The Mailman

by Bentley Little

  As he stood in line, Doug saw empty wire rack space formerly taken by the newspaper. The rack seemed sad and forlorn, if emotions could be ascribed to newsstands, and he found himself wondering what had happened to therisque fortune cookies in BenStockley's desk drawer. He could still see in his mind the editor sitting behind his desk, but that image was beginning to fade, replaced by that of the bullet-riddled body he had seen on TV. What had happened toStockley ? A lump formed in Doug's throat and he forced himself to look away from the rack to the impulse items next to it.

  It had been nearly half a month that the town had been without a paper.

  The _Weekly_ had been, for all intents and purposes, a one-man operation, and whenStockley died, the paper abruptly ceased publication. Doug had no doubt that it would eventually get back on its feet once everything was sorted out there were a few part-time reporters who could probably take over the editing duties, and the secretary pretty much knew how the business end of the operation worked -- but for now the press in Willis was effectively shut down, and Doug couldn't help feeling that that was exactly the way the mailman wanted it. No independent means of disseminating information. No official way to learn what was going on.

  Of course, news still traveled through unofficial channels. And traveled quite well. Through overhearing several unconnected conversations the past few minutes, for example, he knew that several more dogs had been murdered, not poisoned this time but decapitated, their severed heads stolen.

  Gossip might be reviled in certain quarters for being unreliable -- a children's party game of pass-the-message had been designed precisely to support that argument -- but Doug knew from past experience that word-of-mouth was not nearly as faulty a means of learning news as it was made out to be.

  He looked up to see Giselle Brennan walk into the store.

  She saw him at the same time and waved. "Hi, Mr.Albin ." She walked through the turnstile and around the cash register to meet him.

  She was wearing no bra, he noticed immediately, and the hard points of her nipples were visible through the thin material of her tight T-shirt. Her large breasts jiggled as she walked toward him. She was grown now, he knew. An adult, a woman, but in his mind he still thought of her as a young teenager, and he felt strange seeing her in such an obviously sexual light. It disturbed him somehow, bothered him. He smiled warily as she approached. "Hi," he said. "How's it going?" He moved up in line.

  "I got a job."

  "Really?" he said. He placed his items on the moving black top of the register counter, automatically inserting a rubber divider behind it. "Where at?" She grinned widely. "The post office. Can you believe it?"

  The smile of congratulation froze on his face. Yes, he could believe it.

  "I didn't know they were hiring," he said carefully.

  "Yeah, well, it's just temporary. I guess their sorting machine broke down and they were looking for someone to do it manually."

  Doug moved forward. "Who hired you? Howard?"

  "No, Mr. Crowell was sick. I guess that's one of the reasons they need an extra person. Mr. Smith hired me."

  Doug forced himself to smile. "What do you think of Mr. Smith?"

  Giselle's face clouded over for a second and he thought she was going to say something about the mailman, but instead she just shrugged. "I don't know."

  The man in front of Doug paid for his groceries. Doug put a hand on Giselle's shoulder. She did not move away. "I don't know if you should work there," he said seriously.

  She laughed. "My mom said the same thing. Don't worry. I'll be all right."

  "Be careful," Doug warned her.

  She smiled and pulled away. "Of course." She wiggled her fingers at him as she headed toward the frozen foods. "See you."

  He watched her walk away, saw the outline of her tight ass beneath her jeans, the material pulled provocatively in at the crack.

  "Two-eighty-five."

  "What?" Doug turned around to face the cashier.

  The young man smiled knowingly. "Two-eighty-five."

  Doug took out his wallet.

  In bed that night, Tritia snuggled next to him, laying an arm across his chest, holding him close in a way that she hadn't for quite some time. The dinner had been good and, more important, healthy. Trout and rice and asparagus stalks. She was back to her old nutrition-conscious self, and for some reason that made him feel more optimistic, less worried. Everything else might be going to hell, but at least they were going to be all right.

  Her head shifted under the crook of his arm as she looked up at his face.

  "Do you still love me?" she asked.

  "What kind of question is that?"

  "Do you still love me?" Her voice was quiet and there was a seriousness in it he did not quite know how to take.

  "Of course I love you."

  "You never say it anymore."

  "I didn't think I had to." He smiled. "God, we've been married for fifteen years. Why else would I put myself through this hell?"

  "Be serious."

  "Look, if I didn't love you, I wouldn't be with you."

  "It's not that simple. Besides, I like to hear it sometimes."

  "Michelle," he said. "That letter. That's what this is all about, isn't it?"

  She said nothing but held him tighter. He kissed the top of her head.

  "I'm afraid," she said finally.

  "So am I."

  "But I'm afraid for us. Our relationship. I mean, I get the feeling that you're keeping things from me, that you're afraid to talk to me. Or that you don't want to talk to me."

  "That's not true," he protested.

  "You know it is."

  They were silent for a moment. "You're right," Doug said. "We have been drifting apart. I don't know why. I'd like to blame it all on the mailman, but I

  know that doesn't account for everything. It's my fault too."

  "It's our fault," Tritia said.

