Bentley Little - The Mailman

The light successfully evaporated the shadows in the room but could do nothing to dim the shadows stalking him from within.

He'd had enough of this. Doug was right. Something was definitely screwy here, and tomorrow morning he was going to go over to the post office and find out what it was. Find out why he was getting twenty-year-old letters and photographs, and why they were being delivered in the middle of the fucking night. He'd demand that Howard do something, and if the old man didn't want to, well, then, he'd damn well better have his insurance paid up.

Hobiefolded the letter and put it back in the envelope, shoving the pictures in with it. Half of him wanted to crumple up the letter, rip the photos, and throw the whole thing away, but another part of him wanted to save it all, to keep this last memento of Dan, and he put the envelope on the coffee table. He'd think about it later, decide what to do in the morning.

He was about to get up, turn the light off, and go back into the bedroom when he heard the sound of footsteps shuffling outside the door. Fear flared within him, and he sat unmoving, afraid even to breathe. A low metal clanking told him that the mailbox had been opened and closed.

Another letter delivered.

He knew he should jump up and confront the mailman, rush outside and beat the crap out of the scrawnyfaggoty bastard, but he was afraid to so much as acknowledge his presence. He shut his eyes, muscles tense, trembling within, until he heard the sound of retreating footsteps, the purring sound of a fading engine.

He sat there until dawn, afraid to return to bed, afraid to look into the mailbox, afraid to move, and it was only the sound of his alarm ringing at six o'clock that forced him to finally leave the couch.

22

Doug sat in the hard-backed chair, glaring at the police chief. "I saw it!"

"Okay, let's assume that the mailman was dancing in the dark. So what?

It's not against the law to dance. Dancing is considered a legitimate form of self-expression."

"Don't play games with me. There're some weird fucking things going on in this town, and you're giving me thispiddly -ass bullshit."

The chief eyed him coolly. "The law is not 'piddly-ass bullshit,' Mr.

Albin. I am well aware of your opinions on this subject, and I'll be honest and tell you that we are pursuing all avenues in our investigations."

Mike Trenton, next to the chief, stared silently down at the table.

"Don't patronize me with that Jack Webb crap. You know as well as I do that something strange is going on here."

"I don't tell you how to teach; don't you tell me how to do my job." The chief stood up. "I would appreciate it if you would stay out of police business.

We are fully capable of handling --"

" 'Fully capable?' "

"That is all, Mr.Albin ." The chief put his hands on the table and leaned forward. "I've wasted enough of my morning talking to you and listening to your theories. Please do not harass this department again or you'll find yourself charged with obstruction of justice. Do I make myself understood?"

Doug looked across at Mike, but the young cop was still looking down at the table, refusing to meet his gaze. "Perfectly," he said.

Doug spent the rest of the day the way he'd wanted to spend the entire summer -- sitting on the porch, reading. But try as he might, he could not relax and enjoy himself. He knew he had screwed things up royally at the police station, and the knowledge that he might have lent the mailman legitimacy in the eyes of the police gnawed at him. He should have known better. He should have been more cautious, should have at least maintained the appearance of calm rationality. Instead, he had ranted and raved like a fanatic.

He put down his book and stared out at the trees. Was it possible that he was reading into events interpretations that weren't there? That he really was suffering from some sort of obsessive delusion?

No.

He had seen the proof with his own eyes.

A bluebird flitted from tree to tree, searching for food, and he watched it impassively. Many of his fellow teachers, he knew, lived in little academic worlds of their own, completely disassociated from the life around them. He could not do that. It would be nice if he could, but fortunately, or unfortunately, he lived in the real world. He was affected by politics, by economics, by the weather.

By the mailman.

That was one thing he'd learned the past two weeks: how much he was affected by the mail, how much the mail intruded on all aspects of his life.

"Doug!"

He looked up. Trish was standing in the doorway, holding open the screen.

"You want to have lunch on the porch or inside?"

He shrugged noncommittally and picked up the book from his lap.

A moment later, he felt Trish's hand on his arm. "Why don't we go to Sedona for the day, get away from all this? We're both letting it affect us far too much."

He nodded slowly. "You're right."

"It would do us good to get away."

"Yeah. We can go up Oak Creek Canyon to Flagstaff. They have a real post office there. Maybe I can talk to --"

"No," she said firmly. "I mean, get away from _this_. All this craziness.

It seems like the mail's the only thing we think about or talk about anymore.

Let's just take Billy and go to Sedona and have a nice day's vacation, like we used to. We'll eat, shop, and be typical tourists. How does that sound?"

"It sounds good," he admitted.

"Are you willing to give it a try?"

He nodded.

"So, do you want to eat inside or on the porch?"

"On the porch."

She headed back toward the open door. "Food's on its way."

They left early the next morning, stopping first by the bakery for donuts, coffee, and chocolate milk. Trish was right, Doug thought as he drove out of town. Maybe they needed a short vacation, needed to get away in order to gain some perspective. The trees sailed by as he kept pace with the speed limit.

Already he felt easier, happier, more relaxed than he had in weeks. It was as if the mantle of responsibility he had placed upon himself had been left behind at the town limits. Although he knew it would be waiting for him when he got back, he was grateful to be rid of it even temporarily and was determined to enjoy the day. The forest grew thicker as they headed north. The narrow highway wound between cliffs and into gorges, following the lay of the land.Subforests of small saplings grew in the shade of huge ponderosas. Low bushes covered all available space. Here and there, they could see the stark leafless skeletons of trees hit by lightning, bare branches contrasting sharply with the surrounding lushness. Once, near a small pond in a grassy meadow, they saw a deer, frozen in place by the terror of seeing their car.

Then the trees tapered off, segueing from forest to high desert, and after another hour, the road hit Black Canyon Highway.

"Burger King," Billy said as they passed a sign that said it was forty miles to Sedona. "Let's eat at Burger King."

It was the most interest he'd shown in anything all day, and Doug was about to say okay, but Tritia said firmly, "No, we're going to eat at Tlaquepaque."

"Not that place again," Billy groaned.

"We haven't been there in over a year," his mother told him.

"Not long enough."

"You be quiet."

They were all silent after that, listening to the hum of the Bronco's wheels and the sounds of static and country music from the station in Flagstaff.

Fifteen minutes after they passed the turnoff for Montezuma's Castle, Doug pulled off Black Canyon Highway and headed down the two-lane road that led to Sedona. Of the three approaches to the town, this was the most spectacular.

There was no gradual shift in the color of the rocks as there was coming in from Camp Verde, and there were no obscuring plants and trees as there were along the road through Oak Creek Canyon. The land here was tailor-made for western movies: