The Mailman

by Bentley Little

  The reason for these constant outages was obvious: the mailman wanted to break down their resistance, to make sure they knew that nothing could be relied upon, nothing was safe. The security blanket of civilization was one that he could rip off at will, exposing their helpless nakedness, and doing so was something he clearly enjoyed. Exactly how he accomplished the blackouts, how he brought about the cessation of water and gas and phone service, was still not known. She and Doug had talked to people at the offices of each of the respective utilities until they were blue in the face, but the answers they received were vague and inconclusive, having something to do with fines and penalties, work orders and correspondence.

  Paperwork that had gotten fouled up through the mail.

  According to a representative for the town's department of water and power, it could not provide services because _its_ water and electricity had been cut off at the source -- the Salt River Project in Phoenix. The project had said, alternately, that the department had not paid its bills and that its quota of services had already been provided. Cited as proof were invoices received through the mail.

  But the representative assured Doug and Tritia that the problems would soon be solved, and water and electricity restored.

  The man at the phone company, the same manager Doug had talked to before, was even less specific and promised nothing.

  It was ironic that the people who were probably having the least difficulty adapting to these circumstances were the ones living on the outskirts of the town, those who normally lived in the most primitive conditions. Now, with their wells and septic tanks and butane generators, their lives were going on as normal, while the rest of them ate cold food and took cold showers and lit candles for light.

  "I hope this doesn't last all night," Tritia said.

  Doug took a bite of his tortilla crepe. "It probably will."

  Billy dropped his fork, and it fell loudly onto his plate. He had hardly eaten anything, had merely cut up and smeared and played with his food.

  Tritia fixed him with a no-nonsense stare. "Finish eating your dinner,"

  she said.

  Billy groaned. "I don't --"

  A rock crashed through one of the front windows, glass shattering explosively, muffled not at all by the closed curtains. There was the sound of another rock hitting hard against the outside wall.

  "Fucker!" someone yelled angrily. The voice was that of an adult male, not a child, not a teenager.

  Doug quickly pushed back his chair, knocking it over as he scrambled around the table toward the front door.

  "Don't!" Tritia yelled. Her face was white with fear.

  Billy, too, looked scared, and Doug could feel his own heart pounding within his chest, but he rushed to the door anyway.

  Another rock hit.

  "Fucker!"

  And then there was the sound of flying gravel, a pickup peeling out and speeding away.

  Doug pulled open the door and ran onto the porch in time to see the taillights of a truck disappearing between the trees. There was still a cloud of dust in the drive. He looked down. At his feet on the porch were several rocks approximately the size of softballs. Although only one had hit the window, two of the others had hit the wall and had been thrown with enough strength to make small splintered indentations in the wooden front of the A-frame. How the hell had someone been able to drive close enough to the house to throw rocks this size and not be heard?

  From down the road in the silent forest, he heard the sound of triumphant whooping and hollering, growing fainter as the .truck sped farther away.

  "What was it?" Tritia stood in the doorway, trembling, holding Billy's shoulders.

  "Idont know."

  "Why?"

  "Why do the Nelsons think we killed their dog? Why did Todd think I was persecuting him?" Doug looked at his son. "You don't know who did this, do you?"

  Billy shook his head, still frightened.

  "I didn't think so. Come on. Let's go inside." He herded Tritia and Billy through the door, then closed and locked it behind him. Tomorrow, he'd have to find someone to replace the window. He glanced around the front of the living room. In the candlelight broken shards and bits of glass glittered on the chair and part of the couch. They would have to rearrange the furniture in case something like this happened again. He didn't want Tritia or Billy hit by a rock or cut by a stray piece of glass.

  His muscles were still tight, knotted. Although he wanted to know who had thrown the rocks, who had been in the truck, he found himself strangelyunangry with the men involved. He was beginning to see the people of Willis as either victims or puppets, manipulated by the controlling will of the mailman. It was the mailman he blamed for everything, from the deaths of dogs and people to racial attacks to utility failures, and that worried him a little. His attitude seemed too close to that of classic paranoia for him to feel entirely comfortable with it. But, farfetched as it sounded, he knew it was the truth. He was not ascribing an omnipotence to the mailman he did not possess; he was merely recognizing an existing situation. He would not be at all surprised to learn that the mailman had orchestrated everything to occur in such a manner that it would engender within him exactly the sort of doubts he was harboring now. He shook his head. He really was getting paranoid.

  Tritia was already clearing the dinner dishes. They had not finished, but no one felt like eating right now. Doug walked over to help her. Even Billy took his plate to the kitchen, though he normally would not be caught dead voluntarily doing any sort of labor connected with the family.

  A car drove by on the road, stereo blasting, and all three of them tensed as they waited to hear whether it would turn into their drive. The car continued down the road, the sounds of the engine and stereo fading. They looked at one another silently, then continued to clear the dishes.

  The curtain covering the broken window blew inward with the light night breeze.

