The Mailman

by Bentley Little

  "Until now," Tritia said.

  "We'll see." Tim looked from Tritia to Doug. "You two ready to go in?"

  Doug nodded. "Let's do it."

  The day was waning, the air cooling, but the inside of the post office was extraordinarily hot and muggy. It had changed again, Doug noticed immediately.

  The walls, formerly a drab public-building grayish-green, had been painted a deep black. He had never before noticed the color of the floor, but the cement was now an unmistakable blood red. The philatelic posters on the wall were all of stamps that could not possibly exist. Bloody tortures. Unnatural sex.

  Behind the counter, Doug saw Giselle. She was sorting through a pile of letters. She looked almost Nazi-like in her new blue uniform, Teutonic hair swept under her cap, and the sight of her in this place, in this position, made her seem like an entirely different person. She seemed tainted, corrupt, merely by her association with him, as though she had somehow turned her back on everyone else in town, on her parents and her old friends, and had betrayed them.

  The thought crossed his mind that the mailman's goal all along had been to establish some sort of paramilitary organization using the local kids, a youth group that would usurp the power in the community. But, no, if that had been his plan, there would have been earlier signs and indications; he would have recruited other people already. Besides, that answer was too easy, too clean, too literal. The mailman's real goal, he felt sure, was not so simple, not so clearly defined.

  If he had a goal at all . . .

  Real life, Doug reminded himself, was not like literature. As an English teacher, he dealt constantly with the themes and motives of fiction, and he had a tendency to ascribe a similar structure to reality. But this was not a novel where acts were performed for a reason: to illuminate character, to reveal a truth, or to achieve an end. It was possible, more than possible, that the mailman was here in town not for a specific purpose, not as part of some evil grand design, but for his own entertainment or amusement. Or for no reason at all. He found Tritia 's hand and held it.

  Tim cleared his throat, approaching the counter. He, too, must have been surprised by the state of the post office, but he let none of it register. "I

  need to speak with Mr. Crowell and Mr. Smith," he said.

  Giselle looked up from her work and glanced from Tim to Doug and Tritia .

  She smiled at Doug, and he instantly regretted his superficial characterization of her. She bad not changed, after all.

  Then why was she working for the mailman?

  "Is Howard here?" Doug asked.

  Giselle shook her head. "He's still sick."

  "Could you please tell Mr. Smith I'd like to talk to him," Tim said.

  The mailman emerged from the back room. As always, he was dressed impeccably in his uniform. His hair, Doug noticed, was very nearly the same color as the floor. "Hello, gentlemen," he said. He smiled at Tritia , nodding his head. "Ladies."

  Tritia tried to hide behind Doug. She did not like the mailman's eyes. She did not like the mailman's smile.

  _You're nice_.

  His eyes remained on her, holding her gaze though she wanted to look away.

  "How's your son?" he asked. The question was asked innocently, casually, but beneath the superficial interest was a deeper, obscene, frightening implication.

  _Billy's nice too_.

  "We didn't come here to chat," Doug said coldly.

  "We've had reports that there has been some tampering with the mails," Tim said. His voice was steady, even, but Doug could sense a hint of fear in it. He knew the mailman could too. "Two citizens have complained that they have been receiving" -- he reached for a word -- "rather bizarre items in the mail."

  The mailman stared at the policeman calmly. "Such as?"

  "Illegal items."

  The mailman smiled patiently, understandingly. "The Postal Service is not responsible for the contents of the mail it delivers and under federal law cannot be held liable for damage caused as a result of its delivery. However, we are just as concerned as you are about abuses of the postal system and are willing to cooperate fully with any efforts designed to get to the root of this problem."

  Tim did not know how to respond, and he looked to Doug for help.

  "You're sending mail yourself," Doug said.

  The mailman's gaze was unwavering and unreadable. "Of course I am," he said. "We all send mail. Are you implying that became I work for the post office I cannot send letters to people? Do you think that is some sort of conflict of interest?" He laughed, a false plastic laugh Doug knew he was supposed to see through. This conversation, Doug realized, was operating on two levels. The mailman was threatening him.