  And they held each other, and they snuggled closer, and Doug had the feeling that they had averted the disaster toward which they'd been heading, that they had bucked the trend that had been developing between them, and that they had successfully screwed up the mailman's plans.

  29

  Tritia awoke feeling jittery and out of sorts, the emotional residue of an unfortunately remembered nightmare that had, of course, been about mail. She'd been young, a child, but had been living here in this house, and she'd walked down the drive to the mailbox. It was a gorgeous day, the sky blue, the sun shining, and she was wearing her favorite pink dress with the little pinafores.

  She opened the mailbox and drew out a stack of brightly colored envelopes, the top one decorated with dancing teddy bears. Careful not to rip the beautiful paper, she pried open the sealed flap . . .

  And a white hand shot out of the envelope and grabbed her neck.

  She screamed, dropping the other envelopes, and they flopped open, hands shooting out from each of them. One hand shot immediately up her dress, grabbing her crotch. Two more stretched up to knead and fondle her fledgling breasts.

  Another shot up between the crack of her buttocks. Others grabbed her arms and legs. She screamed, but a final hand covered her mouth and she was pulled to the ground.

  And then she woke up.

  Not a good way to start the day.

  It was her turn to fix breakfast, and she made bran muffins and squeezed the last of the oranges before going outside to check her garden. She felt tired and more than a little unpleasant, but she remembered her vow of yesterday, her promises to Doug, and she tried to push aside her negative feelings. She picked up the hose arid turned on the faucet. Her plants had really gone to seed. She had continued to water them, but she. had not weeded the garden for quite a while, had not taken the time to fight off bugs or prune leaves, and as a result, the vegetables this year were the worst she'd ever raised.

  That too was going to change, she decided. She would spend this morning taking care of her garden, putting it back in shape. It wa
s time for her to take control of her own life and not let herself be manipulated by the mailman.

  She thought of Irene. She would give her friend a call today, make sure she was okay.

  Doug awoke soon after, and when she heard the shower water running through the pipes, she went back inside and woke up Billy. They were all going to eat breakfast together this morning. Like they were supposed to.

  Following breakfast Doug washed the dishes, with Billy drying, and when they were finished, she enlisted the aid of both of them to help with the garden and the yard. Billy tried to get out of it, tried to explain why it was more important for him to watch television, but she and Doug forced him to rake the drive, and for the first time in recent memory he actually did the work without complaining. He even seemed to be enjoying himself a little, and shewhisperedly pointed this out to Doug, who said there was nothing like a short stint in hell to make a person long for even the non-pleasures of everyday living.

  They ate lunch on the porch together -- bacon-lettuce-and-tomato sandwiches -- and afterward Doug and Billy decided to go hiking out toward the oldSutpen ranch. She filled up two canteens with water and ice, packed a sandwich apiece just in case, and told them to be back by five or she was calling the ranger station. They drove off in the Bronco, waving.

  When they were gone, Tritia called Irene.

  She had thought about what she was going to say, had planned out what she thought was a fairly compelling argument for her friend to tell the police what she had received in the mail, or at least to allow her to tell Doug, but when she heard Irene's frightened cracking voice, she knew that no logical argument would be able to sway her.

  "Hello?" Irene said.

  "Hello. It's me, Tritia ."

  "I knew it was you. That's the only reason I answered the phone."

  Tritia took a deep breath. "Look," she said, "I'm your friend --"

  "No, I'm not telling anyone."

  Tritia was taken aback by the old woman's determination. "How do you know that was what I was going to say?"

  "We both know why you called," Irene said. She coughedbrittlely . "I have to work this out in my own way. Do you understand? This is something I have to do myself."

  "Yes, but --"

  "There are things you don't know," the old woman said, and there was something in her voice that sent a chill down Tritia 's spine. "Ishouldn't've told you as much as I did."

  "I just want to help."

  Irene coughed again. "I know."

  Tritia thought for a moment. "At least promise me you'll call if something happens, okay? Call if you need any help."

  "You know I will."

  "Okay." She was reluctant to hang up, but she could tell that Irene really didn't want to talk to her right now. "Are you sure you're all right?"

  "I'm fine. I'll talk to you later, okay?"

  "Okay."

  The old woman hung up without saying good-bye.

  Doug was wrong, Tritia thought, replacing the receiver. People weren't changing in ways entirely unconnected to the mail. Directly or indirectly, everything was connected to the mail. At the bottom of all that was occurring in Willis, at the root of all the hostility, all the craziness, was the mailman.

  She walked outside to where she had left the mail she'd taken out of the box this morning before Doug and Billy awoke. There were two envelopes, both addressed to her, and all day she had debated with herself whether or not to open them.

  Now she picked up a shovel and dug a deep hole on the forest side of the garden.

  She threw the envelopes into the hole and buried them, unopened.

  Tritia walked down the road toward the Nelsons' house. Hannah hadn't called for over two weeks. In fact, Tritia hadn't talked to her friend since Scooby had been poisoned. That was unusual. Ordinarily, she and Hannah went over to each other's houses or talked on the phone at least every other day.

