The Mailman Page 3

  Doug said nothing but put his arm around Trish, ignoring the man and moving down the hill toward the parking lot with the other townspeople. As he turned around to unlock the car door, he happened to see the new mailman standing tall among the mourners. It was hard to tell from this distance, but it looked as though the man was watching them. And it looked as though he was still smiling.

  Billy told Mrs. Harte he was going to go out and play, and she said that was all right as long as he stayed within calling distance of the house. His parents could come back anytime, and she didn't want them to think she had lost him.

  Billy said he was just going to The Fort; it was right behind the house, and as soon as he heard his parents' car, he'd run immediately back.

  Mrs. Harte said it was okay.

  The Fort was located in the green belt behind the house but was not visible from any window. He and Lane Chapman had built it last summer out of leftover materials from the construction of a summer cabin down the road. Lane's father's company had built the cabin, and Lane's father had given them posts, two-by-fours, planks, and even some cement -- enough material to build the basic structure of two rooms. It had taken them most of the summer to scrounge up the rest of the wood and the signs, decorations, and furniture for the inside, but after they'd finished, The Fort was perfect. Even better than they'd thought it would be. The front and sides were camouflaged with branches of sumac and manzanita; the rear wall was backed against a tree. You entered from the roof, climbing the tree until you were on top of The Fort, then pulling the string that unlatched the hinged trapdoor. There were no stairs and no ladder, but the jump was not far.

  Inside, the Big Room was decorated with cast-offknicknacks salvaged from garbage cans around town: old album covers, bamboo beads, an empty picture frame, a bicycle wheel. Lane had added a stolen Stop sign given to him by another friend in order to lend the place a touch of class. The other room, the HQ, was smaller and carpeted with a stained throw rug they'd scavenged from the dump. It was here that they kept the _Playboys_ they had found in a sack of newspapers destined for recycling.

  Billy walked down the short path in back of the house. He could have called Lane and had him meet him at The Fort, but he wanted to be alone today.

  He felt sort of strange and sad and lonely, and though it wasn't exactly a pleasant feeling, it was not something he wanted to push away and force out of his system. Some emotions just had to run their course -- you had to think about them, experience them, let them pass of their own accord -- and this was one of those.

  He also didn't feel much like talking, and with Lane around talking would have been unavoidable. The boy talked more than anyone he had ever met, and while sometimes that was fine, it was not always appropriate, and he just wasn't in the mood for conversation today.

  Still, he felt slightly traitorous coming here alone. It was the first time he'd been to The Fort without Lane, and it seemed somehow wrong, as if he were breaking some type of pact, though there had been no such agreement either spoken or unspoken between them.

  He reached The Fort and quickly clambered up the forking branches of the tree, swinging himself onto the roof and opening the trapdoor. He dropped into the Big Room and stood there for a moment, looking at the old metal ice chest that they had turned upside down and made into a chair. The ice chest had been given to them by Mr. Ronda, who, when he had seen them sorting through a pile of garbage at the side of the road, had offered to give them the ice chest as well as a few pieces of plywood paneling he had at his house. He'd brought the materials by the next day, leaving them next to the mailbox.

  Billy thought of Mr. Ronda's kind face now, of his blue laughing eyes, of his thick white beard. He had known the mailman all his life. He had seen him every day until he had had to go, to school, and had seen him every Saturday, holiday, and summer after that. When he had needed rubber bands for a school project, Mr. Ronda had saved rubber bands for him, delivering them along with the mail each morning. When he had done a report on the post office, Mr. Ronda had taken him on a tour. Now the mailman would never help him again, would never drive by to drop off the mail, would never talk, would never smile, would never live.

  He felt his eyes filling with tears, and he moved through the curtains into the HQ. He wanted to feel sad, but he didn't want to cry, and he forced his mind to think about something else for a minute. He would come back to Mr. Ronda in a while, when he was ready.