  John Smith smiled. "I have to pay for postage just like everyone else. I

  don't even get a discount. But there is no limit to the amount of letters I can send. I can mail as many items as I want to."

  "And have you mailed any threatening letters?" Tim asked. "Have you mailed any body parts?"

  The mailman did not even pretend to be surprised. "I don't like your insinuation," he said.

  "I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask you to let me search this post office."

  "I'm afraid you're going to have to get a search warrant," the mailman said. "And I'm afraid you're going to find it fairly difficult to obtain a warrant to search an office of the federal government." He looked past Doug and Tritia out the window. "How's Billy today?" he asked.

  "You leave him alone, damn you." Tritia glared at him.

  The mailman chuckled.

  Doug noticed Giselle backing away from the mailman behind the counter. She looked confused.

  "I'm afraid you gentlemen" -- the mailman smiled at Tritia -- "and ladies will have to excuse me. I have work to do."

  "I haven't finished talking to you," Tim said.

  "I'm finished talking to you," the mailman replied, and there was something in his voice that made the rest of them fall silent. They watched him retreat back into the rear of the building.

  Giselle tried to smile apologetically, but the smile did not quite work.

  "Tell Howard to call me," Doug told her. "If you ever see him."

  She glanced behind her to make sure she wasn't being watched, then shook her head slightly from side to side.

  "To hell with the search warrant," Tim said angrily. "I'm going to get an arrest warrant. Let's get out of here."

  They walked out of the hot dark building and into the fresh outside air.

  Behind them, from somewhere deep within the post office, they heard the mailman laugh.

  32

  The next day the telephones went out again, and Doug had to drive into town to discover that the police had questionedHobie and Irene and that both of them had denied receiving anything unusual in the mail.

  He talked to the desk sergeant since neither Mike nor Tim was in the office.

  When he drove out to seeHobie afterward, his friend refused to answer the door, pretending not to be home.

  Irene did exactly the same thing.

  33

  Billy awoke early, his nose stuffed, his eyes itchy and watery, the nightmare from which he had awoken all but forgotten in the face of his overwhelming physical discomfort. He sneezed, then sneezed again, wiping his nose on the sheet, since there was no handkerchief handy. It was going to be one of those allergy days. He could feel it. He lay back on the pillow, eyes open.

  More than once, his parents had talked about taking him up to Flagstaff for tests, to find out exactly what he was allergic to, but when he'd learned that the tests involved needles, he promptly vetoed that idea. There was nothing he hated worse than needles. The allergy was horrible but bearable, usually not lasting more than a day or two at a time, and was infinitely preferable to being poked and scratched and jabbed.

  He sneezed again. He had been planning to take Brad and Michael out to The Fort today to check out the _Playboys_. The twins had never really believed that he and Lane had as many magazin
es as they said they did, and had often begged, had even offered to buy, their way into The Fort. Lane had always turned them down, insisting that only the original builders were allowed to see The Fort's interior, but now Lane was gone, and Billy had decided to invite the twins to come over and check it out for themselves.

  Brad had sounded a little strange when he'd talked to him over the phone, hostile almost, as though he was mad for some reason, but since Billy had no one else to hang out with . . . Well, beggars couldn't be choosers.

  Besides, it would be nice to see someone besides his family again. And he knew the twins would be impressed with the _Playboy_ collection.

  He forced himself to sit up. Behind his eyes, his head felt thick and heavy. He wasn't sure he should be walking through the forest with his allergy this bad; all the plants would probably only make it worse. But he didn't want to spend the whole day in bed. That was fine during the school year, when he could cajole his mom into bringing him toast and tea and could lie in his pajamas and watch cartoons and TV shows from morning to afternoon, but when it was summer and he had plans for the day . . .

