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  Then his eyes jerked open and he smiled. His eyes was pure red and evil and I started to shake. "Robert Paul's come home," he said. "Robert Paul's come home again." It was all he said. It was all he could say.

  His voice was just a whisper.

  I reached around to my sack and took out the page with the Words written on it. The grave was deep, I was thinking. It was deeper than last time. The sides went down maybe ten feet to Robert at the bottom. I put the Words on the Bible. "Lord pro­tect me in this ritual," I read. "Keep me safe from harm. See my motives not my actions. Keep me safe from harm. Give this tortured soul his rest. Keep me safe from harm. Guide me through this and preserve me. Keep me safe from harm. Amen."

  I folded the paper and put the Words into the Bible.

  At the bottom of the grave Robert was moving even more now. His head was rolling from side to side and his arms was still twirling in the air and he was grinning even worse. I could see all of his teeth. They was glowing.

  I took a deep breath, said the Prayer, held the Bible to my chest, and jumped into the open grave.

  I fell, fell and landed with a soft thud on Robert's body. His grin got bigger and his eyes got redder and I could see them right next to my face.

  He started laughing and his voice changed.

  He was no longer Robert.

  And he took me.

  I woke up by the ruins. My sack was gone and the Bible was gone and my clothes was all torn up and half hanging off me. I still felt kind of dopey or sleepy or whatever it was, but I knew I had to get out of the woods before dark. I didn't know what time it was so I just started running. I ran past the ruins and somehow found the path again.

  Something was standing in the doorway of the shack when I ran by but I didn't look at it. I kept running.

  It was broad daylight when I came out of the woods. The clouds had all burnt off and the sun was shining. Everything was okay. Momma was waiting for me and she ran up and hugged me as I came down the path. I could see she was cry­ing. "You went through the ritual?" she asked.

  I nodded and told her I did.

  She led me back to the house where I slept for two full days.

  Two weeks later my belly started growing.

  It was just a little bit at first. But a month later it was ob­vious.

  People didn't bother me none about it though. Folks around here understand about the bad place. A lot of women around here've got pregnant the same way when they was my age. No one talked to me about it or paid me no never mind.

  Two months later I was ready to give birth.

  Momma took me to Mrs. Caffrey's. She didn't tell none of the other kids about it, she just said that we was going into town for the day and for Junior to keep an eye on every­one else and not let them leave the house.

  It was just like before. The thing was all slimy and pink and wormy. It made horrible squawking noises and tried to claw up Mrs. Caffrey as she held it.

  It had Robert's face.

  "Do you want to see it first?" Mrs. Caffrey asked me.

  I shook my head. I could see it good enough as it was, and I didn't want to see no more of it. I sure didn't want to touch it.

  "I'll take it outside then."

  "No," I said. "Wait a minute. Let me do it."

  Momma shook her head. "No. You're too weak."

  "It's all right," Mrs. Caffrey said.

  Momma helped me out of the bed, and Mrs. Caffrey took the baby outside. She put it on the ground by the trailer and it started squawking and twirling its arms in circles.

  I searched the ground and picked up a boulder. I held it up as high as I could and the creature looked up at me and spat.

  I smashed its head.

  It lay there twitching for a minute, a small trickle of black blood flowing out from beneath the boulder, then it was still.

  I watched as Mrs. Caffrey took the dead thing into her trailer. She cut it up and burned it and put the ashes into a stew. I ate a bite of the stew and said the Prayer.

  Momma drove me home.

  That night, Momma was inside washing the dishes and all us kids was out on the porch. Petey was trying to kill bugs, and Junior and Sissy was fighting on the rocker, and I was standing by the railing looking out at the woods when all of a sudden I heard a rustling sound coming from the meadow. I looked back quickly at the other kids but none of them'd heard it. I held my breath and looked closer, leaning over the rail to see better, saying the Prayer to myself. But it was just a scared little jackrabbit, and it stopped and stared at me and then ran across the path and disappeared into the bushes and meadow grass at the side of the house.

