Bentley Little: The Collection

"Phonebook man."

Phonebook man? She pulled back the dead bolt and opened the door a crack. Standing on the stoop was a non­descript young man in his early twenties with a load of phonebooks under each arm. He smiled at her as she opened the door. "Good morning, ma'am. I'm delivering your neighborhood phonebooks. How many would you like?"

Nina pulled her robe tighter around her chest to make sure nothing was showing and held out her other hand. "Just one will be fine."

"One it is." The man pulled a book from under his arm with a theatrical flourish and handed it to her.

"Thank you."

"You're welcome, ma'am." He turned and was about to leave when he stopped, as though he had just thought of something. "Ma'am?" he asked.

Nina stood in the doorway, still clutching her robe with one hand. "Yes?"

"I'm sorry to bother you." He looked sheepish. "But could I use your bathroom?"

She was acutely aware that she was alone in the house, that both Jim and Erin were gone, and she hesitated for a second. He noticed the hesitation and started to back away. "It's okay," he said. "Sorry to bother you. I understand."

Nina mentally kicked herself. What kind of person was she? "Of course you can use the bathroom." She stepped all the way inside the front alcove and held the door open. "It's down the hallway. Last door on the right."

The phonebook man walked past her, still carrying his books, and hurried down the hall. Nina closed the door and returned to her paper and her coffee. She turned on the TV- the Today show-for some background noise.

Three articles later, she realized that the phonebook man had not left. Her heart gave a short trip-hammer of fear. She should have known better. She should never have let a stranger in the house. She put the paper down and stood up, moving toward the hall. She peeked around the corner. The bathroom door was closed. He was still in there.

And he was taking a shower.

She could hear, below the surface noise of the television, the familiar sound of the water pipes and the running shower. Her first instinct was anger-how dare he?-but that was replaced instantly by fear, and she crept back to the kitchen and took the phone off the hook, dialing 911.

The phone was dead.

She heard the shower shut off.

She hurried into the bedroom, grabbed a pair of jeans and a blouse, and ran back out. She put the clothes on in the kitchen as fast as she could.

He walked in just as she was buttoning the top button of her blouse.

His hair was black. He had a beard. He had gained at least sixty pounds.

Nina gasped. "Who are you?"

He held up the load of phonebooks under his arms and smiled. "Phonebook man." He looked around the kitchen admiringly. "Nice kitchen. What's for breakfast?"

"D-don't hurt me." She knew her voice was trembling obviously with her fear, but she could not help it. Her legs felt weak, as though they would not support her. "I'll d-do anything you want."

The phonebook man looked puzzled. "What are you talk­ing about?"

She stared at him, trying to keep her voice steady. "You cut the phone lines. So I couldn't call anybody."

He chuckled. "You're crazy."

"I let you use the bathroom and you used it to take a shower and now your hair's different and you have a beard and you're ... you're ..." She shook her head in disbelief. "You're not the same person."

He looked at her, uncomprehending. "I'm the phonebook man." His eyes moved down her body as he noticed her changed apparel, and he smiled. "Nice clothes."

"What do you want from me?"

He looked surprised, caught off guard by her outburst, and he held up the phonebooks under his arms. "I'm here to deliver your local phonebooks."

"You delivered them! Now get the hell out of here!"

He nodded. "Okay, lady, okay. Sorry I was born." He started to walk out of the kitchen, then turned around. "But if I could just have a piece of toast. I didn't have anything to eat this morning-"

Nina ran past him and out the front door, leaving the screen swinging behind her. She couldn't take this anymore. She couldn't handle this, couldn't cope. She realized she was screaming by the time she reached the McFarlands' house next door, and she forced herself to quiet down. Breathing heavily, she pounded on the door and rang the bell.

A minute passed. No answer.

She realized that both of the McFarlands must have al­ready gone to work, and she looked fearfully back toward her house. From the McFarlands' doorstep she could see into her own kitchen window.

The phonebook man was making himself some eggs.

She ran back down the sidewalk to the Adams' house, on the other side of hers. She pounded on the door and rang the bell, but again there was no answer. The Adams must have gone someplace.

Nina looked around the neighborhood. They had only moved in a couple of months ago, and hadn't met many of the neighbors. She didn't feel comfortable walking up to some stranger's door. Especially not with this wild tale.

But this was an emergency....

The car!

The car. She didn't know why she hadn't thought of it earlier. There was an extra set of keys in the little magnetic box attached to the wheel well. She could get the keys and take off. Moving slowly, quietly, she pushed through the wall of bushes which separated the Adams' house from her own. Ducking low, she ran along the side of the house to the garage.

The phonebook man was sitting in the driver's seat of the car.

He smiled at her as she ran up. "We have to go to the store," he said. She could see his phonebooks piled on the seat next to him.

Anger broke through her fear and shock. "That's my car! Get out of there!"

He looked at her, confused. "If you don't want me to drive, that's all right. You can drive."

Nina sat down on the floor of the garage, her buttocks landing hard on the cement. Tears-tears of anger, hurt, frustration, fear-ran down her face. Snot flowed freely from her nose. She sobbed.

Vaguely, through her tears, through her cries, she heard the sound of a car door being slammed, of feet walking across cement. She felt a light hand on her shoulder. "Would you like a phonebook?"

She looked up. The phonebook man was bending over her, concern on his face. She shook her head, still crying, and wiped the tears from her cheeks. "Just go away," she said. "Please."

He nodded. "You sure you don't need another phone-book?"

She shook her head. "Just go."

He shifted the load of books under his arms, looked at her and started to say something, then thought the better of it and walked silently down the driveway toward the sidewalk. He walked up the street toward the McFarlands'.

The tears came again-tears of relief this time-and Nina felt her whole body relax, tension leaving her muscles. When the crying stopped of its own accord, she stood up and walked into the house through the side door. The kitchen was a mess. He had spilled milk and coffee all over the countertops and had left the eggs, shell and all, in the pan on the stove. Salt and sugar were everywhere.

She started to clean up.

She was washing out the sink when the phone rang. She jumped, startled. She recalled that the phone had been dead, and she approached it with something like dread, afraid to pick up the receiver. The rings continued-five, six, seven times-and slowly, hesitantly, she picked up the receiver.

"Phonebook man." The voice was low and insinuating.

She dropped the receiver, screaming.

It was then that she noticed the note. It was taped to the broom closet next to the refrigerator. The note was attached low to the door, below her line of vision, and it was scrawled in a childish hand.

"Gone to pick up Erin. Be back for lunch."

It was unsigned, but she knew who it was from. She ran to the bedroom, grabbed her keys, and sped out to the car. The car bumped over the curb on the way out into the street, but Nina didn't care. She threw the car into drive and took off toward the school.