as this.
Still, he got back in the Bronco and drove to the police station. It couldn't hurt to try. The chief, fortunately, was not there, but unfortunately, neither was Mike, and Doug ended up telling his story to a young female clerk who took down his statement and promised to give it personally to the lieutenant assigned to that sector of town. Doug was nice to her, cooperative, smiled at her, thanked her for her help, and left knowing nothing would be done.
Hell, maybe he should break in there himself, take this into his own hands.
But, no, the chief would just have him arrested and thrown in jail.
He drove toBayless to pick up the charcoal and lighter fluid, aware that Trish was probably already starting to worry. He had gone to town to buy two items and had been gone for more than an hour.
He quickly went into the store, walked directly to the aisle containing nonfood items, and picked up a cheap bag of charcoal and a plastic container of store-brand lighter fluid. The express checkout lane was closed, and the three registers that were open had long lines of customers, so he picked the shortest one and got behind an elderly man carrying a handheld grocery basket piled with dairy products.
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