The Mailman Page 8

  "Nothing. Well, not nothing, but nothing serious."

  "What is it?"

  "I have to show it to you. Come on."

  Feeling increasingly apprehensive, she followed Doug into the creek, holding tightly to his arm as the three of them walked over the slippery rocks upstream, moving through small banks of rapids, around bends. Tree branches swiped at her face as the creek narrowed.

  "I'm not crazy," Doug said as they rounded a curve, and before she could figure out what the hell he meant by that enigmatic remark, she saw what they had brought her here to witness. Her heart gave a small leap in her chest as she stared at the envelopes, seemingly thousands of them, scattered about both sides of the creek, on the rocks, on the trees, in the weeds, in the mud. It looked almost like a fairy-tale land, this section of the creek, a place that had been either blessed or cursed by magic. She stood rooted to the spot, water coursing over her tennis shoes and ankles. The sight before her was so crazy, so wrong, that she did not know what to think. She looked over at her husband. She had caught his fear, she realized, and though it was not a pleasant feeling, at least she knew she was not alone. The two of them stood next to each other, holding hands. Billy, in front of them, was silent, and she knew from the expression on his face that he too understood that something here was definitely not right.

  "There's no road to this spot," Doug said. "He had to walk here, to carry all those sacks, however many there were." He pointed up at the cliff beside them. "I figure he dropped them from up there. It's the only way they could be so scattered and the only way they could get into those top branches."

  "But why?" Tritia asked.

  He shook his head slowly. "I don't know."

  A slight breeze stirred the trees, several envelopes falling from the branches on which they were perched into the creek, and the three of them stood there, silent, unmoving, as the envelopes swirled around their legs and continued downstream.

  10

  Doug tried to call Howard after they returned home from the picnic, but he wasn't at either his house or the post office. Or, if he was, he wasn't answering the phone. Doug let the phone ring fifteen times before hanging up.

  "That mailman'll be fired for this once Howard finds out," he told Tritia . "It's a federal offense to tamper with the mail. He'll probably go to prison."

  He hoped the mailman would go to prison.

  They had picked up several envelopes from the creek and had brought them home. They'd looked for mail addressed to themselves but hadn't been able to find any, so they'd settled for envelopes addressed to people they knew. The rescued mail was still in the car. He was planning to show it to Howard as proof. Doug spent the rest of afternoon trying to call Howard, trying to read, trying to listen to the radio, trying to start on the storage shed, but he was anxious, hyper, and could not seem to settle down enough to concentrate on any one thing.

  They had spaghetti for dinner that night. Billy complained because it was homemade, with herbs and vegetables from the garden, but he ate it anyway. "Next time," he advised, "let's just have Ragu like normal people."

  "This is better than anything you could buy at the store," his father told him.

  "And healthier too," his mother added.

  Billy grimaced as he swallowed the food.

  Doug tried to call Howard again after dinner, but when he picked up the phone, it was dead, no click, no dial tone. He jiggled the twin buttons in the cradle but to no avail. "Something's wrong with the phone," he said. "Did either of you call anyone recently?"

  "No one's touched it since the last time you tried to call Howard," Tritia said, clearing the table.

  "I'll try the one in the bedroom." He walked into the bedroom, picked up the receiver, but this phone was dead too. He hit the receiver once, hard, against the nightstand and put it to his ear, listening. Nothing. "Damn," he muttered, slamming it down. He'd have to stop by the phone company as well as the post office tomorrow. He stared at the white plastic telephone. He hated dealing with the phone company. Every time he went into their office he saw four or five workers lounging around, trying to pick up on the receptionist, but whenever he asked for someone to stop by his house to investigate a problem, it took at least three days to schedule the call, no matter how simple the problem was, no matter how great the rush.

  "Nothing?" Tritia asked as he came back down the hall.

  He shook his head. "It's dead."

  "Well, there's nothing we can do until tomorrow." She finished putting the dishes into the sink. "You want to wash or dry?"