  41

  After breakfast, Doug called around trying to find someone who would replace the window. Harmon's carried the glass, but there was no one available to do the installation. IfHobie were here, he would have known how to install the window, but Doug was not even willing to attempt it. Aside from the simplest and most necessary household chores, he was incompetent at manual labor. The shed was one thing -- it was designed for construction by people like himself and came with simple step-by-step instructions -- but the window was something else. He called several handymen listed in the phone book, but two did not answer and one refused to perform the work. The only man who would even consider doing the job said the labor would cost $150, and he would not be able to get to it for another two weeks.

  Doug was tempted to just board the damn thing up and hang a picture of a window in front of it.

  He made some more calls, then went back to the original handyman, whose price had now gone up to $175, apparently as punishment for daring to shop around and try to find someone else.

  He hung up the phone and felt Tritia 's hand on his shoulder. He turned around. She was dressed in jeans and a nice blouse, and her purse was over her shoulder. "Do you have the keys?" she asked.

  "Where're you going?"

  "Irene's. I'm worried about her. I try to call and there's never any answer, and after what happened toHobie . . ." Her voice trailed off, not needing to finish the sentence.

  Doug pulled the keys from his pocket. "I'll go with you."

  "I think it's better if I go alone. She's not really up to seeing people right now. I don't even know if she'll see me. You just stay here with Billy."

  Doug's eyes met hers, and she saw worry in them, concern. "It's dangerous out there."

  "I know. I'll be careful."

  "Why don't I drop you off and park down the road? You can --"

  "No," she said firmly. She took the keys from his hand. "Don't worry. I

  can take care of myself. I'm just going to check on her and be right back. You won't even notice I'm gone."

  "Why don't you have t
he police check on her? She's an old frail woman, tell them you think she might have slipped and fallen in the bathtub. They'll do it." "No," Tritia said. She gave him a quick kiss. "I'll be back in twenty minutes."

  "The car's almost out of gas, but there's enough for you to get there and back. Don't buy any. I'll get it later."

  "Okay," she said.

  Troubled, he watched her get in the car, back up the drive, and head through the trees toward town.

  Something was wrong. Tritia felt it the instant she stepped out of the car. The atmosphere was changed, strangely and indefinably altered. The air was still, even the birds and insects quiet, as though some vast invisible soundproof barrier had been placed over the property. The house itself seemed empty, abandoned, though nothing physical appeared to have changed. She shivered. Death hung over Irene's house. She knew it as surely as she knew today was Tuesday. She pushed the thought from her mind. She was just being foolish.

  Superstitious. She forced herself to walk across the dirt to the front door.

  Peering through the lace curtain, she saw no sign of movement.

  She knocked on the door. "Irene!"

  Her voice died flatly, without even the faintest hint of an echo.

  Still no movement inside. Something was definitely wrong. She knocked harder, rang the bell. "Irene!"

  What if the old woman really had fallen down and had broken something and couldn't move? What if she had had a heart attack or a stroke?

  What if the mailman had gotten her?

  "Irene!" Tritia rattled the doorknob, but it was locked as usual. Worried now, she moved around the side of the house to the back door, weeds scratching her bare ankles. The back door was unlocked and she pushed it open carefully. A

  bad sign. Irene always locked both doors.

  Maybe he was in the house.

  "Irene!"

  The house was silent.

  Tritia 'sheart was pumping crazily, pounding with an amplified fear rhythm she could feel in her stomach and throat and could hear in her head. She should get out of here now, fast, and drive straight to the police station and bring someone back. The last thing she should do was explore on her own. But her feet carried her forward into the kitchen. The floor was littered with pots and pans and broken china, and she stepped gingerly over the smashed pieces of shattered glass. On the counter, she could see a loaf of homemade bread covered with splotches of green mold. In the window, Irene's plants had grown wildly before succumbing to the brown dryness of a waterless death. The room was filled with the mingled odors of spices, herbs, and decay.

  "Irene!" she called.

  No answer.

  She continued through the doorway into the living room, took in at a glance the ripped upholstery of the antique furniture, the overturned television, the debris on the Oriental carpet, and realized that Irene was not here.

  She recalled the parcels in the den, and she thought she knew in which room she would find her friend. She felt a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach. "Irene!" she called.

  No answer.

  Now was the time for her to leave, or at least to pick up the phone and call the police, but she continued to move deeper into the house. She would check the other rooms first. If Irene was not in any of them, if it was clear that she was in the den, then she would call the police.

  Tritia walked down the hallway. She glanced into the bedroom. The pillows had been ripped open, feathers were everywhere, but there was no sign of her friend. She saw her own reflection in the cracked mirrored door of the busted armoire. She had not realized how truly frightened she was until she saw the anxious expression on her pale face.

  She moved down the hall to the bathroom.

  Where the tiled floor was covered with ripped brown packaging paper, untied string, opened boxes.

  Where Irene was lying in the tub, wrists slit.

  Tritia stared at her friend. She had obviously been here for some time.

  The skin on her body was white and waterlogged, her sightlessly staring eyes glazed over with dried cataracts. The blood had settled, separating from the lighter water, and the bottom portion of her body was hidden beneath a heavy red liquid blanket. Around her floated the individual pieces of her husband's body.