  He sat down on the rug and picked up the top _Playboy_. He flipped through the thick magazine until he came to the first pictorial. "Women in Uniform," the headline read. His eyes scanned the page. There was a woman straddling a fire hose, wearing only a red fireman's hat and a red slick raincoat. Underneath that photo was a picture of a topless woman with large breasts wearing a police cap and licking the rounded tip of a nightstick. His eyes moved on to the next page.

  Here was a nude woman wearing nothing but a smile and the hat of a mailman. One hand clutched a group of sorted letters; the index finger of her other hand hung from the bottom lip of her pouting mouth.

  Billy felt something stir within him. He pressed down on the rising lap of his jeans.

  Was this the way the new mailman would look?

  He stared for a moment at the woman's triangle of reddish pubic hair and the pink hard nipples of her breasts. He felt guilty for thinking such thoughts, and he quickly closed the magazine and put it on top of the pile. He tried thinking of Mr. Ronda again, of the things the mailman had done and would never do again, of the man he had been but was no more, but the moment had passed and, try as he might, he could not make himself cry.

  3

  They neither saw nor heard the new mailman come by the next morning, but when Tritia walked out to the mailbox around ten to drop off a letter, the mail had already arrived. "Damn,",sjiesaid. Now she'd either have to go down to the post office and mail the letter herself or put it in the box and let the mailman pick it up tomorrow. She reached into the metal receptacle and took out the mail, sorting through the envelopes. There were only four pieces of mail today: three for Doug, one for her. There were no bills, she noticed, and no junk mail.

  She closed the mailbox door. Doug would be going into town sometime today for groceries. She'd let him drop the letter off at the post office.

  She studied the envelope addressed to her as she walked back up the driveway. There was no return address and the postmark was from Los Angeles. She opened the envelope and unfolded the letter itself, glancing first at the signature. She stopped walking. No. It couldn't be possible. Paula? She looked again at the signature. Paula. She ran quickly up the porch steps into the house. Doug was rummaging through the junk drawer in the kitchen, looking for something. "You'll never believe it," she said as she walked into the kitchen.

  "I just got a letter from Paula."

  "Paula?" He looked up. "Paula Wayne?"

  She nodded, scanning the letter.

  "I thought you didn't know where she moved to."

  "I didn't." Tritia shook her head. "I wonder how she found me?"

  "Your parents, probably."

  "But they've moved twice since the last time I saw her. And they have an unlisted number." She grinned happily. "I can't believe it. I don't know how in the world she found me, but I'm glad she did."

  "Well, aren't you going to read the letter?"

  "I am," she said, looking down at the paper, waving him away. "Wait." She read quickly, her eyes moving easily through the neatly scripted, almost calligraphic letters. "She divorced Jim and moved to L.A. and now she works as a paralegal."

  "Divorced him?" Doug laughed. "I thought those two were a perfect match."

  "Shut up," Tritia said, continuing to read. "She says that she's happy but misses Santa Fe. She hopes I haven't forgotten about her. She may be taking a trip to the Grand Canyon in August and wants to know if she can stop by and see us."

  "I'll think about it," Doug said.

  "Haha ." She read in silence, turning the
page.

  "Well, what else?"

  "It's personal. Girl talk." Tritia read the second and third pages, then folded the letter and put it back in the envelope. She shook her head. "Paula. I can't believe it."

  Doug pulled a screwdriver from the drawer and closed it. "You miss her, don't you?"

  "Of course I do. Oh, here, I almost forgot. Some mail for you." She handed him the other three envelopes.

  He tore open the top letter. "You're not going to believe this," he said.

  "What?"

  "It's from Don Jennings."

  "Jesus, you haven't seen him since --"

  "-- you saw Paula," he finished for her.

  She laughed. "That's a weird coincidence." She moved forward to peek over his shoulder, but he pulled away, hiding the letter.

  "It's personal," he explained.

  She hit him lightly on the arm. "Very funny." She stood next to him and read along, catching up on the events in Don's life. Don had taught social studies at the high school and had been hired at about the same time as Doug.

