The newspaper account of the mailman's suicide had been sketchy and general, a polite glossing over of the facts in deference to the survivors, but in a town the size of Willis news sometimes traveled through quicker and more efficient channels than the press, and by noon the day after, nearly everyone had heard the full story. Apparently, Ronda had gotten out of bed before his wife had awakened, had walked into the garage for his sawed-off shotgun, and had gone into the bathroom. There he had taken off his clothes, stretched out in the tub, placed the tip of the shotgun in his mouth, and blown a hole through his brain. The blood and bone and tissue had splattered against the tile behind him and was dripping into the tub by the time Ellen had run in.
There had been no note.
There were other versions of the story. One version, one in which Doug put no credence, said that Ronda had sat on the shotgun, greasing it, placing it to his asshole and blowing out his insides. Another said that he had shoved the barrel deep into his eye socket, putting out his eye before pulling the trigger.
These false reports had died almost immediately, however, and by the day of the funeral there was only one story circulating.
Billy had been very shaken by the news of the mailman's suicide. He still had all four grandparents, had never lost a pet, and this was his first real experience with death. He had also liked Ronda a lot, as had most of the kids in town, and it had been a shock to learn that the mailman had killed himself.
Billy had been quiet and subdued for the past two days, unusually pensive and well-behaved, and Doug and Trish had discussed at length whether the boy should go to the funeral. In the end, they decided against it, agreeing that the sight of the mourners and the coffin would probably be too traumatic for their son, and they had found a babysitter to watch him for the morning. When they returned, they would talk the funeral over with him, make sure he understood what had happened.
Standing at the head of the grave, in front of the closed casket, the minister read selected excerpts from the Bible. He tactfully refrained from mentioning the cause of the mailman's death and instead discussed the positive aspects of Ronda's life and the loss to his family and to the community his death had wrought.
Doug listened to the preacher's generic comments but found his mind wandering. Although he felt sad, he should have felt sadder. He should have been as moved by the words he was hearing as by the thoughts and memories in his head. What was missing from the minister's well-meaning words, he realized, was the spirit of the man himself, and he thought that there were many people who could have given a better, more heartfelt eulogy, people who had known and loved the mailman on a personal level. The bartender at The Corral, for instance. Or George Riley.
Or Howard Crowell.
His eyes scanned the crowd until he found the postmaster. Howard was standing next to Ronda's family, dressed in a new black suit bought especially for the occasion, sobbing openly. He was obviously listening to every word the preacher said, and his gaze appeared to be riveted on the casket.
Doug frowned. Standing next to the postmaster, wearing a light-blue postal uniform that contrasted sharply with the somber black conservative attire of the other mourners, was a man he had never seen before. Tall and thin, with a shock of red hair topping a long pale face, he was staring off into the distance, obviously bored with the funeral. Though Doug was not close enough to see clearly the expression on the man's face, he sensed an arrogance in the newcomer's stance, a disdain in the tilt of his head. The man turned lazily to look at the minister, sunlight glinting off a series of gaudy buttons on his jacket. On anyone else, the uniform might have looked dignified, even respectful, but on him it seemed mocking, clownish, and it served only to trivialize the proceedings. The man turned again, gazing outward across the crowd, and Doug had the sudden inexplicable feeling that he was looking directly at him. It was an unnerving experience, and he glanced quickly away, his eyes shifting back to Howard.
Tritia , too, was looking at the postmaster, but she did not notice the stranger next to him. Her gaze was focused on Howard's face, on his wet cheeks and shattered expression. He looked so lost, so hopeless, so helpless. They would have to invite him over for dinner sometime, she decided. Probably half the town had extended similar offers to him this week, but she knew that he liked her and Doug more than most, and she thought they might be able to cheer him up a bit.
She glanced over at Ellen Ronda, on the other side of the postmaster. She had never really liked the mailman's wife. Ellen had always seemed too hard, too driving, too status-conscious for Bob, who had always been an amiably laid-back man, but it was obvious from the pain, evident even through the drug-induced haze of her eyes, that Ellen had loved her husband deeply and that his loss would not easily be borne. Tritia 's heart went out to the widow, and she felt welling in her eyes the tears that had eluded her until now.
Above them, the sky was a rich deep blue, the sun hot already at ten o'clock. From here could be seen most of the town: the dull-blue wall of the diner peeking out from behind the Valley National Building and the small Chamber of Commerce office; portions of the shopping center revealed through the trunks and branches of the trees; the brightly colored signs of the gas stations and fast-food restaurants in the newer section beyond. Closer in, across the meadow that separated the cemetery from the golf course, was the original nucleus of the town: the newspaper, the library, the bars and the police department conveniently located within a block of each other -- and, of course, the post officer The post office.
Tritia found that she could not look at that empty building for any length of time. It seemed sad and forlorn, almost abandoned, though it was only closed for the day. She wiped her eyes and concentrated on the words of the minister, focusing her gaze on the dark rosewood of the casket. Smooth and rounded, it looked almost like a large polished stone. Tritia knew that Ronda's family couldn't afford such an obviously expensive coffin, and she was pretty sure that the insurance provided by the Postal Service would not make up the difference.
She would have Doug find out if someone in town had started a memorial fund to help defray the funeral expenses. If no one had, they would institute one. The mailman's family would have a tough-enough time just living with the pain and getting on with their lives without having to worry about financial burdens as well.
"Ashes to ashes," the minister said, "dust to dust."
Tritia and Doug looked at each other, then grasped each other's hands, holding tightly.
"Amen."
Ellen and the boys moved forward as the casket was lowered into the grave.
Between the sobs of mourners, the quiet hum of machinery could be heard as the motorized jack folded downward. The town was silent. Since most of the residents had come to the funeral, there were not even the occasional noises of car engines or power tools to mar the stillness.
Ellen reached down to pick up a handful of earth. Before dropping it into the open grave, she mouthed something inaudible, pressing the dirt to her lips.