  "Dry," he said tiredly.

  She handed him a towel.

  There was nothing to watch on either regular TV or cable, and after doing the dishes they decided to put in a videotape. "Something we can all agree on," Tritia said.

  Billy trudged upstairs. "I'm watching regular shows."

  "I said we're going to watch something we can all agree on," she called after him.

  "TV shows are better than movies," Billy called back.

  She looked at Doug. " 'TV shows are better than movies.' Did you hear that? Somewhere we went drastically wrong with that child."

  He chuckled. "Okay, what's it going to be, then? _Deep Throat_? _Love Goddesses_?"

  She hit his shoulder. "Be quiet. He can hear you."

  "Yes I can," Billy called from upstairs.

  "See?" She picked up the list of their videotapes from the table, scanning it. "Let's watch _Annie Hall_," she said finally. "I haven't seen that for a while."

  "Sounds good." Doug got up and went over to the bookcase, turning his head sideways to read the titles on the videotape boxes until he found the right one.

  _Annie Hall_ was on the same tape as _The Haunting_ and _Burnt Offerings_, sandwiched in between the two horror movies, and he had to fast-forward the tape to get to it.

  "Last chance," he called upstairs as the credits began.

  Billy did not even bother to respond.

  The movie was as funny, and as on-target, as ever, and Doug was glad that they'd decided to watch a comedy. It helped take his mind off everything else that was going on.

  Woody was just entering Christopher Walken's room to talk about night driving when the lights in the house suddenly dimmed into darkness and the television blinked off with a crackle of electronic static. The VCR hummed as it slowly powered down.

  "Blackout," Tritia announced. She stood up and felt her way to the kitchen, where she took a flashlight from the junk drawer. She also withdrew a book of matches and two candles. "Are you coming downstairs?" she yelled to Billy. "No. I'm going to bed."

  "At eight-thirty?"

  "There's nothing else to do."

  "You could come downstairs and read by candlelight with us," Doug suggested facetiously.

  Billy loudly snorted his derision.

  Tritia lit the candles, placing them in candle holders, while Doug moved over to the front windows. "It's kind of weird to have a blackout with no storm," he said, pushing aside the curtains. He peered into the darkness, toward the other homes down the road, and thought he saw yellowish light filtered through the branches of the trees. "That's strange," he said.

  "What?"

  "I think the Nelsons still have power."

  "I could call them --"

  "No phone," he reminded her.

  She laughed. "It's a conspiracy."

  "It's an adventure. We're cut off from the world, all alone. Kind of exciting, don't you think?"

  "And romantic," she added, moving next to him. She put a candle on the windowsill.

  "I'm still awake!" Billy yelled. "Don't do anything that'll embarrass you later."

  They both laughed, and Doug felt Tritia 's arm snake around his waist. She drew him closer, giving him a light kiss that barely missed his mouth. "We'll wait until he's asleep," she whispered, promised.

  Tritia woke up in the middle of the night to go to the bathroom. Doug was asleep next to her, breathing regularly and half-snoring, and she quietly, carefu
lly, pushed the sheet from her body and swung her legs off the bed, glancing at the digital clock on the dresser. The blue liquid quartz numbers said it was three-fifteen. She had put on her panties and nightdress after they'd made love, but she still slipped on a robe before padding across the hall to the bathroom. She'd never felt comfortable walking around the house undressed. The full moon shone through the opaque window above the bathtub like a streetlight, partially illuminating the small room. She pulled up her robe and nightdress, pulled down her panties, and sat down on the toilet to pee. When she was through, she pulled up her panties, flushed the toilet, and went into the kitchen to get a drink.

  The night was quiet, but not as quiet as it should have been. Below the melodic chirping cricket music and the occasional cry of a nocturnal bird was another, less natural, noise. A low even rumbling that started and stopped and grew ever closer.

  A car engine.

  Tritia moved into the living room and bent forward to peek through a slit in the closed curtains. Who would be driving around here at this hour? Certainly not the Nelsons or the Tuckers or any of the other people who lived around them.

  She pulled the curtain opening wider.

  The red car of the mailman pulled up on the road in front of the house.

  Tritia sucked in her breath. She could hear the faint sound of a rock-'n'

  roll song from the car's stereo. As she watched, a thin pale hand reached out from the driver's window and pulled open the gate of the mailbox, the other hand depositing several envelopes. The mailman's face appeared at the car window, white against the black background. He looked in her direction, seeming to know right where she was, though he could not possibly have seen the thin crack between the curtain halves in this darkness. He smiled, a slow sly corrupt smile that promised things she did not want to think about, things that made her blood run cold.

  She wanted to look away, to move out of his sight, but she was afraid to let him see the curtains fall, and she remained completely still, unmoving.

  Although only one eye and a portion of her right cheek was next to the narrow opening, she was acutely aware of the fact that she was almost naked, that her nightdress had ridden up above her panties as she bent forward, and she felt as embarrassed and humiliated, as if she had been caught masturbating.

  The mailman waved once, smiling broadly at her, then pulled away, into the darkness, the sound of his engine fading.

  She realized only now that she'd been holding her breath, and she closed her eyes, breathing deeply, relaxing, as the car drove down the dirt road.

  She let the curtain fall and stood there for a moment, holding on to the table for support, before finally retreating to the bedroom, climbing into bed, and snuggling under the safety of the sheets. Next to her, Doug's body felt warm and strong and reassuring.

  The night was completely silent now, even the crickets making no noise, and she lay awake for what seemed like an eternity before finally falling asleep.

  She dreamed of the mailman.

  He was delivering the mail, but instead of stopping at their mailbox, he pulled into the drive and parked next to the house. Through the window, she saw him getting out of the car. He was smiling. She ran through the house, into the bedroom, the bathroom, the loft, looking for Doug or even Billy, but she was all alone. The house was empty. She tried to escape through the back door, but it would not open. Behind her, she heard the mailman's footsteps crossing the living room and then the kitchen. She ran into the bedroom, intending to shut the door and barricade it, but she discovered that there was no door.

  The mailman stepped into the room, grinning hugely.

  He was wearing no pants.

  And then he was on her and in her, his unnaturally long penis hot and burning, like a curling iron or a soldering gun, and she could feel the cauterizing pain as he pumped away inside her. The agony of it caused her to scream --primally , uncontrollably -- but she was aware with a sickening feeling of revulsion that there was pleasure mixed in with that horrible burning pain, that on some gross physical level a part of her body was enjoying this.

  She awoke drenched in sweat, hair and pillow damp, and she cuddled close to Doug to push away the fear, holding him tightly. Outside, far away, she thought she heard the low smooth purring sound of the mailman's car retreating into the forest.

  11

  Doug was taking a shower when the water went off; he was washing his hair, the top of his head covered with shampoo lather, as the water disappeared in midspray. "Hey!" he yelled. , "Water's off!" Tritia called from the kitchen.

  "Great," he muttered. Eyes still closed, the shampoo beginning to drip onto his nose and cheeks, he drew aside the shower curtain and felt along the wall for the towel rack. His fingers closed around terry cloth. It felt like one of Tritia 's good towels, the ones that hung in the bathroom for decoration and were not to be used, but this was an emergency and he used it to wipe the shampoo off of his face and out of his eyes. The bathroom was dark. The power had not come back on since last night, and the only illumination came from the small window. He quickly toweled off his hair, then stepped out of the tub. He pulled on his underwear and pants and opened the door, walking out to the kitchen, still dripping. "What happened?"

  Tritia was standing in the center of the kitchen, hair sticking out at odd sleep angles, staring at the half-filled coffeepot in the sink. She shook her head. "I was filling the pot and the water shut off."

  "Did you check under the sink?" He opened the bottom cupboard, but the garbage sack and the boxes of cleanser and detergent were all dry. None of the pipes was dripping.