  The Phonebook Man

  For a while, I worked as a phonebook deliveryman. The job allowed me to walk into every business in the city from legal offices to liquor stores, strip clubs to mortuaries. One day while I was striding down the street, stacks of phonebooks under my arm, I started to think about what a supernatural being could do with such a position, particularly if he was irrationally and obsessively devoted to the cause of phonebook deliv­ery. "The Phonebook Man" was born from that.

  Nina was reading the morning paper and slowly sipping her coffee when she heard the knock at the door. She was barely awake, her eyes still not fully open, her senses still not fully alert, and she thought at first that she had made a mistake. Jim had gone to work sometime ago and Erin had long since left for school with Mrs. Bloomenstein, so it could not be ei­ther one of them trying to get back in, and she did not know anyone who would be over this early in the morning. But then the knock came again, and she stood up quickly, almost knocking over her coffee, and moved to answer the door.

  She was about to open the dead bolt when she suddenly thought the better of it. After all, who knew what kind of crazies were out there these days? Instead, she stood on her tiptoes and tried to peek through the glass window situated near the top of the solid oak door. She could see only the crown of a brown-haired head. "Who is it?" she called.

  "Phonebook man."

  Phonebook man? She pulled back the dead bolt and opened the door a crack. Standing on the stoop was a non­descript young man in his early twenties with a load of phonebooks under each arm. He smiled at her as she opened the door. "Good morning, ma'am. I'm delivering your neighborhood phonebooks. How many would you like?"

  Nina pulled her robe tighter around her chest to make sure nothing was showing and held out her other hand. "Just one will be fine."

  "One it is." The man pulled a book from under his arm with a theatrical flourish and handed it to her.

  "Thank you."

  "You're welcome, ma'am." He turned and was about to leave when he stopped, as though he had just thought of something. "Ma'am?" he asked.

  Nina stood in the doorway, still clutching her robe with one hand. "Yes?"

  "I'm sorry to bother you." He looked sheepish. "But could I use your bathroom?"

  She was acutely aware that she was alone in the house, that both Jim and Erin were gone, and she hesitated for a second. He noticed the hesitation and started to back away. "It's okay," he said. "Sorry to bother you. I understand."

  Nina mentally kicked herself. What kind of person was she? "Of course you can use the bathroom." She stepped all the way inside the front alcove and held the door open. "It's down the hallway. Last door on the right."

  The phonebook man walked past her, still carrying his books, and hurried down the hall. Nina closed the door and returned to her paper and her coffee. She turned on the TV- the Today show-for some background noise.

  Three articles later, she realized that the phonebook man had not left. Her heart gave a short trip-hammer of fear. She should have known better. She should never have let a stranger in the house. She put the paper down and stood up, moving toward the hall. She peeked around the corner. The bathroom door was closed. He was still in there.

  And he was taking a shower.

  She could hear, below the surface noise of the television, the familiar sound of the water pipe
s and the running shower. Her first instinct was anger-how dare he?-but that was replaced instantly by fear, and she crept back to the kitchen and took the phone off the hook, dialing 911.

  The phone was dead.

  She heard the shower shut off.

  She hurried into the bedroom, grabbed a pair of jeans and a blouse, and ran back out. She put the clothes on in the kitchen as fast as she could.

  He walked in just as she was buttoning the top button of her blouse.

  His hair was black. He had a beard. He had gained at least sixty pounds.

  Nina gasped. "Who are you?"

  He held up the load of phonebooks under his arms and smiled. "Phonebook man." He looked around the kitchen admiringly. "Nice kitchen. What's for breakfast?"

  "D-don't hurt me." She knew her voice was trembling obviously with her fear, but she could not help it. Her legs felt weak, as though they would not support her. "I'll d-do anything you want."

  The phonebook man looked puzzled. "What are you talk­ing about?"

  She stared at him, trying to keep her voice steady. "You cut the phone lines. So I couldn't call anybody."

  He chuckled. "You're crazy."

  "I let you use the bathroom and you used it to take a shower and now your hair's different and you have a beard and you're ... you're ..." She shook her head in disbelief. "You're not the same person."

  He looked at her, uncomprehending. "I'm the phonebook man." His eyes moved down her body as he noticed her changed apparel, and he smiled. "Nice clothes."

  "What do you want from me?"

  He looked surprised, caught off guard by her outburst, and he held up the phonebooks under his arms. "I'm here to deliver your local phonebooks."

  "You delivered them! Now get the hell out of here!"

  He nodded. "Okay, lady, okay. Sorry I was born." He started to walk out of the kitchen, then turned around. "But if I could just have a piece of toast. I didn't have anything to eat this morning-"

  Nina ran past him and out the front door, leaving the screen swinging behind her. She couldn't take this anymore. She couldn't handle this, couldn't cope. She realized she was screaming by the time she reached the McFarlands' house next door, and she forced herself to quiet down. Breathing heavily, she pounded on the door and rang the bell.

  A minute passed. No answer.

  She realized that both of the McFarlands must have al­ready gone to work, and she looked fearfully back toward her house. From the McFarlands' doorstep she could see into her own kitchen window.

  The phonebook man was making himself some eggs.

  She ran back down the sidewalk to the Adams' house, on the other side of hers. She pounded on the door and rang the bell, but again there was no answer. The Adams must have gone someplace.

  Nina looked around the neighborhood. They had only moved in a couple of months ago, and hadn't met many of the neighbors. She didn't feel comfortable walking up to some stranger's door. Especially not with this wild tale.

  But this was an emergency....

  The car!

  The car. She didn't know why she hadn't thought of it earlier. There was an extra set of keys in the little magnetic box attached to the wheel well. She could get the keys and take off. Moving slowly, quietly, she pushed through the wall of bushes which separated the Adams' house from her own. Ducking low, she ran along the side of the house to the garage.

  The phonebook man was sitting in the driver's seat of the car.

  He smiled at her as she ran up. "We have to go to the store," he said. She could see his phonebooks piled on the seat next to him.

  Anger broke through her fear and shock. "That's my car! Get out of there!"

  He looked at her, confused. "If you don't want me to drive, that's all right. You can drive."

  Nina sat down on the floor of the garage, her buttocks landing hard on the cement. Tears-tears of anger, hurt, frustration, fear-ran down her face. Snot flowed freely from her nose. She sobbed.

  Vaguely, through her tears, through her cries, she heard the sound of a car door being slammed, of feet walking across cement. She felt a light hand on her shoulder. "Would you like a phonebook?"

  She looked up. The phonebook man was bending over her, concern on his face. She shook her head, still crying, and wiped the tears from her cheeks. "Just go away," she said. "Please."

  He nodded. "You sure you don't need another phone-book?"

  She shook her head. "Just go."

  He shifted the load of books under his arms, looked at her and started to say something, then thought the better of it and walked silently down the driveway toward the sidewalk. He walked up the street toward the McFarlands'.

  The tears came again-tears of relief this time-and Nina felt her whole body relax, tension leaving her muscles. When the crying stopped of its own accord, she stood up and walked into the house through the side door. The kitchen was a mess. He had spilled milk and coffee all over the countertops and had left the eggs, shell and all, in the pan on the stove. Salt and sugar were everywhere.

  She started to clean up.

  She was washing out the sink when the phone rang. She jumped, startled. She recalled that the phone had been dead, and she approached it with something like dread, afraid to pick up the receiver. The rings continued-five, six, seven times-and slowly, hesitantly, she picked up the receiver.

  "Phonebook man." The voice was low and insinuating.

  She dropped the receiver, screaming.

  It was then that she noticed the note. It was taped to the broom closet next to the refrigerator. The note was attached low to the door, below her line of vision, and it was scrawled in a childish hand.