  He got out of bed and padded across the floor to the closet, taking out his bathrobe and putting it on. An old handkerchief was wadded up in the robe's pocket and he used it to blow his nose.

  "Allergies?" his mom called from downstairs.

  He didn't answer, hoping that if he ignored her she would go back to whatever she was doing and leave him alone. He moved over to the window, looking out. The sky was overcast, a cumulus ceiling painted with gradations of gray, and the morning sun was a hidden light dimly brightening a small section of cloud cover in the east. Above the pointed silhouettes of the pines he could see a lone hawk circling upward toward the top of the hill. Though it was not raining now, the ground was wet, the window misty.

  Maybe he wouldn't be taking the twins to The Fort, after all.

  He walked downstairs. The electricity was on again, and his dad was watching the morning news. His mom was standing in the kitchen at the sink, looking out the window at the forest, her back to him. On the counter were several boxes of high-fiber cereal along with freshly squeezed orange juice.

  Next to the toaster was a cut loaf of whole grain bread.

  Things were back to normal.

  Billy sneezed, wiping his nose on the sleeve of his bathrobe. He could barely breathe and his head was throbbing to the rhythm of his pulse, but when his mom turned around, a questioning look on her face, he said, "I'm fine,"

  before she could even ask how he felt.

  "You don't look fine," she said, walking over to the cupboard. She took out a glass and poured some orange juice, giving it to him. "You look sick."

  "Allergy."

  She nodded. "It's the rain. It gets those mold spores in the air. I want you to drink your juice and take some vitamin C."

  He sat down at the counter and sipped from the glass. He chose the least objectionable cereal, poured about half a bowlful, and sprinkled several spoons of sugar on top of it.

  "What do you think you're doing?" his mom said.

  "I can't eat this stuff without sugar."

  "One spoon. That's all."

  Billy smiled at her. "Too late now." He poured the milk in his bowl.

  "Hurry up and eat and get ready," his dad said from behind him. "We're going to the store this morning, and I want to get it over with as soon as possible."

  Billy swallowed his cereal. "I don't want to go."

  "You have to go."

  "My allergies are bothering me. I feel kind of sick. I think I'd better stay home."

  "I thought you said you were fine. What a liar." His mom tried to make her voice light and playful, but he could hear an undercurrent of tension in it. He saw worried concern in the glance she shot over his head at his dad. "Why do you really want to stay?"

  "Brad and Michael might be coming over. We were going to go play in The Fort."

  "You're coming with us," his dad said.

  "You guys always treat me like I'm a baby. I'm old enough to stay by myself. God, Lane's parents left him by himself for two days before."

  "When?" his mother asked. "When you were staying overnight?"

  "No," he lied.

  "Where is Lane, by the way? I haven't seen him around lately. Did you two get into a fight or something?"

  Billy looked at his mom, feeling his stomach knot up.

  _Naked_.

  "Yeah," he said. He dug into his cereal, focusing his attention on the bowl, not wanting to look at his mom, not wanting to think about Lane.

  His dad came into the kitchen, dumped the last little bit of his coffee down the sink, and rinsed out his cup. "I think you'd better come with us today," he said.

  Billy looked up at his father. "I think I'd be safer here," he said.

  A look passed between them. Though none of them had said anything, the subtext of their conversation was clear to all of them, and Billy had obviously struck a responsive chord in his father with the word "safer." He was not sure if it was true, not sure if he really would be safer here, but he did want to stay, and he did not want to go to town. His dad continued to stare at him, but Billy did not avert his gaze, and he saw a host of conflicting emotions pass over his father's face.

  His dad finally looked away and put hiscoffeecup on the drying rack. "Are you sure you'll be okay here by yourself?" he asked.

  Billy nodded.

  "You cannot leave the house," he warned. "I don't want you stepping outside that door until we come back. You understand?"

  "Yes."

  "If Brad and Michael come by," he added, "you just stay in here with them and watch TV or something, okay? Watch a videotape."