  The two neophytes on the faculty had become friends out of necessity, but they had grown very close. A city boy, Don had never really been happy in Willis, and about ten years ago had taken a job in Denver. The two families had kept in touch for a while, writing letters, calling on the phone. Doug and Trish and a baby Billy had even visited the Jennings in Denver one summer. But new friends had come along, responsibilities had grown and shifted, it was no longer as convenient to keep in touch, and gradually the families drifted apart. Doug had said to Tritia many times that he "should call Don" or "should write Don," but somehow he never did.

  Now Don had written to say that he and Ruth were moving back to Arizona.

  He had gotten a job at Camelback High School in the Valley and suggested that when they moved and got settled in, the two families should get together.

  "Are you going to write nun back?" Tritia asked when she finished reading.

  "Of course." Doug opened the other two letters. One was from the district, announcing that an agreement had been reached with the teachers' union for a cost-of-living raise next year. The other was from the Department of Education, announcing that the deadline date for the grant application was actually a week later than stated on the form and apologizing for any problems caused by the misprint.

  Dquglooked at Tritia incredulously. "Let me get this straight. You and I

  both hear from friends we haven't seen or contacted in years; we're going to get the raise we asked for; and my application will have no problem getting in because the deadline is a week later than I thought?"

  "Hard to believe, isn't it?"

  "I'm buying a lottery ticket today. If our luck holds out, we'll be millionaires by midnight."

  She laughed.

  "You think I'm kidding? This isn't just a happy coincidence. This is luck." He grabbed her around the waist, drawing her to him. "We're on a roll, babe."

  " 'Babe?'"

  Doug turned around. Billy was standing in the back doorway. He seemed tired, but he smiled as he walked into the kitchen. "Can I call you that too, Mom?"

  Tritia pulled out of Doug's arms, turning toward Billy. "Very funny. Your father, as usual, is being a buffoon. I expect you to observe his mistakes and learn from them."

  Doug tried to grab her, but she pulled away from him on her way, to the bedroom and he managed only to slap her rear. Billy watched them mutely.

  Ordinarily he would have joined in, but now he stood passively, a blank expression on his face.

  Tritia put away her letter, then went into the bathroom. Billy continued on into the living room, turned on the television, and sat silently down on the couch. Doug stood in the kitchen, carefully watching his son. They had talked to him last night, a long intense discussion of death and dying in which, he'd thought, a lot of fears were faced and confronted, but apparently little if anything had been laid to rest. Billy was obviously still quite disturbed over the mailman's suicide. And, Doug had to admit, so was he. Like Billy, he had never really had to face death; it had never hit close to home. Although he had known people who had died, they had all been, like Ronda, acquaintances rather than close friends, and he was not sure what he would do or how he would react if his parents died or Trish was taken from him or something happened to Billy.

  Despite his talk with his son, which was filled with the current psychologically accepted beliefs concerning the necessity of facing negative feelings and fears, he preferred not to dwell on such subjects. It was a shallow and easy way out, but rather than seriously confront his own feelings, he chose to joke, to laugh, to go on with his life as if nothing had happened.

  He found himself thinking of the mailman now, though. Imagining how he must have looked with the top of his head blown off, blood and wet brains splattered on the tile behind him. Death, in any form, was a difficult subject to deal with, but violent suicide was messy and gruesome as well.

  He looked down at the letters in his hand and thought of the new mailman.

  The coincidence of receiving so much good mail in a single day was wonderful, but it was also a little creepy. If Ronda had delivered these letters, Doug would have been ecstatic, although he would probably not even have noticed the coincidence. But knowing what the new mailman looked like, imagining those pale hot hands slipping the envelopes into the mailbox and then carefully closing the door, he could not help feeling that they had been tainted somehow, and though nothing had actually happened to affect his mood, he was not as happy as he had been a moment before. He looked over at Billy. "What time did the mailman come by?" he asked nonchalantly.

  "Didn't notice," Billy said, not taking his eyes from the TV.

  Doug recalled the mailman's mocking smile, his arrogant attitude. He found himself wondering what type of car the mailman drove. He found himself wondering the mailman's name.

