Bentley Little - The Mailman

Doug thanked him and stepped inside the gym. He and Tritia made their way through the crowd by the door and stood near the entrance to the boys' locker room. All four walls of bleachers had been brought down, and three of them were nearly full. There would not be enough space in here for everyone, he realized.

Many people would just have to stand or sit on the floor.

He glanced around, trying to gauge the mood of the crowd. People seemed tentative, hesitant with one another. Awkward. Grudges had been formed and fanned through the mails, words of hate had been received and responded to, acquaintanceships had beenreforged and realigned on the basis of faulty information, misdirected emotions, lies. Everyone knew that now. Everyone realized that the hate o mail they'd been receiving, all of the gossiping innuendo, had not been sent by their neighboring townspeople but had been forced upon them by the mailman.

Still, feelings formed during that troubling period could not be instantly discarded, and there was tension among many members of the crowd. Arguments erupted. A small shoving match started in the stands, but was quickly stopped by a policeman.

And still people continued to arrive. People who had never before attended any civic function, people whose faces Doug did not even recognize, took seats on the bleachers. There were lone men in dusty hats and cowboy boots, impeccably dressed old couples, trendy young newlyweds, average families with children.

By eight o'clock, the appointed time, the gym was full, and Doug felt a little overwhelmed when he saw the size of the crowd. It was not speaking before so many people that daunted him -- he was a teacher and was used to speaking in front of groups -- it was taking the responsibility of leading so many individuals, of making the decisions for so many people.

He saw in the packed bleachers the faces of school-board members, city council members, policemen, the fire chief: people elected or appointed to positions of power. These men and women, supposedly trained to deal with public crises, did not know what to do in this situation and were looking to him for answers. The thought was intimidating, made even more so by the looks of worry and hope he saw on the faces of people he didn't even know, by the frightened murmurs of adults and the crying whimpers of children.

The room felt hot, the walls claustrophobically close, the air filled with the smell of old and new sweat. Tritia squeezed his hand, a gesture of faith and support that more than anything else gave him the strength to stride across the polished wood floor to the center of the gym.

There was no need for him to be nervous or worried or intimidated, he told himself. He was taking control in this crisis because he had to, because he was the only one who knew what had to be done. He had to think positively. There was no room for doubt. Not now. There was too much at stake. This was no time for indecision. They had to fight the mailman with everything they had, with their combined faith and belief. They had to do it or die.

The crowd was silenced immediately; he did not even have to raise his hand. The talking died down, and parents hushed the crying of their children.

Only the wailing of a few small babies disturbed the stillness.

"You all know why you're here," Doug began. "Why we're here. We're here to free our town from the tyranny of the mailman. He has held us captive all summer, has used the mails to pit brother against brother, friend against friend. He has stopped our utilities, disrupted our lives, ruined our relationships. He has killed directly or indirectly, and he has brought our town to this." He gestured before him, toward the world outside the walls. The people were silent. He had their attention. "Many of you may not know it, but we found Howard Crowell yesterday in his home. Dead."

A wave of words passed through the crowd.

"He killed my Darla too!" David Adams called out. His voice was frightened, close to hysteria. "He promised her things! He lied about me and he made her . . . he made her . . ." David's voice trailed off.

"My business is ruined because of that son of a bitch!" Hunt James announced. "And so is Dr. Elliott's! He spread rumors about us and these assholes believed it!" He motioned toward the people surrounding him.

And now a lot of voices were speaking at once, people standing, yelling, screaming, competing for attention.

"-- knew my mother had a heart condition!"

"-- We've always paid our bills on time! Always!"

"-- never hurt an animal in my life!"

"-- illegal to send those kinds of things through the mail! Those videotapes! And those rubber --"

Doug held up his hands for silence. It took a few moments, but when the crowd quieted down, he continued. "We have to get him out of our town," he said.

"We have to exorcise him."

"Let him do the rope exercise!" someone called out.

Doug shook his head. "Lynching won't work."

In the front row of the bleachers right before him,Tril Allison, the owner of Allison's Lumber, stood up. He was not used to public speaking, and he shifted nervously from one foot to the other. Next to him on the bleachers sat his sons, Dennis and Tad, both of whom had been in Doug's English classes last semester.Tril cleared his throat. "What is the mailman?" he asked.

It was the question that had been on everyone's minds, if not everyone's lips, and Doug was about to respond when a shrill voice sounded off from somewhere in the upper portion of the bleachers.

"He's the devil!" An old woman stood up, a woman Doug did not recognize.

"Our only hope is prayer! Our only hope is to ask Jesus Christ for forgiveness and beg Him to protect us!"

There were low murmurs of frightened assent.

"He's not the devil!" Doug announced, raising his hands for quiet.

"Then, what is he?"Tril asked. "He certainlyain't human."

"No," Doug said, "he's not human. To be honest, I don't know what he is."

"He killed my daughter!" someone yelled.

"I don't know what he is!" Doug repeated, louder. "But I do know this: he can be stopped. We can stop him."

SmithTegarden , one of the police officers who had been on the ridge the other night, walked Out of the crowd and onto the gym floor. There was confidence in his step, but Doug could see that that was merely habit, reflex.

The Veteran cop was frightened. He stood in front of Doug. "We shot that bastard point-blank, and he didn't die," he said. "He fell off the ridge and walked away. How do you propose to stop him?"

. Doug took a deep breath. "We're going to starve him," he said. "We're going to cut off his mail."

"Cut off his male what?" someone yelled from the crowd, and there was a chorus of tension-relieving laughter.

Doug smiled. "We're going to stop sending or receiving any mail. Whatever he delivers, don't take it, don't pick it up. Let it sit in your mailboxes. The mail is his only real power. That's all he's ever really done to us." He thought of Billy, thought of Tritia , thought of Howard. "The mail is how he's gotten to us. It's how he's brought us to this point. It's his only weapon. If we can stop the mail, we can stop him."

Arguing broke out and Doug could tell immediately that his idea had not gone over well. He had been afraid of that. It sounded so stupid, so weak, so ineffectual, that it didn't seem as though it would do any good. He saw a couple of people heading for the door.

"Wait," Mike's voice cut authoritatively through the cacophony. He walked across the floor to stand next to Doug. "Hear him out."

The noise abated.

"I know it sounds idiotic," Doug continued. "But we have nothing to lose by trying. The police officer's right. Bullets won't stop him. I don't think he can be killed. But I've been watching him. There was a holiday on the Fourth of July. No mail was delivered. The next day he was thin and sick. This week, when he came back after disappearing, he was even thinner. He needs mail to survive.