  He nodded. "Don't worry."

  His mom put a hand on his dad's shoulder. "I'm sure he'll be fine."

  They finished breakfast in silence, his dad going back to the TV, his mom going into the bathroom to get ready. Something had happened here between them, something that he could almost but not quite understand, that barely eluded his grasp, and he wasn't sure if he was glad it had happened or not. He almost wished he had agreed to go to the store with them.

  He sneezed, wiping his nose on his sleeve.

  A half-hour later, his parents were ready to go. They said good-bye to him and gave him preparatory instructions that made it seem as though they were going to be embarking on a week-long journey instead of just going on a ten minute trip to the store.

  Billy watched them drive away, then he looked back into the kitchen. They had taken care of most of the breakfast dishes, but had left some for him to do.

  The sugar and orange juice and cereal boxes all still stood on the top of the counter, waiting for him to put them away. The TV was already off and he turned out the lights. The house grew dark, sliding into an artificial state halfway between night and day. He sat down for a moment on the couch to enjoy it. There was something special about being inside on a cloud-darkened day. Particularly when he was alone. It somehow made everything seem more valuable, more tentative and transitory and therefore precious. It was a strange feeling, as distinct from the feeling of safety and security he got from being warm inside the dry house on a snowy winter's night as it was from the claustrophobic feeling of being trapped inside on a warm sunny day, and it made him feel grown-up, as though he were already an adult and this was his house.

  Outside, it began to rain. In the silence of the house, he could clearly hear the faint clattering sound of raindrops on the roof. He sat there for a moment, taking in the staccato rhythm of the rain, the modulating shift of daylight through the windows as the clouds above drifted, moved, overlapped.

  He glanced at the clock. It was nearly nine-thirty. The twins were supposed to be here between nine-thirty and ten. Obviously, they wouldn't be able to go to The Fort if the rain kept up this way, but they could play a game inside or something until it abated.

  First of all, though, he had to clean up the breakfast stuff. He sat up and walked into th
e kitchen. He put the orange juice in the refrigerator, put the cereal boxes in the cupboard. Moving over to the toaster, he glanced down at the counter.

  Next to the loaf of wheat bread was a long white envelope.

  An envelope addressed to him.

  An icy finger of fear tickled Billy's spine. He stared down at the white paper rectangle. Had the envelope been there before? It couldn't have. If it had, he would have seen it.

  He wanted to walk away, to go outside, to go back upstairs and wait for his parents to come home, to get away from the kitchen entirely, but the envelope beckoned him. He stared at it, unable to look away. He reached for the envelope as though it was booby-trapped, picking it up slowly, holding it at arm's length. He did not want to open it, was afraid to open it, but he had to see what was inside. Carefully, he pressed his fingers against the envelope, making sure it did not contain photographs.

  _His mother, naked_.

  His hand trembled. There were no pictures inside, the envelope was pliable, not stiff, and with one quick movement, he tore it open.

  There were only four words typed on the plain white paper:

  _Come out and play_

  Come out and play. The words on their own were innocuous enough, innocent even, but the meaning behind them was anything but. He knew exactly who had sent the note, though there was no signature, and he knew exactly what the message meant. Come out and play.

  He dropped the paper on the floor, stepping away from it. He should have gone with his parents. He should never have stayed here alone. What the hell was wrong with him? The darkened house, which only a few moments before had seemed so wonderfully special, now seemed sinister and filled with shadows. He reached over and flipped on the light switch next to the sink.

  Nothing happened.

  The electricity was out.

  He was scared now. He quickly rushed to the phone, picking it up.

  It was dead.

  Outside, beneath the low clatter of the rain, he heard the unmistakable sound of a purring car engine. He ran to the back door, checking to make sure it was closed and locked, then locked the front door. He moved next to the window, peeking out. Through the blurred drizzle outside the glass, he could see an indistinct form standing near the end of the drive by the road. A figure with a blue uniform, white face, and red hair.