Billy forced himself to stare only at the professor, trying to ignore entirely the creepy insinuating look of the mailman.
Dr. Holman opened the letter and quickly scanned its contents. "Our funding came through," he announced to the assembled group, holding up the letter. "The university has decided to go ahead with our research project."
There was a spontaneous and only partially tongue-in-cheek cheer from the students.
The professor, grinning, nodded at the mailman. "Thanks," he said. "That's the best news I've gotten all semester."
"Glad to be of service," the mailman said.
Ordinarily, Billy thought, that would have been the man's cue to leave, but he showed no intention of doing any such thing. He clasped his hands behind his back and stood there calmly, looking around the camp, taking everything in.
His face was purposefully neutral, carefully expressionless, but there was an underlying smugness, an indefinable something that manifestedkself in his attitude and that gave Billy the feeling that he was passing judgment on all he surveyed -- and that he was happy it did not live up to his standards. He was silent and expressionless, but Billy could tell that inwardly he was gloating.
The mailman's eyes scanned the faces of the students, lingering on none of them, then landed once again on Billy.
Billy was sweating. He could feel twin trickles of perspiration slide in winding paths from beneath his armpits down his sides. His forehead, too, was sweaty, and he wiped it with a palm. It was hot out, but not that hot, and he swallowed hard, wanting to escape, to run, to get the hell out of here. But he could not move. He was frozen in place by that gaze, by the unnatural promises behind that superficially benign smile, so utterly powerless to react that he could not even glance over at Lane.
The mailman nodded at him, a nod of recognition and acknowledgment, a nod that said "I know what you're thinking," then turned away and strode back through the forest the way he had come.
"We got our funding," the professor enthused. "We finally got our funding!" He was holding up the letter proudly. "Now we'll really be able to make some progress."
Billy felt Lane, next to him, give him a nudge with his elbow. "That's great, huh? I guess we'll be able to do more stuff."
"Great," Billy repeated. But his thoughts were not on the professor or on archaeology. His eyes and thoughts were focused on the space between the trees where a moment before he had seen the mailman's white hand wave slowly and lovingly good-bye.
7
Howard pulled into the driveway at seven sharp. It was still light out, but the blue in the east was quietly being usurped by purple, and there was an orange tinge to the pale sky in the west. Billy was sitting on the couch and was right in the middle of a _M.A.S.H._ rerun when Tritia turned off the TV and kicked him upstairs. He complained loudly, but hurried up the steps nonetheless.
He was not comfortable around adults, and he usually hid each time they had friends over. Watching him tromp loudly up the stairs, his mother couldn't really blame him. She'd felt the same way herself when she was his age.
"I'll call you when dinner's ready," she said. "You can come on down and get some food."
"Okay."
Doug stood up and went to open the door.
"Don't say anything about Bob unless he brings the subject up first,"
Tritia suggested. "We're supposed to be cheering him up, taking his mind off his troubles."
He shook his head, pressing past her. "I'm not entirely dim, you know."
She smiled. "Just trying to counteract theHobie Beecham influence."
"Thanks." Doug pulled open the door while Tritia hurried into the kitchen to check on the food, stepping onto the porch just as Howard started up the stairs. "Glad you could make it," he said.
The postmaster smiled. "Glad you invited me." He was wearing his equivalent of dress clothes: new dark-blue jeans, a starched white-and-rose cowboy shirt, and an agate bolo tie. His boots had been shined and his hair slicked back and held in place with some sort of wet-looking gel. In his hand was a gift-wrapped bottle.
"Come in," Doug said, holding the door open. Howard stepped past him, and both of them moved into the house.
Tritia was taking off her apron, and she moved forward to greet their guest. She, too, had dressed up for the occasion and was wearing a low-cut black dress, matching turquoise bracelet and necklace, and silver antique earrings.
Her brown hair was done up in a sophisticated roll. She accepted the proffered present graciously. "Thank you," she said. "But you really didn't have to bring anything."
"I wanted to." Howard looked at her and shook his head appreciatively.
"You sure look mighty beautiful today." He turned to Doug. "I've said it before, and I'll say it again, you're a lucky man."
Tritia blushed. She unwrapped the bottle and turned it around to read the label. "Champagne!" She gave Howard a quick peck on the cheek. "Thanks so much.
I guess this means we'll forgo the Dr. Pepper." She went into the kitchen, put the bottle down on the counter, and threw the wrapping paper in the garbage sack under the sink. "You two keep yourselves busy for a few minutes. I'll get the hors d'oeuvres ready."
Doug motioned for Howard to sit down in one of the chairs across from the couch, and the postmaster obliged. Doug sat down as well. It was warm. The windows were open, the fan on, but the air still bordered on the uncomfortable.
From upstairs came the familiar strains of the theme from _M.A.S.H._ Doug smiled at Howard.
"Excuse me for a moment." He stood up again and walked to the foot of the stairs. "Turn it down," he called out. "It's too loud." The noise of the television faded into a drone, then was silenced. "Billy," he explained, walking back. He settled into the chair. There were questions he wanted to ask, things he wanted to know, but he didn't know how to approach the subject subtly. He cleared his throat, deciding to jump right in, hoping he didn't sound too interested, too curious. "So how're you getting along with the new mailman? Is he still living with you?"
"Yeah," Howard admitted, "but I don't see him much. You know how it is.
I'm an old man. I go to bed earlier than he does, wake up later than he does.
Our lifestyles don't exactly match."
"So what's he like?"
Tritia walked up and placed a plate of cheese crepes on the small table between them. "I'll be back with the champagne," she said sweetly. She fixed Doug with a hard meaningful stare as she turned away from the postmaster, but he pretended not to see it.
Each of them took a crepe and bit into it. "Mmmm," Howard said, closing his eyes and savoring the taste. "That's one thing I miss withMurial being gone: good cooking. You get tired of frozen food and hot dogs after a while."
"Don't you cook?" Tritia asked, bringing them two glasses of champagne.
"I try, but I fail."
She laughed lightly as she returned to the kitchen for her own drink.
"So what's he like?" Doug asked again. "He sure delivers the mail early.
Bob used to come by around noon. Now by the time we eat breakfast and clean up a bit, the mail's there."
"John does start early. He's usually gone before I'm even up. He's done with the entire route by eleven, and he stays until four." Howard grabbed another crepe, popping it into his mouth. "He hasn't turned in a time card yet - it's due this week -- but when he does, Igotta see what hours he puts down.
He's not supposed to be working more than eight. I think it's more like ten or eleven, though."
"Don't you think that's a little weird?" Doug asked. "I mean, delivering the mail so early?"