Bentley Little: The Mailman

He stared for a moment at the woman's triangle of reddish pubic hair and the pink hard nipples of her breasts. He felt guilty for thinking such thoughts, and he quickly closed the magazine and put it on top of the pile. He tried thinking of Mr. Ronda again, of the things the mailman had done and would never do again, of the man he had been but was no more, but the moment had passed and, try as he might, he could not make himself cry.

3

They neither saw nor heard the new mailman come by the next morning, but when Tritia walked out to the mailbox around ten to drop off a letter, the mail had already arrived. "Damn,",sjiesaid. Now she'd either have to go down to the post office and mail the letter herself or put it in the box and let the mailman pick it up tomorrow. She reached into the metal receptacle and took out the mail, sorting through the envelopes. There were only four pieces of mail today: three for Doug, one for her. There were no bills, she noticed, and no junk mail.

She closed the mailbox door. Doug would be going into town sometime today for groceries. She'd let him drop the letter off at the post office.

She studied the envelope addressed to her as she walked back up the driveway. There was no return address and the postmark was from Los Angeles. She opened the envelope and unfolded the letter itself, glancing first at the signature. She stopped walking. No. It couldn't be possible. Paula? She looked again at the signature. Paula. She ran quickly up the porch steps into the house. Doug was rummaging through the junk drawer in the kitchen, looking for something. "You'll never believe it," she said as she walked into the kitchen.

"I just got a letter from Paula."

"Paula?" He looked up. "Paula Wayne?"

She nodded, scanning the letter.

"I thought you didn't know where she moved to."

"I didn't." Tritia shook her head. "I wonder how she found me?"

"Your parents, probably."

"But they've moved twice since the last time I saw her. And they have an unlisted number." She grinned happily. "I can't believe it. I don't know how in the world she found me, but I'm glad she did."

"Well, aren't you going to read the letter?"

"I am," she said, looking down at the paper, waving him away. "Wait." She read quickly, her eyes moving easily through the neatly scripted, almost calligraphic letters. "She divorced Jim and moved to L.A. and now she works as a paralegal."

"Divorced him?" Doug laughed. "I thought those two were a perfect match."

"Shut up," Tritia said, continuing to read. "She says that she's happy but misses Santa Fe. She hopes I haven't forgotten about her. She may be taking a trip to the Grand Canyon in August and wants to know if she can stop by and see us."

"I'll think about it," Doug said.

"Haha ." She read in silence, turning the page.

"Well, what else?"

"It's personal. Girl talk." Tritia read the second and third pages, then folded the letter and put it back in the envelope. She shook her head. "Paula. I can't believe it."

Doug pulled a screwdriver from the drawer and closed it. "You miss her, don't you?"

"Of course I do. Oh, here, I almost forgot. Some mail for you." She handed him the other three envelopes.

He tore open the top letter. "You're not going to believe this," he said.

"What?"

"It's from Don Jennings."

"Jesus, you haven't seen him since --"

"-- you saw Paula," he finished for her.

She laughed. "That's a weird coincidence." She moved forward to peek over his shoulder, but he pulled away, hiding the letter.

"It's personal," he explained.

She hit him lightly on the arm. "Very funny." She stood next to him and read along, catching up on the events in Don's life. Don had taught social studies at the high school and had been hired at about the same time as Doug.

The two neophytes on the faculty had become friends out of necessity, but they had grown very close. A city boy, Don had never really been happy in Willis, and about ten years ago had taken a job in Denver. The two families had kept in touch for a while, writing letters, calling on the phone. Doug and Trish and a baby Billy had even visited the Jennings in Denver one summer. But new friends had come along, responsibilities had grown and shifted, it was no longer as convenient to keep in touch, and gradually the families drifted apart. Doug had said to Tritia many times that he "should call Don" or "should write Don," but somehow he never did.

Now Don had written to say that he and Ruth were moving back to Arizona.

He had gotten a job at Camelback High School in the Valley and suggested that when they moved and got settled in, the two families should get together.

"Are you going to write nun back?" Tritia asked when she finished reading.

"Of course." Doug opened the other two letters. One was from the district, announcing that an agreement had been reached with the teachers' union for a cost-of-living raise next year. The other was from the Department of Education, announcing that the deadline date for the grant application was actually a week later than stated on the form and apologizing for any problems caused by the misprint.

Dquglooked at Tritia incredulously. "Let me get this straight. You and I

both hear from friends we haven't seen or contacted in years; we're going to get the raise we asked for; and my application will have no problem getting in because the deadline is a week later than I thought?"

"Hard to believe, isn't it?"

"I'm buying a lottery ticket today. If our luck holds out, we'll be millionaires by midnight."

She laughed.

"You think I'm kidding? This isn't just a happy coincidence. This is luck." He grabbed her around the waist, drawing her to him. "We're on a roll, babe."

" 'Babe?'"

Doug turned around. Billy was standing in the back doorway. He seemed tired, but he smiled as he walked into the kitchen. "Can I call you that too, Mom?"

Tritia pulled out of Doug's arms, turning toward Billy. "Very funny. Your father, as usual, is being a buffoon. I expect you to observe his mistakes and learn from them."

Doug tried to grab her, but she pulled away from him on her way, to the bedroom and he managed only to slap her rear. Billy watched them mutely.

Ordinarily he would have joined in, but now he stood passively, a blank expression on his face.

Tritia put away her letter, then went into the bathroom. Billy continued on into the living room, turned on the television, and sat silently down on the couch. Doug stood in the kitchen, carefully watching his son. They had talked to him last night, a long intense discussion of death and dying in which, he'd thought, a lot of fears were faced and confronted, but apparently little if anything had been laid to rest. Billy was obviously still quite disturbed over the mailman's suicide. And, Doug had to admit, so was he. Like Billy, he had never really had to face death; it had never hit close to home. Although he had known people who had died, they had all been, like Ronda, acquaintances rather than close friends, and he was not sure what he would do or how he would react if his parents died or Trish was taken from him or something happened to Billy.

Despite his talk with his son, which was filled with the current psychologically accepted beliefs concerning the necessity of facing negative feelings and fears, he preferred not to dwell on such subjects. It was a shallow and easy way out, but rather than seriously confront his own feelings, he chose to joke, to laugh, to go on with his life as if nothing had happened.

He found himself thinking of the mailman now, though. Imagining how he must have looked with the top of his head blown off, blood and wet brains splattered on the tile behind him. Death, in any form, was a difficult subject to deal with, but violent suicide was messy and gruesome as well.