Bentley Little - The Mailman

More than once, his parents had talked about taking him up to Flagstaff for tests, to find out exactly what he was allergic to, but when he'd learned that the tests involved needles, he promptly vetoed that idea. There was nothing he hated worse than needles. The allergy was horrible but bearable, usually not lasting more than a day or two at a time, and was infinitely preferable to being poked and scratched and jabbed.

He sneezed again. He had been planning to take Brad and Michael out to The Fort today to check out the _Playboys_. The twins had never really believed that he and Lane had as many magazines as they said they did, and had often begged, had even offered to buy, their way into The Fort. Lane had always turned them down, insisting that only the original builders were allowed to see The Fort's interior, but now Lane was gone, and Billy had decided to invite the twins to come over and check it out for themselves.

Brad had sounded a little strange when he'd talked to him over the phone, hostile almost, as though he was mad for some reason, but since Billy had no one else to hang out with . . . Well, beggars couldn't be choosers.

Besides, it would be nice to see someone besides his family again. And he knew the twins would be impressed with the _Playboy_ collection.

He forced himself to sit up. Behind his eyes, his head felt thick and heavy. He wasn't sure he should be walking through the forest with his allergy this bad; all the plants would probably only make it worse. But he didn't want to spend the whole day in bed. That was fine during the school year, when he could cajole his mom into bringing him toast and tea and could lie in his pajamas and watch cartoons and TV shows from morning to afternoon, but when it was summer and he had plans for the day . . .

He got out of bed and padded across the floor to the closet, taking out his bathrobe and putting it on. An old handkerchief was wadded up in the robe's pocket and he used it to blow his nose.

"Allergies?" his mom called from downstairs.

He didn't answer, hoping that if he ignored her she would go back to whatever she was doing and leave him alone. He moved over to the window, looking out. The sky was overcast, a cumulus ceiling painted with gradations of gray, and the morning sun was a hidden light dimly brightening a small section of cloud cover in the east. Above the pointed silhouettes of the pines he could see a lone hawk circling upward toward the top of the hill. Though it was not raining now, the ground was wet, the window misty.

Maybe he wouldn't be taking the twins to The Fort, after all.

He walked downstairs. The electricity was on again, and his dad was watching the morning news. His mom was standing in the kitchen at the sink, looking out the window at the forest, her back to him. On the counter were several boxes of high-fiber cereal along with freshly squeezed orange juice.

Next to the toaster was a cut loaf of whole grain bread.

Things were back to normal.

Billy sneezed, wiping his nose on the sleeve of his bathrobe. He could barely breathe and his head was throbbing to the rhythm of his pulse, but when his mom turned around, a questioning look on her face, he said, "I'm fine,"

before she could even ask how he felt.

"You don't look fine," she said, walking over to the cupboard. She took out a glass and poured some orange juice, giving it to him. "You look sick."

"Allergy."

She nodded. "It's the rain. It gets those mold spores in the air. I want you to drink your juice and take some vitamin C."

He sat down at the counter and sipped from the glass. He chose the least objectionable cereal, poured about half a bowlful, and sprinkled several spoons of sugar on top of it.

"What do you think you're doing?" his mom said.

"I can't eat this stuff without sugar."

"One spoon. That's all."

Billy smiled at her. "Too late now." He poured the milk in his bowl.

"Hurry up and eat and get ready," his dad said from behind him. "We're going to the store this morning, and I want to get it over with as soon as possible."

Billy swallowed his cereal. "I don't want to go."

"You have to go."

"My allergies are bothering me. I feel kind of sick. I think I'd better stay home."

"I thought you said you were fine. What a liar." His mom tried to make her voice light and playful, but he could hear an undercurrent of tension in it. He saw worried concern in the glance she shot over his head at his dad. "Why do you really want to stay?"

"Brad and Michael might be coming over. We were going to go play in The Fort."

"You're coming with us," his dad said.

"You guys always treat me like I'm a baby. I'm old enough to stay by myself. God, Lane's parents left him by himself for two days before."

"When?" his mother asked. "When you were staying overnight?"

"No," he lied.

"Where is Lane, by the way? I haven't seen him around lately. Did you two get into a fight or something?"

Billy looked at his mom, feeling his stomach knot up.

_Naked_.

"Yeah," he said. He dug into his cereal, focusing his attention on the bowl, not wanting to look at his mom, not wanting to think about Lane.

His dad came into the kitchen, dumped the last little bit of his coffee down the sink, and rinsed out his cup. "I think you'd better come with us today," he said.

Billy looked up at his father. "I think I'd be safer here," he said.

A look passed between them. Though none of them had said anything, the subtext of their conversation was clear to all of them, and Billy had obviously struck a responsive chord in his father with the word "safer." He was not sure if it was true, not sure if he really would be safer here, but he did want to stay, and he did not want to go to town. His dad continued to stare at him, but Billy did not avert his gaze, and he saw a host of conflicting emotions pass over his father's face.

His dad finally looked away and put hiscoffeecup on the drying rack. "Are you sure you'll be okay here by yourself?" he asked.

Billy nodded.

"You cannot leave the house," he warned. "I don't want you stepping outside that door until we come back. You understand?"

"Yes."

"If Brad and Michael come by," he added, "you just stay in here with them and watch TV or something, okay? Watch a videotape."

He nodded. "Don't worry."

His mom put a hand on his dad's shoulder. "I'm sure he'll be fine."

They finished breakfast in silence, his dad going back to the TV, his mom going into the bathroom to get ready. Something had happened here between them, something that he could almost but not quite understand, that barely eluded his grasp, and he wasn't sure if he was glad it had happened or not. He almost wished he had agreed to go to the store with them.

He sneezed, wiping his nose on his sleeve.

A half-hour later, his parents were ready to go. They said good-bye to him and gave him preparatory instructions that made it seem as though they were going to be embarking on a week-long journey instead of just going on a ten minute trip to the store.

Billy watched them drive away, then he looked back into the kitchen. They had taken care of most of the breakfast dishes, but had left some for him to do.

The sugar and orange juice and cereal boxes all still stood on the top of the counter, waiting for him to put them away. The TV was already off and he turned out the lights. The house grew dark, sliding into an artificial state halfway between night and day. He sat down for a moment on the couch to enjoy it. There was something special about being inside on a cloud-darkened day. Particularly when he was alone. It somehow made everything seem more valuable, more tentative and transitory and therefore precious. It was a strange feeling, as distinct from the feeling of safety and security he got from being warm inside the dry house on a snowy winter's night as it was from the claustrophobic feeling of being trapped inside on a warm sunny day, and it made him feel grown-up, as though he were already an adult and this was his house.