  "I'll go outside," he said, "see if I can find anything."

  He went out through the back door. The rocks and pine needles hurt his feet, but he walked across the dirt to the side of the house where the pipes connected with the meter. He looked at the numbers through the yellowed glass.

  There was no water pressure at all.

  He bent down and opened the runoff faucet but nothing came out.

  "What the hell . . . ?" He turned the handle at the junction of the water main and house pipes, but nothing registered on the meter.

  "What is it?" Tritia asked as he came back in the house.

  "Hell if I know. The water doesn't seem to be turned on." He ran a hand through his hair, feeling the stickiness of the shampoo against his fingers.

  "I'll go find out about the water and electricity after breakfast."

  "And the phone," Tritia reminded him.

  He shook his head disgustedly as he walked back into the bathroom. "And the phone."

  The department of water and power was located in a small brown prefab building adjoining Town Hall. Doug drove slowly over the speed bump that separated the parking lot from the street, and pulled into a marked space next to one of the town's three police cars. He got out of the Bronco without bothering to lock it and strode across the asphalt to the glass doors of the front entrance. The top of his head felt strange and he realized that he could still sense the subtle stiffness of dried shampoo in his hair.

  The girl behind the counter seemed young enough to be one of his students, but her face didn't look familiar. She was bent over the keyboard of an Apple computer, studiously watching her fingers hunt and peck through the alphabet, not even bothering to look up when he entered the office.

  He cleared his throat loudly. "Excuse me."

  "Be with you in a sec," the girl said. She examined the screen before her, then pressed a series of keys, intently watching their effect.

  Doug looked around the office. It was small and poorly furnished, the walls covered with cheap paneling and framed documents. An empty desk across from the girl's was covered with layers of paperwork. Against one wall was a series of gray metal file cabinets.

  The girl pressed another key, then, nodding, stood up and approached the counter. She was pretty and her smile appeared to be genuine, but the expression on her face was terminally vacuous. "How may I help you, sir?"


  "Last night, around nine o'clock, our electricity went out. We thought at first that it was just a blackout, but the power never came back on. Then, this morning, our water was shut off. I went out to check the pipes, but there was nothing wrong. The meter said we had no water pressure at all. I want to get both our water and electricity turned back on."

  The girl retreated to her computer. "Can I have your name and address?"

  "DougAlbin . Lot Four-fifty-three, Trail End Drive."

  One key at a time, the girl punched his name and address into the computer. She examined the screen before her. "According to our records, you notified us that you wished to discontinue service."

  "Discontinue service? Why the hell would I do that?"

  "I don't know, sir." She stood up. "Here, let me check. We should have your letter on file."

  "My letter?"

  "According to our records, you sent us a letter last Thursday." She walked across the office to the file cabinets. After a few moments of searching through a row of forms' and papers, she pulled out a single sheet of typing paper stapled to a business envelope. "Here it is." She returned, handing him the paper.

  He scanned the typed text, reading aloud: " 'Dear Sirs, On June 12, my family will be moving to California, where I have taken a job with the Anaheim Unified School District. Please disconnect my electricity on June 11 and my water on June 12. Thank you.' " He glanced up sharply. "What is this?"

  The girl looked confused. "I don't know what you mean, sir. You didn't send us that letter?"

  "I most certainly did not. Now I want my electricity and water turned back on, and I want you to find out who did send it."

  "Well maybe it was a joke. Maybe one of your friends --"

  "It's not a joke, and I don't think it's funny." His hands were shaking, and he put them up on the counter. He realized that he was being unnecessarily harsh with this girl, that he was taking his anger out on her though she obviously knew nothing, but there was a sickening feeling beginning to form in the pit of his stomach, a feeling of helplessness, a feeling that he was being dragged into something he could not hope to fight against, and it made him want to yell at someone. He closed his eyes and forced himself to calm down. "I'm sorry," he said. "Just turn my water and electricity back on."