The next day Doug received a letter from Ford informing him that, due to the outcome of a lawsuit the company recently lost to a consumer-rights organization, the warranty on their Bronco's power train had been extended for another year. There was also a two-dollar rebate check from Polaroid and a letter to Billy from Tritia 's mother, with a five-dollar bill in it.
The day after that, the mail consisted of a letter from Doug's mother to Billy -- the letter contained a one- dollar bill: she was richer than Tritia 's mother but cheaper -- and a subscription to the Fruit-of-the-Month Club from an anonymous donor 'on this, the occasion of your birthday.' The accompanying card was addressed to Tritia , but her birthday was not until January. Doug's was closer, in October, but it was still several months away.
'Who coul4 have sent us this, and why?' Tritia wondered, looking at the small box of red delicious apples.
Doug didn't know, but he didn't like it. He was also starting to worry about the bills. It had been exactly a week since Ronda had killed himself, and while he could not really find any fault with the man who had taken his place _John Smith_ -- he did not think it natural that they had received no bills or junk mail in that time. There was something suspicious and unsettling about that. It was strange enough that it had happened once, but for the exact same thing to occur day after day . . . Well! Mail, by its very nature, was neither all good nor all bad. It carried indifferently messages both positive and negative, filtering nothing, making no distinctions. The odds against something like this occurring were probably astronomical.
Besides, he knew that both his water bill and Exxon bill came due at this time each month.
If he didn't get those bills by Monday, he told Trish, he was going to go in and have a talk with Howard.
'Stop being so paranoid,' she said. 'Jesus, if you're bored, start cleaning up that trash in the back of the house. Start working on your storage shed. Do something useful. Stop thinking up bizarre conspiracy theories.'
'What bizarre theory?' he asked. 'Some of our mail is obviously getting lost. I'm just going to talk to Howard about it.'
'Don't give me that. You've had it in for that new mailman since the moment you laid eyes on him.'
She was right, although he had never come out and said as much. He had not, in fact, talked to her at all about the mailman, not specifically, though he had talked about the mail and obviously must have telegraphed to her his thoughts and opinions. What worried him as much as the lack of bills and junk mail, however, was the sheer amount of letters and positive correspondence they were receiving. Under normal circumstances, they did not get this much good mail in a month, let alone in a few days, and that was not something which could easily be explained, which had an alternate, obviously rational explanation.
There were too many factors and variables involved. This was not something that could be attributed to theincompetency of a postal worker.
He remembered seeing the mailman carefully sorting the letters he took from the mailbox.
'I'm going to call Howard,' he repeated.
Howard himself called the next day, ready to take them up on their dinner invitation. Trish answered the phone, and while Doug knew immediately who it was from the sympathetic tone she adopted and from the sudden understanding in her voice, he did not mention anything about the mail. The postmaster was going through a difficult period, and he did not want to make it even more difficult.
He would bring up his complaint next week if nothing had changed, and he would bring it up in a business rather than social environment.
Trish set up a date and Howard agreed to come over on Saturday for roast and potatoes.
'You know what?' Doug admitted to Trish that night before they went to bed. 'I think I'm actually starting to miss all that junk mail. I used to toss most of those ads and flyers out without reading them, but now that we don't get them anymore, I feel like we're cut off from society. It's almost like not getting a newspaper. I feel like I'm not up on what's current.'
Trish rolled over and turned off the light. 'Shut up about the mail,' she said. 'Go to bed.'
6
Lane Chapman lived in a large three-bedroom house on the top of the hill, above the flattened ruins of the oldAnasazi village. The house was modern, all wood and glass and angular corners, and the inside looked like something out of a magazine: white throw rugs on white Mexican tile floors, overstuffed white couches, track lights with framed art posters on otherwise bare white walls.
Billy stared at the two-story structure as he walked up the paved drive to the front steps. He admired the house, appreciated it, but he didn't like it. It seemed cold, more like an art exhibit than a home, and the two boys usually spent most of their time at theAlbins ' small but comfortable A-frame.
Although he would never tell this to Lane, Billy also found his friend's parents cold and aloof. Mr. Chapman was hardly ever home, but when he was, Lane stayed well out of his way. He seldom smiled, swore often, and did not like to waste his time talking to kids. Billy was not even sure Mr. Chapman knew his name, though he had been his son's best friend since kindergarten. Mrs. Chapman was always home, but there was something false about her unwavering smile, something phony about her constant niceness. Lane, he knew, adored his mother, but Billy was not sure the feeling was reciprocated. Mrs. Chapman seemed about as warm and responsive as her precious white furnishings.
Before moving here to Pine Top Acres, theChapmans had lived just down the way from Billy's family in a prefab log home that Lane's dad had built and that he used as a demonstration model for his contractor's skills. Now theChapmans had an unlisted phone number, and the only people allowed into the house were those few who had been invited.
Billy pressed the doorbell and heard the familiar musical chime sound dully from the depths of the house. A few moments later, Lane was at and out the door.
'Come on,' he said. 'Let's hit the road. My dad's home and he's pissed. He just lost a contract toGagh and Sons, and he's in a bad mood. He's threatening to take me to Crazy Carl again.'
Billy laughed. Crazy Carl was the town's oldest barber. A World War II
vet, with pictures of the Big One all over his tiny shop, he considered it his patriotic duty to make sure every boy's hair was cut to a length he considered acceptable. No matter what style was requested, Carl would inevitably shave the hair down to a uniform butch. Once, years ago, Billy's dad had taken him to Crazy Carl and had told the old man to just trim a little above the ears. Carl had shaved him almost completely bald, and he had been the laughingstock of his classroom for weeks. Neither he nor his dad had ever gone back again.
'He's not serious, is he?' Billy asked.
'Hard to tell with my dad. He's always threatening to send me off to military school or something.' He shook his head. 'I'm getting tired of this crap. I swear to God. I'm hitting the road when I'm eighteen, and if my old man tries to stop me, I'll deck him.'
Billy hid his smile. Lane was always talking about how he was going to 'deck' his dad or 'beat his ass.' Last week, when they'd found a lottery ticket on the ground, Lane had said that if they had the winning numbers he was going to leave home and send a truckload ofdogshit to be dropped on his father's car.
Lane's plans and pronouncements were always funny, but there was something sad about them too, and Billy was thankful that he didn't have his friend's parents.
Lane looked around the drive. 'Where's your bike?'
Billy nodded toward the edge of the road. 'I left it back there. I thought maybe your brother was sleeping. I didn't want to wake him up.' The last time he'd come over, he'd called out for Lane instead of knocking on the door or ringing the bell, and Lane's mother, smiling as always, had come out and told him in a polite voice edged with steel that he had awakened the baby.
Lane laughed. 'You think your bike was going to wake him up? The doorbell's louder than that.'
'Did I wake him up again?'
'No. He's fine. Stop being such a pussy. What do you think my mom's going to do? Beat you?'
It was possible, Billy thought, but he said nothing. He walked down the drive to the bush where he'd stashed his bike while Lane got his own wheels, and soon the two of them were speeding down the road.
Although the land at the top of the hill had been open for development for over two years, few of the acre lots had sold and even fewer had been built upon. There was theChapmans ' house; Dr.Koslowski's house; the house of Al Houghton, who owned Pine Top Acres; and a few expensive vacation homes built by people who never
