Bentley Little - The Mailman

"We got our funding," the professor enthused. "We finally got our funding!" He was holding up the letter proudly. "Now we'll really be able to make some progress."

Billy felt Lane, next to him, give him a nudge with his elbow. "That's great, huh? I guess we'll be able to do more stuff."

"Great," Billy repeated. But his thoughts were not on the professor or on archaeology. His eyes and thoughts were focused on the space between the trees where a moment before he had seen the mailman's white hand wave slowly and lovingly good-bye.

7

Howard pulled into the driveway at seven sharp. It was still light out, but the blue in the east was quietly being usurped by purple, and there was an orange tinge to the pale sky in the west. Billy was sitting on the couch and was right in the middle of a _M.A.S.H._ rerun when Tritia turned off the TV and kicked him upstairs. He complained loudly, but hurried up the steps nonetheless.

He was not comfortable around adults, and he usually hid each time they had friends over. Watching him tromp loudly up the stairs, his mother couldn't really blame him. She'd felt the same way herself when she was his age.

"I'll call you when dinner's ready," she said. "You can come on down and get some food."

"Okay."

Doug stood up and went to open the door.

"Don't say anything about Bob unless he brings the subject up first,"

Tritia suggested. "We're supposed to be cheering him up, taking his mind off his troubles."

He shook his head, pressing past her. "I'm not entirely dim, you know."

She smiled. "Just trying to counteract theHobie Beecham influence."

"Thanks." Doug pulled open the door while Tritia hurried into the kitchen to check on the food, stepping onto the porch just as Howard started up the stairs. "Glad you could make it," he said.

The postmaster smiled. "Glad you invited me." He was wearing his equivalent of dress clothes: new dark-blue jeans, a starched white-and-rose cowboy shirt, and an agate bolo tie. His boots had been shined and his hair slicked back and held in place with some sort of wet-looking gel. In his hand was a gift-wrapped bottle.

"Come in," Doug said, holding the door open. Howard stepped past him, and both of them moved into the house.

Tritia was taking off her apron, and she moved forward to greet their guest. She, too, had dressed up for the occasion and was wearing a low-cut black dress, matching turquoise bracelet and necklace, and silver antique earrings.

Her brown hair was done up in a sophisticated roll. She accepted the proffered present graciously. "Thank you," she said. "But you really didn't have to bring anything."

"I wanted to." Howard looked at her and shook his head appreciatively.

"You sure look mighty beautiful today." He turned to Doug. "I've said it before, and I'll say it again, you're a lucky man."

Tritia blushed. She unwrapped the bottle and turned it around to read the label. "Champagne!" She gave Howard a quick peck on the cheek. "Thanks so much.

I guess this means we'll forgo the Dr. Pepper." She went into the kitchen, put the bottle down on the counter, and threw the wrapping paper in the garbage sack under the sink. "You two keep yourselves busy for a few minutes. I'll get the hors d'oeuvres ready."

Doug motioned for Howard to sit down in one of the chairs across from the couch, and the postmaster obliged. Doug sat down as well. It was warm. The windows were open, the fan on, but the air still bordered on the uncomfortable.

From upstairs came the familiar strains of the theme from _M.A.S.H._ Doug smiled at Howard.

"Excuse me for a moment." He stood up again and walked to the foot of the stairs. "Turn it down," he called out. "It's too loud." The noise of the television faded into a drone, then was silenced. "Billy," he explained, walking back. He settled into the chair. There were questions he wanted to ask, things he wanted to know, but he didn't know how to approach the subject subtly. He cleared his throat, deciding to jump right in, hoping he didn't sound too interested, too curious. "So how're you getting along with the new mailman? Is he still living with you?"

"Yeah," Howard admitted, "but I don't see him much. You know how it is.

I'm an old man. I go to bed earlier than he does, wake up later than he does.

Our lifestyles don't exactly match."

"So what's he like?"

Tritia walked up and placed a plate of cheese crepes on the small table between them. "I'll be back with the champagne," she said sweetly. She fixed Doug with a hard meaningful stare as she turned away from the postmaster, but he pretended not to see it.

Each of them took a crepe and bit into it. "Mmmm," Howard said, closing his eyes and savoring the taste. "That's one thing I miss withMurial being gone: good cooking. You get tired of frozen food and hot dogs after a while."

"Don't you cook?" Tritia asked, bringing them two glasses of champagne.

"I try, but I fail."

She laughed lightly as she returned to the kitchen for her own drink.

"So what's he like?" Doug asked again. "He sure delivers the mail early.

Bob used to come by around noon. Now by the time we eat breakfast and clean up a bit, the mail's there."

"John does start early. He's usually gone before I'm even up. He's done with the entire route by eleven, and he stays until four." Howard grabbed another crepe, popping it into his mouth. "He hasn't turned in a time card yet - it's due this week -- but when he does, Igotta see what hours he puts down.

He's not supposed to be working more than eight. I think it's more like ten or eleven, though."

"Don't you think that's a little weird?" Doug asked. "I mean, delivering the mail so early?"

Trish shot him another withering glance over the postmaster's head as she sat down next to him.

"Yeah, John might be a tad strange. But he's a good worker. He does his job well and gets things done. And he's always eager to do more. That's not something you see a lot of these days. I couldn't ask for a better carrier."

Doug nodded silently. Howard's words were full of praise, but there was an undercurrent of something else in his tone of voice. It was as if he were repeating words he had read and practiced, as if he were saying what he was supposed to say rather than what he actually felt. For the first time since he'd known the postmaster, Doug thought that he was being out-and-out hypocritical, and that was something he never would have thought he'd feel about Howard Crowell. His eyes met Tritia 's across the table, and he knew that she'd caught it too.

But Tritia refused to continue this line of conversation, and she deftly changed the topic to something less personal and more neutral, and Doug followed her lead.

Dinner was excellent, and they ate it slowly. Billy had come down, taken what he'd wanted, and then retreated upstairs to his hideaway. The rest of them ate at the table, enjoying the food at a leisurely pace: Cobb salad, followed by rare roast in wine sauce, served with baked potatoes stuffed with sour cream and chives. To go along with the meal, Tritia had baked some of her homemade bread, whkhwas thick and warm and soft and disappeared almost immediately.

Howard smiled blissfully. "I can't remember when I've had a meal this good."

"Neither can I," Doug said.

"Enjoy it while you can," Tritia told him. "This is our red-meat quota for the month."

"She's very big on eating right," Doug explained. "This is a very health conscious family."

"You need all the help you can get. If you exercised a little more, we could afford to be more lenient. But you live a completely sedentary life. It's the least I can do to see that you eat properly."

Howard chuckled.

Billy came down with his dishes, smiled shyly at the postmaster, then returned upstairs. They finished off the champagne and Tritia brought Howard and Doug each a beer. She drank ice water.