Bentley Little: The Mailman

He walked through the kitchen and down the short hall to the bedroom. His desk was on the other side of the brass bed, inconveniently close to the closet.

A stack of books and papers sat next to the dusty uncovered typewriter, and he pushed everything aside as he sat down on the hard metal ice-cream chair he used in lieu of the wooden swivel seat he'd originally wanted. He quickly glanced through the pile. Bills. Bills. More bills. A letter from an ex-student who'd joined the army.

His application for the grant.

He dropped everything else on the desk and held up the yellow application form, staring dumbly at it. The application was for a federal program that offered teachers in specific fields year-long paid sabbaticals so they could conduct independent research. There was nothing he really wanted to, or needed to, research, but he desperately wanted the year off and had managed to put together a rather convincing application. He thought he'd sent it in last month, but apparently he hadn't. He looked at the deadline date on the form.

June seventh.

Five days away.

"Shit," he muttered. He placed the application in an envelope, addressed it, and affixed a stamp. He went back outside and walked down the porch steps.

"What is it?" Trish asked.

"My study grant. I forgot to send it."

She grinned up at him. "Those who can, teach."

"Very funny." He walked across the gravel driveway to the mailbox, opening the metal door, throwing in the envelope and pulling up the red flag. He walked back across the gravel, stepping carefully in his bare feet. Ronda would pick up the mail around lunch; it would get to the post office around four, get to Phoenix by the next morning, and probably arrive in Washington two or three days after that. It would be cutting it close, but he would probably make it.

He went back inside to make out bills.

Doug and Tritia ate lunch on the porch, sandwiches, while Billy ate inside and watched reruns of _Andy Griffith_. The weather was warm but nice, and they tilted the umbrella on the table to keep out the worst of the sun. Afterward, Doug did the dishes and they both retired to the butterfly chairs on the porch to read.

An hour passed, but Doug could not relax and enjoy himself. He kept looking up from his book, listening for thesputtery cough of Bob Ronda's engine, the metallic squeal of old brakes, thinking of his application wasting away in the mailbox, curiously annoyed that the mailman had not shown up on time. He looked over at Trish. "The mail hasn't come yet, has it?"

"Not that I know of."

"Shit," he muttered. He knew it was stupid to turn Ronda into a scapegoat when it was his own stupidity that had led him to wait this long before sending the grant application, but he could not help feeling a little angry at the mailman. Where the hell was he? He returned to his book, trying to read, but soon gave it up, unable to appreciate the words in front of him. His mind kept wandering and he found himself reading the same sentence over and over again, not comprehending. He placed his book on the plastic table next to him and settled into the chair, closing his eyes for a moment. He heard Trish get up, open the door, go inside. He heard the humming wash of water through pipes as she poured herself something to drink in the kitchen.

But he did not hear the mailman's car.

Trish came back out, her bare feet loud on the creaking wood, and he opened his eyes. Something was wrong. Bob Ronda inevitably came by about eleven or, at the very latest, twelve. He was a talker and he often stopped to chat with people, but he also knew his job and was extraordinarily efficient in his work. New people were added to the route each year, families arrived to vacation in their summer homes, but somehow Ronda found the time to talk, to deliver the mail, and to still finish his route by four. He had been delivering the mail for the past twenty years, as he would tell anyone who would listen, since Willis had been on a star route with so few people that being a mailman was a part-time job. He now wore a postal service cap, but he still favored Levi's and western wear, and he still drove his beat-up blue Dodge. A tall heavy man with a white beard and mustache, Ronda took his postal-service credo very seriously and had been known to deliver mail even when he was ill. Which was why he had never, to Doug's knowledge, been late with his delivery.

Until now.

He glanced at his watch. It was two-fifteen.

He stood up. "I'm going to go into town and drop off my application at the post office. I can't wait any longer. Mail leaves town at four. If that thing doesn't get in on time, I'm dead."

"You shouldn't have waited so long."

"I know. But I thought I already mailed it."

Trish stood up, pulling out her sweaty shorts where they stuck to her buttocks. "I'm going into town anyway, I'lldrop.it off."

"Why are you going to town?"

"Dinner," she said. "I forgot to pick up everything I needed yesterday."

"I'll go."

She shook her head. "You'll stay here and rest. Because tomorrow you are going to paint the porch."

"Oh, I am, am I?"

"Yes you are. Now go get your letter. I'll put on my shoes and sort through the coupons."

Chuckling, Doug walked down the driveway to the mailbox. He withdrew the envelope from the box and returned to the house, stepping inside. The front curtains were drawn to keep out the afternoon sun, and there was a fan perched on the small table next to the hat rack. The swiveling head turned at a ninety degree angle, creating an indoor breeze that cooled everything from the Franklin stove and the bookcase along the left wall to the couch where Billy lay watching _The Flintstones_.

"Turn that off," Doug said. "Why are you wasting your day watching TV?"

"I'm not wasting it. It's _The Flintstones_. Besides, it's summer. What should I be doing? Reading?"

"That's right."

"You don't read for fun."

"Your mother and I do."

"I don't."

"Why not?"

"I read when I have to. That's good enough."

Doug shook his head. "After this show's over, the television goes off. You find something else to do."

"God," Billy said disgustedly.

Trish came out of the bedroom, putting on her sunglasses, her purse over her shoulder, keys in hand. She was wearing new white shorts and a thin white sailor shirt, her long brown hair tied back in a ponytail. "What do you think?" she asked, turning around, fashion-model-style. "Susan St. James?"

"Abe Vigoda ," Doug said.

She punched his shoulder.

"That hurt."

"It was supposed to." She picked up her grocery list from the counter.

"Anything else we need besides milk, bread, and dinner food?"

"Cokes," Billy said.

"We'll see," she said, putting the list into her purse.

Doug handed her the application envelope and followed her onto the porch as she walked outside to the Bronco.

"Cokes!" Billy called again from inside.

She smiled, getting into the car. "I'll be back in an hour or so."

Doug gave her a quick kiss through the open window. "Okay. Thanks."

"Tomorrow you paint, though."

"Tomorrow I paint," he agreed.

Tritia backed out of the drive and headed down the dirt road toward town.

She rolled up the Bronco's windows to keep out the dust and turned on the air conditioning. The first blast of air was stale and humid, but it quickly turned refreshingly cold and dry as she drove past the other houses scattered along this stretch of forest. The road curved around the side of a hill, then dipped down to the level of the creek. She sped over the lowered crossing with the confidence of a native, the Bronco's tires spraying up water as they rolled through the stream.

She slowed down as the dirt became pavement and she passed the first cross street. She was glad that it was summer, that Doug was off work, but she could tell she was going to have to lay down a few ground rules -- the way she did each summer. Yes, he was on vacation, and that was good, but she needed a vacation too and, unfortunately, there was no way to take time off from being a mother and housewife. They were full-time, year-round occupations. If left to his own devices, Doug would spend the entire summer veging out, reading on the porch, doing absolutely nothing. It was up to her to point out that the meals he ate had to be cooked, that the dishes afterward had to be washed, that the house required constant maintenance and did not just rejuvenate itself. He couldn't be expected to be a mother, but he could help out around the place: vacuum, do the dishes, rake the yard. She would still do the lion's share of the work, but it would help immensely if some of the duties were divided.