  Arms. Legs. Hands. Head. The pieces were white and bloodless, pruned with water, and they bobbed in the bath, crowding for space.

  Floating between Irene's outstretched legs was a small severed, castrated penis.

  Tritia wanted to look away but could not. Her gaze was fixed on the bloody bathtub.

  She did not realize she was screaming until her throat began to hurt.

  42

  Doug made lunch, hot dogs, and as he spread mustard over the buns, he glanced worriedly out the window at Tritia . She was working in her garden, trying once again to get it into some semblance of order. He was concerned about her. After her initial shock at finding Irene's body, she had quickly returned to normal. Two days later, she was her usual self. She was not disturbed, not frightened, not withdrawn, not anything. That wasn't right, he knew. That wasn't natural. He himself was still coming to grips withHobie's death, and he had not even seen his friend's body. Tritia had discovered Irene in the tub, wrists slashed, surrounded by body parts, and she was acting as though nothing unusual had happened, as though nothing was wrong. He had not talked about it with her, had not brought up the subject of Irene at all for fear of disturbing her unnecessarily. He had assumed that when she was ready to discuss it, she would do so. But so far she had not been inclined to bring it up, which was definitely out of character for her.

  He watched her through the window, pulling weeds, wondering if this was some sort of elaborate denial, if one day, unexpectedly, she was just going to snap and all of her pent-up emotions would explode.

  Maybe he would broach the subject with her, bring it up gently.

  As usual, the mailman had gotten off scot-free. The police had questioned him, but he had pulled the old the-Postal-Service-is-not-responsible-for-the content-of-the-mail-it-delivers crap, and as usual, there was not a damn thing anyone could do about it. There was nothing linking him specifically to the mail sent to Irene, nothing anyone could prove.

  The mailman promised that he would institute a thorough Postal Service inquiry to discover the source of the body-part packages.

  A thorough Postal Service inquiry . . .

  Shit.

  The hot dogs were boiling, and Doug told Billy to run outside and get his mother, it was time for lunch.

  "Wait," Billy said. "It's almost time for a commercial."

  "You've seen that show a thousand times. Go get her now."

  "Wait a sec."

  Doug sighed, shaking his head. He opened the window, letting in a breath of warm summer air. "Time to eat," he called.

  She looked up at him, squinting, and waved. "Be right there."

  He watched her put down the trowel, brush off her hands and knees, and jog toward the porch. They should have gotten out of here. They should have left Willis a long time ago, when everything first started, before it all got too deep. Now it was too late. They were stuck. The gas stations in town had run out of gas, and no new fuel was scheduled to be delivered because none of the stations, not even the name franchises, had paid their bills.

  The checks had gotten lost in the mail.

  Doug turned off the stove, took out the hot dogs, and used a fork to pick them up, putting them in the buns. The gas shortage was only temporary, he knew.

  Phone calls were being made, problems explained, deals negotiated, but for at least the next three or four days no one could leave Willis unless they already had a full tank of gas. The Bronco was only half full.

  He couldn't help feeling that everything was coming to a head, that three, or four days was all the mailman needed to accomplish whatever it was he had set out to do.

  Tritia came in sweating, wiping her forehead. "Whew! It's hot out there today. I hope we get some rain this afternoon to cool
it off. Anybody hear the weather?"

  Doug shook his head. Billy, watching _Dick Van Dyke_, did not even hear the question.

  Tritia washed her hands and face in the bathroom. She gratefully accepted the plate of hot dogs, though her face clouded over for a second when he handed her a glass of iced tea. She took her food onto the porch and Doug followed her outside, bringing his own lunch. They sat next to each other at the table.

  Tritia took a bite of her hot dog. "What are your plans for this afternoon?" she asked.

  He frowned. "Plans? I don't --"

  "Good. I want you to dig up thatmanzanita by the side of the house. I

  want to expand my garden."

  "Look --" he began.

  "You have something more important to do, Mr. Teacher?"

  He looked at her, and the worry must have shown in his eyes because she looked away, refusing to meet his gaze. "No," he said softly. "I don't have anything else to do. I'll help you with your garden."

  "Thank you." She took another bite of her hot dog.

  Inside, the phone rang, its tones clear and pure in the still noon air.

  Doug stood up, pushing back his chair. "I'll get it," he called. He hurried inside and picked up the receiver. "Hello?"

  A woman's voice jumped out at him. "Help me! Dear Jesus God, help! Oh, God! I'm here by myself!"

  Goose bumps arose on Doug's arms. "Who is this?" he asked.

  " Tritia ? Help me!"

  "This isn't Tritia , this is --"

  "Oh God oh Jesus I hear him now!"

  "What is it?"

  " Tritia !" the woman screamed.

  "Trish!" Doug yelled. "Get in here fast!"

  Tritia ran inside and took the receiver from his grasp. "Hello?"

  "He's here again!"

  Tritia recognized the voice. Ellen Ronda. She had not called since the time Tritia had been alone at the house, and she sounded much worse now.