Bentley Little - The Mailman

"Excuse me?" Tritia said, puzzled.

"I think he's in the house now," the woman whispered.

Now she recognized the voice. Ellen Ronda. She was shocked at how different Bob's wife sounded. Gone was the cool-as-ice voice Tritia had heard for as long as she could remember; gone, too, was the grief-stricken wildness she'd heard on the day of the funeral. In its place was fear. Terror.

"Who's after you?" Tritia asked.

"He thinks he's being tricky, but I can hear his footsteps."

"Get out of the house," Tritia said. "Now. Go someplace and call the police."

"I already called the police. They refused to help me. They said --"

Ellen's voice was cut off, and a man's deep baritone came on the line.

"Hello?"

Tritia 'sheart leapt to her throat. It took all of her courage, all of her inner strength not to hang up the receiver. "Who is this?" she demanded in the most intimidating voice she could muster.

"This is Dr. Roberts. Who is this?"

"Oh, it's you." Tritia relaxed a little, breathing an audible sigh of relief. In the background, she could hear a male and female voice arguing. "This is Tritia Albin ."

" Tritia . Hello. I heard part of your conversation from this end. Ellen told you she was being chased, did she?"

"Yes."

"I'm sorry she disturbed you. Her sons have been trying to keep an eye on her, but they can't monitor her twenty-four hours a day, and lately each time she has a chance she calls someone and tells them she's being stalked." He breathed deeply, the heavy intake of air thick and rough over the phone. "I

don't know what we're going to do. The boys don't want to even consider it, but I told them that their mother's g9ing to have to seek some kind of counseling. I

refuse to treat her by simply pumping drugs into her body, and her emotional situation is far worse than I am equipped to handle. She may even have to be institutionalized for a short period of time. Who knows? I'm certainly no expert in these matters."

"What's happened to her?" Tritia asked.

"Grief. Repressed, pent-up emotions suddenly finding an outlet. As I said, I'm no expert, but it's clear that Bob's sui -- uh, death, triggered this whatever-it-is, acted as the catalyst." The arguing in the background grew louder, more heated. "Sorry, but you're going to have to excuse me. I think we have a slight emergency developing here. Thank you for your patience and cooperation. I'll be in touch."

He hung up before Tritia could say good-bye. She lowered the receiver slowly into its cradle. For some reason, she felt guilty, as though she had somehow betrayed Ellen's confidence. It was a strange thought, not at all logical, but then the entire conversation had been more than a little surrealistic. She had been relieved when the doctor had picked up the phone, grateful to hand over the reins of responsibility and decision, but she had not been able to do so wholeheartedly or with a clear conscience, though she trusted the doctor completely. She walked out of the house, back onto the porch, and sat down numbly in her chair. Ellen was obviously disturbed, obviously having some serious emotional/psychological problems, but for a moment there, before the doctor had come on the line, Tritia had actually believed that someone had been after Ellen, that someone had been in her house.

And she knew exactly who that someone was.

"Wow, look at the tits on that one." Lane grinned hugely.

Billy smiled wanly back. They were on the floor of The Fort, going through the _Playboys_. Ordinarily, Billy would have been just as caught up in their reading as Lane, but today was different. He felt restless, ill at ease, bored.

He stared down at the magazine on his lap, at the photo of the woman in the postal cap. She was without a doubt the most gorgeous, most perfect woman in all of their _Playboys_, but today he didn't feel excited looking at her. He felt uneasy. Was there something familiar about her eyes? Did her mouth look like . . . _his_?

Stop that, he told himself. He forced himself to look at her boobs, at the huge pinkish-brown nipples on the tips of her perfectly formed breasts. There was nothing about her tits that reminded him of the mailman or that was the least bit unusual or masculine. They were normal, healthy, good old American female breasts.

Still. . . .

"Guess what?" Lane said. His voice was casual, nonchalant, but it wasn't a natural nonchalance. Billy had known Lane for most of his life, and he could tell when his friend was lying and sometimes even what he was thinking just by the tone of his voice. This was not spur-of-the-moment. This was a purposeful, intentional casualness, something Lane had planned and practiced.

"What?" Billy said, equally cool.

Lane glanced slowly around, as if making sure that no one was peeking into the HQ from the outside or from the Big Room. He withdrew a crumpled folded envelope from his pants pocket, handing it over. "Check this out."

Billy glanced at the outside of the envelope. It was addressed to Lane at his house, and the return name in the upper left corner was Tama Barnes.

"Look inside," Lane prodded.

Billy took out the folded paper inside. It was a letter, written in an obviously female hand. He turned the letter over. Underneath the flowery cursive characters was a Xeroxed photo of a nude Hispanic woman. She was smiling, hands cupping her ample breasts,tegs spread wide. The photocopied picture was too smeared and dark and blurry to provide details, but Billy had seen plenty of details in the magazines on the floor, and his mind filled in what his eyes could not see.

"Read it," Lane said. He was grinning.

Billy turned the letter over and read. The letter started out with a standard salutation but quickly began describing in detail all the forms of pleasure that Tama was willing to give to Lane, all the sexual techniques at which she was an expert. Billy couldn't help smiling as he read what Tama wanted to do to Lane's "love pump."

"What are you laughing at?" Lane demanded.

"I bet she doesn't know you're eleven years old."

"I'm old enough," he said defensively. "Besides, I already sent her a letter back."

"You what?" Billy stared at him.

"Read the end of the letter."

Billy turned the paper over. His eyes flew down the page to the last paragraph:

. . . Maybe we could get together some time. I think we'd have fun. If you send me $10, I'll send you some intimate pictures of me and my sister, along with our address. I sure hope I hear from you soon. I'd love you to come and visit me.

Billy shook his head, looking up from the letter. "What a dick. Can't you tell it's just a rip-off to get your money?" He pointed toward the Xeroxed photo. "They probably cut this out of a magazine."

"Oh, yeah?"

"Yeah. Besides, look at where that P.O. box is. New York. Even if she does send you her real address, what are you going to do? Go to New York?" He handed Lane the letter. "You didn't send ten dollars, did you?"

Lane nodded. "Yeah," he admitted.

"That was dumb." He looked at his friend curiously. "Where'd you get the money anyway?"

Lane glanced away. "My old man."

"You stole it?" Billy was shocked.

"What am Igonna do? Tell him I want ten dollars to send to Tama Barnes so I can get her pictures and address?"

"Youshouldn't've stole it."

"Fuck you. My old man has plenty of money. He didn't even notice it was gone."

Billy looked down at the open magazine on his lap, saying nothing. He and Lane often fought, often argued, often insulted each other, but there had been something else in his friend's voice just now, a hardness, a belligerence, a seriousness that said this was not a subject for argument, at least not for their usual temporary playful form of argument.

They were silent for a while, the only sound in The Fort the quiet whisk of turning pages.