  Doug stopped first at the store for bread, charcoal, tomatoes, lettuce, and peanut butter, then dropped by the post office on his way home. He arrived between the noon andmidaftemoon rushes and had no trouble finding a parking spot. The tiny lot was virtually empty. There were two old-timers sitting on the bench outside the post office as he walked up the steps, but there were no customers inside. Howard, as usual, was at the counter, wrapping a package. He looked haggard, his face red and blotchy, eyes teary, and Doug guessed that he had probably spent the night before drinking. The sight of the postmaster filled him with an uncomfortable feeling, but he forced himself to smile as he approached the counter. "How goes it, Howard?"

  The postmaster looked up distractedly. "Fine," he said, but there was no conviction in his voice. It was a stock answer, an automatic reply, and meant nothing. "Can I help you?"

  "Actually, I just came by to drop off a letter, but I thought I'd see how you were doing while I was at it."

  The shadow of a frown crossed the postmaster's face. "I'm fine. I just wishpeople'd stop treating me like I just got out of a mental hospital. I'm not that fragile. I'm not going to have a breakdown or nothing. Jesus, you'd think I was a little kid."

  Doug smiled. "People around here care. You know that."

  "Yeah, well, I wish they'd care a little less." He must have heard the annoyance in his voice, for he suddenly stopped wrapping the package before him and shook his head, smiling sheepishly. "I'm sorry, I guess I haven't been myself lately." He shot Doug a warning glance. "But I don't want any sympathy."

  Doug laughed. "You won't get any from me."

  "Good."

  "So who's the new mailman?"

  Howard placed the package on the scale, putting on his steel-framed glasses and squinting through the thick lenses to read the weight. "His name's John Smith."

  _John Smith?_

  "Got here pretty quick, didn't he?"

  "Yeah, that surprised me, too. I'd never had to go through this before, but I heard it took four or five weeks for them to transfer someone. I put in a request down to the main office on Monday, though, a
nd he was here on Wednesday."

  "He's from Phoenix?"

  "I'm not sure. He don't talk much. But I'm sure I'll find out soon enough.

  I told him he could stay with me until he found a place of his own.Murial's room is vacant while she's gone, and I told him he could sleep there so long as he makes the bed and picks up after himself. It's cheaper than a hotel, and it'll give him some time to pick out a place. Usually, postmen end up taking the first place that comes along because they can't afford to stay in a hotel any longer. The Postal Service don't give you no moving allowance, and God knows they don't pay carriers enough to stay holed up in a hotel for weeks at a time."

  He wrote down a number on a small slip of paper, stamped it with a red seal, and took the package off the scale. He stamped FIRST CLASS on the top of the package.

  "So what's he like? What do you think of him?"

  Howard shrugged. "Too early to tell. He seems nice enough."

  Doug looked suspiciously at the postmaster as he dropped the package into a large cart. It wasn't like Howard to be so circumspect. He was usually quick and bold in his judgments; this cautiousness and taciturnity seemed out of character for him. Either he liked someone or he didn't, and he did not hesitate to make his opinions known.

  But Doug said nothing. The man had just lost his best friend. Who was he to judge behavior in such a situation? "Trish was serious," he said. "We want you to come over."

  Howard nodded. "I'd like that," he said honestly.

  "How about the weekend, then? Friday or Saturday?"

  "Sounds good."

  "I'll tell Trish. She'll probably call you about it. She doesn't trust me to handle these things." He opened the post-office door. "See you."

  "Later," the postmaster said.

  John Smith, Doug thought as he walked down the steps, taking his keys from his pocket. A likely story.

  Doug was halfway home before he realized that he had forgotten to buy a lottery ticket. He had been half-joking when he'd said that to Trish, but he had also been half-serious. He was not a gambler by any stretch of the imagination, but he did buy an occasional lottery ticket when he remembered. And though he was ostensibly a rational intelligent man, he was not entirely immune to superstition. He didn't really believe in luck -- good or bad -- but it wasn't something he ruled out as being entirely impossible. Besides, he wouldn't mind winning a few million. It would be nice to be fabulously wealthy. It was something to which he would gladly adjust.