"None."
Doug felt more than a twinge of disappointment. He had been half-hoping to hear that there was a ground swell of resentment against the new mailman, that either residual feelings for Ronda or a recognition of the mailman's own obvious peculiarity had brought in a negative verdict from the public.
"As a matter of fact," Howard continued, "people seem to be very happy with the job he's doing. I can't remember the office ever being so busy.
People're sending more letters, buying more stamps. I don't rightly know what it is, but the people seem to be more satisfied than they were before." His voice took on an edge of bitterness. "That's all well and good, mind you, and I'm not complaining, but I can't help thinking that this is like a judgment against Bob.
I mean, no one's said anything bad about him. In fact, it's exactly the opposite. I hear nothing but praise and good things about him. But on a professional level, people seem to be happier with John." He was silent for a moment, and when he spoke again, his voice was filled with quiet conviction.
"Bob was a damn fine mail carrier. The best I've ever known or worked with, and I can't help feeling that he's being betrayed."
Doug and Tritia were silent.
Howard stood up and walked over to the railing, staring out at the green belt. "John's a good worker. He's polite and hardworking. He does a fine job."
The postmaster's voice was so low they could barely hear it. "But I don't like him. I don't know why, but, God help me, I don't like the man. I don't like him at all."
Howard left after ten. Doug offered to drive him home, but he said he was not drunk, and indeed he seemed to have no trouble walking in a straight line or speaking clearly. Still, Tritia made him drink a cup of coffee before he left, and both of them watched from the porch as he drove away, red taillights disappearing into the trees.
Doug had asked him about the mail, had told him that he suspected that the new mailman was losing letters, but the postmaster, once again closed off, said that what was happening was common. Mail, like tides, he said, had ebbs and flows, it was never constant. But there seemed to be a pattern here, Doug argued. They were getting no bills or junk mail, nothing negative. Coincidence, Howard said, and although Doug did not believe him, he did not press the point.
It was nothing he could prove. Still, he was determined to make out checks for the regular monthly payments on his bills and send them out tomorrow instead of waiting for the bills themselves to arrive.
Locking the front door behind them as they went inside, theAlbins decided to leave the dishes until tomorrow. From upstairs, they could hear the rough arrhythmic sounds of Billy's snores. Doug smiled. The boy was a regular lumbermill with his log sawing, his snores as loud and deep as those of an old man. Tritia turned the light off in the kitchen and they walked down the short hall to the bedroom.
"Don't you think Billy's been kind of quiet lately?" Tritia asked.
"No more than usual."
"It seems like something's bothering him. He's been, I don't know, distracted. Like today, when he came home from Lane's, I asked him what he'd been doing, and he just shook his head, wouldn't even answer me. Then he sat there and watched TV for the rest of the day."
Doug chuckled. "So what else is new?"
"I'm not joking. Could you just ask him what's wrong? After all, you are his father."
"Okay. I'll talk to him tomorrow. I don't know what you want me to find out, but --"
"Just see if he's in any kind of trouble, find out what's wrong. I'm probably just imagining things, but it never hurts to check. He's almost a teenager, you know."
Doug knew what she was hinting at, but he didn't pursue the subject.
"Okay. I'll talk to him."
"Thanks."
They had reached the bedroom. It was dark, and neither of them turned on the lights. "Of course," he said, "Billy's asleep now."
Tritia was silent.
"Sound asleep," he prodded.
He heard the sound of the bedspread being pulled down. The room was warm, but not nearly as warm as the living room in the front of the house. Far away, thunder rumbled. Doug began unbuttoning his shirt. "It's kind of romantic with the lights off," he said. "Don't you think? I --"
It was then that he felt her hand between his legs. Surprised, he reached forward in the darkness, and his fingers touched smooth rounded flesh. Somehow Trish had silently wiggled out of both her dress and her underwear. Their lips met, and he felt her warm wet tongue slide lovingly into his mouth. Her hands slowly unbuckled his belt, unzipped his zipper, pulled down his pants and shorts. He kicked off his shoes, stepped out of the clothes bunched around his ankles, and the two of them moved silently over to the bed. She pushed him onto his back without speaking, and he stretched out straight on the mattress. Her fingers, soft and gentle, grasped his penis, massaging it, making it hard. The bed creaked and jiggled as she moved into position, and he could smell the musky scent of her arousal as her pubic hair brushed his face. He moved his head upward, and his tongue touched moisture. He could taste her, sweet and sour, and as his tongue slid into her ready opening, he felt the warmth of her mouth engulf his penis.
It was nearly an hour later before they were through. It had been a long time since they'd both enjoyed it this much, since they'd allowed themselves to enjoy it this much. In the past year or so, their lovemaking had consisted of commercials rather than feature films, short quick trysts taken when they were sure Billy was asleep or would be gone for a long period of time. Ever since Doug had explained to his son the facts of life, they had both been careful that no clues to their lovemaking could be spotted by the boy. But this had been like the old days, long and unhurried and giving and wonderful.
Exhausted, sated, they fell asleep in each other's arms, still naked, still clutching each other.
8
Billy stood outside the theater, waiting for his dad to pick him up. The movie had ended early nearly twenty minutes ago, and everyone else was gone. The parking lot was deserted. Even the ushers and other theater workers had finished cleaning up and were leaving.
Where was his dad?
He'd called home about ten minutes ago, once Brad and Michael's parents had come to pick them up, and his mom had said that Dad had just left and was on his way.
So where was he?
The last of the theater workers' cars left, loud rock music blaring distortedly from speakers that were not meant to handle such volume, and now the parking lot was empty save for an abandoned pickup at the far end. The overhead lights, one mounted on a telephone pole, the other on an actual lamppost, blinked simultaneously off.
And now there was only darkness and silence.
No, not quite silence.
There was a soft purring.
The sound of a new car engine.
Billy's heart began pounding. He stepped across the sidewalk and looked up and down the street, desperately searching for his dad, but his dad was nowhere to be seen.
There was only a new red car cruising slowly down the street toward him.
Panic gripped his chest, and he looked around for some place to hide. But the outside of the theater was flat and featureless, with no alcoves or indentations in which to conceal himself. There were not even any bushes behind which he could duck. The people who had built the theater had torn out all trees and bushes and had paved over the bare flattened ground for their parking lot.
He was stuck. There was nothing he could do, no place he could go.
The car pulled into the parking lot. The passenger window slowly lowered, and against the darkness of the interior he saw the mailman's milk-white face and bright-red hair.