Bentley Little - The Mailman

"Two-eighty-five."

"What?" Doug turned around to face the cashier.

The young man smiled knowingly. "Two-eighty-five."

Doug took out his wallet.

In bed that night, Tritia snuggled next to him, laying an arm across his chest, holding him close in a way that she hadn't for quite some time. The dinner had been good and, more important, healthy. Trout and rice and asparagus stalks. She was back to her old nutrition-conscious self, and for some reason that made him feel more optimistic, less worried. Everything else might be going to hell, but at least they were going to be all right.

Her head shifted under the crook of his arm as she looked up at his face.

"Do you still love me?" she asked.

"What kind of question is that?"

"Do you still love me?" Her voice was quiet and there was a seriousness in it he did not quite know how to take.

"Of course I love you."

"You never say it anymore."

"I didn't think I had to." He smiled. "God, we've been married for fifteen years. Why else would I put myself through this hell?"

"Be serious."

"Look, if I didn't love you, I wouldn't be with you."

"It's not that simple. Besides, I like to hear it sometimes."

"Michelle," he said. "That letter. That's what this is all about, isn't it?"

She said nothing but held him tighter. He kissed the top of her head.

"I'm afraid," she said finally.

"So am I."

"But I'm afraid for us. Our relationship. I mean, I get the feeling that you're keeping things from me, that you're afraid to talk to me. Or that you don't want to talk to me."

"That's not true," he protested.

"You know it is."

They were silent for a moment. "You're right," Doug said. "We have been drifting apart. I don't know why. I'd like to blame it all on the mailman, but I

know that doesn't account for everything. It's my fault too."

"It's our fault," Tritia said.

And they held each other, and they snuggled closer, and Doug had the feeling that they had averted the disaster toward which they'd been heading, that they had bucked the trend that had been developing between them, and that they had successfully screwed up the mailman's plans.

29

Tritia awoke feeling jittery and out of sorts, the emotional residue of an unfortunately remembered nightmare that had, of course, been about mail. She'd been young, a child, but had been living here in this house, and she'd walked down the drive to the mailbox. It was a gorgeous day, the sky blue, the sun shining, and she was wearing her favorite pink dress with the little pinafores.

She opened the mailbox and drew out a stack of brightly colored envelopes, the top one decorated with dancing teddy bears. Careful not to rip the beautiful paper, she pried open the sealed flap . . .

And a white hand shot out of the envelope and grabbed her neck.

She screamed, dropping the other envelopes, and they flopped open, hands shooting out from each of them. One hand shot immediately up her dress, grabbing her crotch. Two more stretched up to knead and fondle her fledgling breasts.

Another shot up between the crack of her buttocks. Others grabbed her arms and legs. She screamed, but a final hand covered her mouth and she was pulled to the ground.

And then she woke up.

Not a good way to start the day.

It was her turn to fix breakfast, and she made bran muffins and squeezed the last of the oranges before going outside to check her garden. She felt tired and more than a little unpleasant, but she remembered her vow of yesterday, her promises to Doug, and she tried to push aside her negative feelings. She picked up the hose arid turned on the faucet. Her plants had really gone to seed. She had continued to water them, but she. had not weeded the garden for quite a while, had not taken the time to fight off bugs or prune leaves, and as a result, the vegetables this year were the worst she'd ever raised.

That too was going to change, she decided. She would spend this morning taking care of her garden, putting it back in shape. It was time for her to take control of her own life and not let herself be manipulated by the mailman.

She thought of Irene. She would give her friend a call today, make sure she was okay.

Doug awoke soon after, and when she heard the shower water running through the pipes, she went back inside and woke up Billy. They were all going to eat breakfast together this morning. Like they were supposed to.

Following breakfast Doug washed the dishes, with Billy drying, and when they were finished, she enlisted the aid of both of them to help with the garden and the yard. Billy tried to get out of it, tried to explain why it was more important for him to watch television, but she and Doug forced him to rake the drive, and for the first time in recent memory he actually did the work without complaining. He even seemed to be enjoying himself a little, and shewhisperedly pointed this out to Doug, who said there was nothing like a short stint in hell to make a person long for even the non-pleasures of everyday living.

They ate lunch on the porch together -- bacon-lettuce-and-tomato sandwiches -- and afterward Doug and Billy decided to go hiking out toward the oldSutpen ranch. She filled up two canteens with water and ice, packed a sandwich apiece just in case, and told them to be back by five or she was calling the ranger station. They drove off in the Bronco, waving.

When they were gone, Tritia called Irene.

She had thought about what she was going to say, had planned out what she thought was a fairly compelling argument for her friend to tell the police what she had received in the mail, or at least to allow her to tell Doug, but when she heard Irene's frightened cracking voice, she knew that no logical argument would be able to sway her.

"Hello?" Irene said.

"Hello. It's me, Tritia ."

"I knew it was you. That's the only reason I answered the phone."

Tritia took a deep breath. "Look," she said, "I'm your friend --"

"No, I'm not telling anyone."

Tritia was taken aback by the old woman's determination. "How do you know that was what I was going to say?"

"We both know why you called," Irene said. She coughedbrittlely . "I have to work this out in my own way. Do you understand? This is something I have to do myself."

"Yes, but --"

"There are things you don't know," the old woman said, and there was something in her voice that sent a chill down Tritia 's spine. "Ishouldn't've told you as much as I did."

"I just want to help."

Irene coughed again. "I know."

Tritia thought for a moment. "At least promise me you'll call if something happens, okay? Call if you need any help."

"You know I will."

"Okay." She was reluctant to hang up, but she could tell that Irene really didn't want to talk to her right now. "Are you sure you're all right?"

"I'm fine. I'll talk to you later, okay?"

"Okay."

The old woman hung up without saying good-bye.

Doug was wrong, Tritia thought, replacing the receiver. People weren't changing in ways entirely unconnected to the mail. Directly or indirectly, everything was connected to the mail. At the bottom of all that was occurring in Willis, at the root of all the hostility, all the craziness, was the mailman.

She walked outside to where she had left the mail she'd taken out of the box this morning before Doug and Billy awoke. There were two envelopes, both addressed to her, and all day she had debated with herself whether or not to open them.

Now she picked up a shovel and dug a deep hole on the forest side of the garden.

She threw the envelopes into the hole and buried them, unopened.

Tritia walked down the road toward the Nelsons' house. Hannah hadn't called for over two weeks. In fact, Tritia hadn't talked to her friend since Scooby had been poisoned. That was unusual. Ordinarily, she and Hannah went over to each other's houses or talked on the phone at least every other day.