Still, he was curious. It felt good to know that he was resisting the mailman's constant temptation, that whatever Postal Service pranks had been planned for he and his family had been successfully thwarted, but he could not deny that there was something inside him, that same stubborn something that had always made him do exactly what authority told him not to do, which made him now want to open up the mail and see what was inside, though he knew it was the dumbest move he could make under the circumstances.
He thought ofHobie and Irene, who had both stopped answering their doors or their phones.
His feet crunched in the gravel. He reached the foot of the drive and opened the mailbox. Inside was a single envelope addressed by computerized mailing label to "Occupant." Doug removed the envelope and slammed shut the box.
He was still debating with himself whether to throw it away or look at it when his hands ripped open the sealed paper. He withdrew the contents of the envelope -- a professionally typeset brochure and two photographs.
Nude photographs.
Of Tritia .
His mouth felt suddenly dry, his legs weak. He turned over the brochure and began to read. "Hi," it said. "My name's Tritia , and I want to be your very special friend. As an introduction to the Ranch Club, I am sending you two photos of myself, to show you what you get by taking advantage of our introductory offer. By night I am a wife and mother, but by day I am anything you want me to be. Your hot slut. Your love slave . . ."
He couldn't read any more. Breathing heavily with anger, revulsion, and trembling fear, he looked at the two photos. In one, a rear view, Tritia was bent over the back of a couch, offering to the camera a perfect shot of her whiteuntanned ass.
Only . . .
Only it wasn't Tritia . The cheeks were too firm, and too round, the buttocks of a young woman in her late teens or early twenties. He looked closer.
The small birthmark she had on her lower back was missing as well, and the fingers were too short and stubby. He looked at the other photograph, this one of Trish seated in a wicker chair, legs spread, eyes closed as she fingered herself. The breasts were wrong, he noticed. The size was about right, but Trish's nipples were much darker, much more prominent.
He tore up the photographs, tore up the brochure, tore up the envelope.
The mailman had obviously pasted photographs of Trish's head onto someone else's body, although he did not know how or where the mailman could have gotten a hold of pictures of Trish. The photos were done well, flawlessly executed, with no visible seams, and would probably fool anyone else but him. But what was the point? Why go to so much trouble?
Maybe it wasn't just for him. Maybe the mailman had sent the same brochure, the same photos, to other people in town. Maybe other men were right now staring at the false body of his wife, reading the mailman's fake words, fantasizing, planning.
He pushed the thought from his mind as he walked back toward the house.
He threw the torn scraps of paper into the garbage before going inside.
The town had seemed nearly abandoned the other day when they'd gone to the store, with very few cars on the street, very few people visible anywhere, so Doug was more than a little surprised to see a crowd gathered in the parking lot in front of the deli. He had been planning to go to the hardware store, to pick up some more flashlight and radio batteries before they were all sold out, but he pulled into theBayless parking lot when he saw the crowd. He parked next to a gray Jeep Cherokee and got out. The group of people standing in front of the deli was fairly quiet and fairly still, but there was something threatening about them as they stood in a rough semicircle around Todd Gold's station wagon.
Doug moved forward. He recognized the faces of several students and several adults. They appeared to be waiting for something, and although there was nothing unusual in either their individual expressions or stances, merely being part of the crowd made them seem menacing.
Todd came out of his store, carrying a large white box. He put the box into the open rear of the station wagon, next to a score of others that had already been packed. He slammed shut the hatch. Doug pressed through the group of people to the front as the deli owner angrily waved the onlookers away. "Get the hell out of here. Haven't you done enough already?"
The crowd stood dumbly, silently watching as he went into the store, emerged carrying several sacks, then closed and locked the now empty deli. "Get out of here," he yelled again. He dropped one of the sacks on the ground as he took out his car keys.
Doug reached him just before he opened the front door. "What is it, Todd?
What happened? What are you doing?"
The storekeeper glared angrily at Doug. "I at least expected better from you. Some of these rednecks" -- he waved a dismissive hand toward the crowd "I can understand. They've never seen a Jew before, don't know what to do or how to handle it, but you . . ."
Doug stared at him, confused. The man seemed to be talking gibberish.
"What are you talking about?"
"What am I talking about? What am I talking about? What the hell do you think I'm talking about?" The storekeeper dropped a sack of mail onto his seat and began sorting through it furiously, picking up envelopes, tossing them aside, until he found what he wanted. He held it up. "Look familiar?"
Doug shook his head dumbly. "No."
"No?" Todd read the letter aloud. " 'You Christ-killing kike, we're tired of your greasy fingers touching our fish and meat and food. How would your sheenywife like a nice white cock up her ass?' "
Doug stared, stunned. "You don't think I --"
"Oh, you're telling me you didn't do it?"
"Of course I didn't!"
Todd looked down at the paper, reading. " 'Why don't I feed your wife some real knockwurst?' "
"Todd . . ." Doug said.
The storekeeper spat on the ground at Doug's feet. The expression on his face was one of intense hatred, a hatred borne of betrayal, and Doug knew that there was nothing he could say or do that could repair the damage that had been done, that could convince the storekeeper he had had nothing to do with this.
"Baby!" someone in the crowd yelled. "Crybaby!"
Doug looked up to see who had made the comment, but the faces all seemed to blur together. He noticed now that although the people were silent, they were by no means passive observers. There was anger on several faces, along with the ugly ignorant shadow of bigotry.
"Jewpussy," a man yelled.
"Go back to where you came from," a woman called.
Todd dropped the letter in the back seat and got into the car. He started the engine, put on his seat belt, and looked up at Doug. "I expected better from you," he said. "I hope you're happy."
"I'm on your side," Doug said, but the car was already backing up, turning around. Someone in the crowd threw a rock, and the rock hit the back fender of the departing station wagon, bouncing off. The car pulled onto the street, rounded the corner, and was gone.
Doug looked into the empty store and saw only the reflection of the crowd in the mirror. He saw faces he didn't know on people he knew. He saw people he didn't want to know at all.
He turned around.
"You're on his side?" a man said, demanded.
Doug held up his middle finger. "Fuck off," he said. He walked slowly back toward the car.
35
Tritia lay staring up into the darkness, needing to go to the bathroom but afraid to get out of bed. He was out there, she knew. Somewhere close. She had heard earlier the low quiet sound of his engine approaching and then cutting off, but she had not heard it start up again. She knew she should wake Doug, but he'd been so tense lately, under so much stress, and had had such a difficult time falling asleep that she didn't want to disturb him.