The morning was overcast, unusual for late June, and Doug wondered if perhaps the rains would come early this year. The thought disturbed him somehow.
It was not unheard of, not even that unusual, but the fact that all of this strangeness was accompanied by a shift in traditional weather patterns gave the entire situation a broader, more cosmic quality. Ordinarily, he would have dismissed such an obviously ludicrous idea, but these were not ordinary times.
Both Trish and Billy had been withdrawn and uncommunicative the past few days, Billy downright sullen, and he suspected that each of them had seen something, though neither would admit it.
That was scary, Doug thought. They had always been a close family, had always shared everything, but now they were drifting apart, becoming more private, more closed with one another. And he didn't know what to do about it.
They reached the mailbox. As if it was a ritual they had performed before or an act they had practiced and worked out ahead of time, Doug opened the box and Tritia withdrew the envelopes.
There were two of them, one for each.
Tritia looked at him questioningly, handing him his envelope.
In answer, Doug tore it open. The envelope was empty.
Tritia 'sface was pinched, tense, as she opened hers. There was a letter inside and she took it out, unfolding it. She scanned the page, face blank, unreadable, then looked up at him. "Who," she asked, "is Michelle?"
Doug was puzzled. "Michelle?"
She handed him the letter and he read it over. Halfway down the page, he knew the Michelle to whom she was referring. Michelle Brunner, an old girlfriend from college, the only woman besides Tritia with whom he'd ever had what could be legitimately termed a sexual relationship. He frowned as he continued reading. The letter made it sound as though he and Michelle had been carrying on a hot and heavy affair for years, seeing each other whenever they could, though in reality he had not seen her since his Junior year in college, two semesters before he'd met Tritia .
"It's fake," he said, folding the letter.
"Who's Michelle?"
"Michelle Brunner. I told you about her. The crazy one?"
"The slut?"
Doug smiled wanly. "That's her."
"She still writes to you?"
"You know who wrote this," he said, his smile fading. "And it wasn't Michelle."
She nodded tiredly. "So what are we going to do? This is just getting worse."
"We've got to put a stop to this. After breakfast, I'm going to talk to Howard. And if I can't get him to do anything, I'm going to call the main post office in Phoenix. I don't know why I didn't do it before. I should have called them the first thing. I should have sent them samples of the letters we found in the creek --"
"They never would've got there."
"That's true."
"And how are you going to tell them everything? You think they'll believe you? They'll just think you're some paranoid crank."
"No, I won't tell them everything. But I'll tell them about the mail delivery. At the very least, they'll transfer the mailman somewhere else."
"And if he won't go?"
The question hung, unanswered, between them.
"Come on," Doug said. "Let's go have breakfast."
The line in front of the post office was long, the patrons irate. Doug walked slowly across the parking lot. The people in line looked different than usual. Shabbier, seedier. They were dressed not in the nice clothes they usually wore when going into town but in older dirtier garb -- painting clothes, work pants, torn undershirts. There was grease on the arms and faces of some of the men, and few of the women had bothered to comb their hair or take it out of rollers. One old woman was wearing a bathrobe and slippers.
Even from here, Doug could hear the menacing tone of the crowd's conversational buzz. The people in line were not chatting of the news, sports, or weather, not catching up on local gossip. They were not even sharing complaints or grievances. They were venting their anger, telling and retelling the same events in order to keep that anger fueled, speaking of canceled insurance, threatened lawsuits for nonpayment of bills, problems caused by the mail.
Instead of standing outside of the post office in line, Doug walked through the second of the double doors into the building. He looked around.
Things had changed since the last time he'd been here. The place seemed darker, dirtier. The blinds over the windows were drawn, and one of the recessed bars of fluorescent light had burned out. The swamp cooler was off again, and the room was sweltering, the humidprestorm air augmented by the sour odor of mingled sweat and breath. The posters on the walls were different as well, he noticed.
The Love stamp poster that had hung forever on the wall above the forms table had been replaced by a poster for a new fifty-cent commemorative guillotine stamp. The poster, white against a black background, depicted a large wooden guillotine, metal blade gleaming as hordes of vicious-looking people crowded around it. On the side wall, where Howard had traditionally hung advertisements for upcoming stamps featuring famous people, was a large poster of an Adolf Hitler stamp and, next to that, a stamp featuring the demented visage of Charles Manson.
At the counter was the mailman, red hair practically glowing in the dim room.
The hair was prickling at the back of Doug's neck, but he refused to let the mailman see his fear. He walked up to the front counter. "I want to talk to Howard," he said as forcefully as he could.
The mailman eyed him coldly. "I'm helping someone else right now. If you'll just wait your turn in line --"
"Just tell me whether or not Howard's here."
"You'll have to wait your turn."
"Yeah," several people echoed.
"He's not here," a man in line said. "I heard Mr. Smith tell someone else he's not here."
Doug turned to look at the owner of the voice. It was a person he did not know, a small timid man sandwiched between a scowling woman and a blank-faced teenager. The man was obviously not used to speaking up or speaking out. He had the naturally apologetic features of the perpetually frightened, but there was determination in his face, anger in his eyes, and at that moment he looked to Doug almost heroic. Someone else was willing to fight back against the tyranny of the mailman.
"Thank you," Doug said.
The small man grinned. "No problem."
The mailman was already helping the customer in line, pretending as though nothing had happened. Doug walked out the door and back outside. He crossed the small parking lot, taking his keys out of his pocket. He would go to Howard's house and catch up with him there. It was obvious to him now that, like the rest of them, the postmaster was afraid of his underling, but maybe he'd be able to talk Howard into taking some action. Something sure as hell had to be done.
He opened the door of the car and got in. He hadn't noticed it from the outside, but his windshield, he saw now, was covered with spit. Saliva dripped from several spots on the glass. He looked over at the line outside the building, trying to determine who had done it, but no one glanced in his direction at all.
He turned on the wiper/washer and backed out of the parking lot, pulling onto the street. He headed toward Howard's.
The postmaster lived on a low hill in one of the nicer sections of town.
His house was in what passed for a subdivision in Willis, and was not far from the post office. Unlike the area in whichHobie lived, the single-story homes on Howard's street were all well kept up and well taken care of.
Doug parked the car on the street in front of the white clapboard house.