  "Gone to pick up Erin. Be back for lunch."

  It was unsigned, but she knew who it was from. She ran to the bedroom, grabbed her keys, and sped out to the car. The car bumped over the curb on the way out into the street, but Nina didn't care. She threw the car into drive and took off toward the school.

  She should have known better. She should have known he wouldn't leave her alone. The car sped through a yellow light at the intersection. She would pick up Erin and go straight to the police station. He was still around some­where, between home and school; they should be able to catch him.

  But where had he called from?

  Someone else's house, probably. He was now torturing some other poor soul.

  She swung the car into the school parking lot just as the kindergarten classes were letting out. Hordes of small chil­dren streamed out of the school doors. She left the keys in the car and dashed across the asphalt toward the kids. She scanned the stream of faces, looking for Erin (what was she wearing today? red?), and finally saw her, chatting happily to a friend.

  She ran over and picked up her daughter, ecstatic with re­lief.

  Erin dropped the phonebook she'd been holding.

  Nina stared at her in disbelief. "Where did you get that?" she demanded.

  "The phonebook man gave it to me." Erin looked at her innocently.

  "Where is he now?"

  Erin pointed up the street, where the children were start­ing to walk home. Nina could see nothing, only a sea of heads and colored shirts, bobbing, skipping, running, walk­ing.

  "He said for you to stop bugging him about the phone-books. He can only give you two." Erin pointed to the book on the ground. "That's your second one. He said he's not coming by anymore. That's it."

  That's it.

  Nina held her daughter tight and looked up the street, her eyes searching. She thought she saw, over the children's heads, a shock of brown hair above a clean-shaven non­descript face. But it disappeared almost immediately, and she could not find it again.

  The children moved forward in a tide, walking in groups of two or three or more, talking, laughing, giggling.

  Somewhere up ahead, the phonebook man walked alone.

  Estoppel

  "Estoppel" is a legal term that means "it is what it says it is." It applies primarily to pornography, allowing prosecut
ors to more easily prove in court that a maga­zine is "obscene" or "pornographic" if it is specifi­cally advertised as such. I learned about estoppel in a Communications Law course, and since I was bored in class that day, I thought up this story instead of pay­ing attention to the lecture.

  Side note: There's a reference in here to the Chico Hamilton Quintet. Known to mainstream audiences primarily for appearing in and scoring the Burt Lan­caster/Tony Curtis film The Sweet Smell of Success, the quintet featured a cellist named Fred Katz who, in addition to being a truly spectacular jazz musician, went on to write the music for Ken Nordine's ac­claimed Word Jazz albums, the music for the Oscar-winning cartoon "Gerald McBoing Boing," and music for the Roger Gorman cult classic Little Shop of Hor­rors. At the time I wrote this story, Fred Katz was my anthropology professor at Gal State Fullerton.

  Most people assume I am mute without asking. I never tell them otherwise. If anyone does ask, I simply hand them one of the "mute cards" I had printed up for just such a reason and which I always carry with me. "Peace!" the cards say. "Smile. I am a Deaf Mute."

  Most people also assume I am a derelict. I dress in old, filthy, raggedy clothes, I seldom bathe, and I never cut my hair or trim my beard. I have noticed, over a period of years, that people do not ordinarily talk to derelicts, and I became one for that reason.

  I have done everything possible to minimize my human contacts and to keep people from speaking to me or ad­dressing me in any way.

  I have not uttered a single intelligible word since 1960.

  I know that, for all intents and purposes, lama mute, but I have never been able or willing to make it official. I have refrained from saying the words. I should have proclaimed, "I am mute," years ago. But that would be permanent. It would be irreversible.

  I guess I've been afraid.

  To be honest, there is very little of which I am not afraid. I have spent half of my life being afraid. For nearly a decade, I was afraid to write anything down. I would neither speak nor write. What if, I thought, it happened with writing as well as speaking?