  She'd tried dialing the Nelsons' number more than once the past week or so, but she kept getting a busy signal, and when she'd called this morning, a decidedly robotic phone company voice had told her that the line had been disconnected and was no longer in service.

  So she decided to walk over and see her friend.

  There had been a light rain just after Doug and Billy had left, a short shower from a lone cloud that lasted less than ten minutes, and the dust on the road was packed down. For that she was grateful. Usually, dust flew with each footfall and she was filthy by the time she reached Hannah's house. But while the rain had settled the dirt, it had also upped the humidity, and that she could have done without. By the time she arrived, the sweat was dripping down the sides of her face.

  The Nelsons' car was in the driveway, Tritia noticed immediately, so she knew they were home. She walked past the car up to the house, shoes noisily crunching the gravel beneath her feet. Her eyes wandered over to the metal stake where Scooby's chain had been tied. Next to the stake was an empty plastic water bowl. It was strange not hearing the dog's happy bark as she approached the house, and it made her feel uneasy, as though she had come to the wrong place.

  She stepped up to the porch and knocked on the outer screen door. There was the sound of someone moving within the house, but the heavy front door did not open. She waited a few moments, then knocked again. "Hannah!" she called.

  "Get out of here!" came her friend's angry voice from inside the house.

  "It's me, Trish!"

  "I said get the hell out of here!" Hannah Nelson opened the door, standing behind the screen. Her hair was tangled and unkempt, her housedress dirty.

  Tritia could not remember seeing her friend looking anything less than her best, ever, and the sight of her disheveled form was shocking.

  "Hannah!"

  "Get out of here, bitch."

  Tritia stared, not knowing what to do, not knowing how to respond.

  "Dog-killer!" Hannah screamed. She spat at her. The saliva, caught in the fine screen mesh, dripped down in thick sickening threads between them.

  Tritia was confused. "What are you talking about?"

  "We got the letter. We know all about it. Ron!" She turned back toward the living room, leaving Tritia to stare at the glob of dripping saliva.

  Ron emerged from the dim gloom of the living room, opened the screen door, and stepped onto the porch. He stood before Tritia , legs slightly spread in a stance of threatening belligerence. "I didn't think you'd ever have the guts to show your face around here again."

  "I don't know what you --"

  "Get out of here!" Hannah screamed.

  Ron glared at Tritia . "You heard my wife. Get out of here. And don't you never come back."

  Tritia backed off the porch, feeling for each step. "I really don't --"

  "Go home, bitch." Ron spit on the ground in front of her. "And you tell your boy we don't want him around here neither. I know he's been coming here and stealing our lemons, and if be don't stop it, he's liable to catch a bullet in his butt. Get my drift?"

  Tritia felt a rush of white-hot anger rush through her. "My son has never stolen anything in his life! He has been at home the past week. And if you weren't such an ignorant uneducated asshole, you might be able to figure that out!"

  Ron advanced on her, fist outstretched, and she ran from him.

  She turned back at the end of the driveway. "And if you thought about it some more, you'd know we wouldn't do anything to harm Scooby either!"

  Ron picked up a rock and threw it at her. It went wide, missing her entirely, and she held up a defiant middle finger before running tearfully toward home.

  She had regained her composure by the time Doug and Billy returned an hour later. She told Doug what had happened, and both of them marched down the road to the Nelsons' house, warning Billy to stay inside while they were gone.

  But though the Nelsons' car was still in the driveway, though Doug knocked for five full minutes, no one came to answer the door.

  30

  The electricity went out on Tuesday morning
during the second hour of the _Today_ show. As before, the television simply winked off, the lights in the kitchen disappearing simultaneously. When Doug finally got through the wall of busy signals to the electric company, a very unsure man assured him that electrical service would be reestablished as soon as the problem could be identified and corrected.

  "Approximately when will that be?" Doug asked.

  The man cleared his throat nervously. "At this point I'm afraid I can't say, sir."

  "Are we talking minutes or months here?"

  "Possibly by the end of today. Maybe as late as tomorrow."

  Doug hung up not knowing any more than he had before he called. It was stupid and ridiculous, but he had the strange feeling that the electric company's bill had gotten lost in the mail and that their machines couldn't work because they weren't paid up.

  Or something along those lines.

  Something to do with the mail.

  By five o'clock that afternoon, the water, gas, and phones were out as well.

  31

  Strange, Doug thought, how they had not even considered leaving town, going to visit his parents for a few weeks or stopping off to see Trish's dad in California. There was nothing stopping them, no reason why they shouldn't get away from this madness for a while, but though they had not really talked about it, he knew that Tritia felt the same way he did: trapped in Willis, caged.

  As far as he knew, no one had left town. They remained passively in place, like sheep, while a wolf prowled among them.

  Why? he wondered. What was this malaise that had so gripped the community?

  What forced them to stay here, against common sense, against what must surely be natural instinct? The same thing that compelled people to remain in towns that were dying and rapidly heading toward ghost status, no doubt. Some illogical idiotic conception of "home."