of his shoes as if enjoying the sight.
A moment later it was over. The doctor held Ellen's hand and she stood stiffly erect next to the grave as her sons dropped symbolic handfuls of earth on top of the casket.
The minister said a final prayer.
They walked up to Ronda's family after the service, waiting in line to pay their condolences. After her emotional outburst, Ellen once again seemed dazed and drugged, and her teary-eyed sons found the strength to support her between them. The minister stood with the family, as did Dr. Roberts and Howard. Next to the postmaster, on the outer ring of this inner circle, was the newcomer. This close, Doug could clearly see the man's features: the small sharp nose, the piercing blue eyes, the hard knowing mouth.
Tritia grasped Ellen's outstretched hands firmly. 'You're strong,' she said. 'You'll get through this. It may seem as though the pain will last forever right now, but it will pass. You'll survive. Just try to take things one day at a time. Just try to get on with your life. Bob would have wanted you to go on.'
Ellen nodded silently.
Tritia looked from one son to the other. 'Watch your mother. Take care of her.' 'We will, Mrs.Albin ;' said Jay, the eldest.
Doug could think of nothing to say that wasn't trite and ineffectual. But then words from others at a time like this were bound to be meaninglessly superficial. 'I'm sorry,' he said simply, taking Ellen's arm for a moment, then shaking each of the boys' hands. 'We liked Bob a lot. We're going to miss him.'
'That's the truth,' said Martha Kemp in back of him.
Tritia was already talking to Howard, echoing similar sentiments. She gave him a quick hug. Doug moved next to her and clapped a sympathetic hand on the older man's shoulder.
'He was the best friend I ever had,' Howard said, wiping his eyes, looking from one to the other. 'Usually your childhood friends are the best, the people you grow up with. It's not often you find someone who's as close as that.'
Tritia nodded understandingly. Doug took her hand.
'I miss him already,' Howard said.
'We know,' Doug told him.
The postmaster smiled wanly. 'Thank you. And thank you for the card and the call the other day. Thank you for listening to a crazy sentimental old man.'
'You're not crazy, and you're not that old,' Tritia told him. 'And what's wrong with being sentimental?'
Howard looked at Doug. 'Keep her,' he said. 'She's a good one.'
Doug nodded, smiling. 'I know.'
'We want you to come over one night this week,' Tritia told the postmaster. She looked him in the eye and there was something in her voice that forbade argument. 'I'll make you a good home-cooked meal, okay?'
'Okay.'
'Promise?'
'I promise.'
'Okay, then. We'll see you later. And if you don't call us, we'll call you. Don't think you're going to get out of this.'
Howard nodded good-bye as they began to move off. He had not introduced the man next to him, but Doug knew without being told that he was Ronda's replacement. The man held out a pale hand, which Doug reluctantly shook. The man's skin was warm, almost hot, and completely dry. He smiled, revealing white even teeth. 'Nice day,' he said. His voice was low and modulated, almost melodious, but there was an undercurrent of mockery in his tone, an attitude that only amplified the casual callousness of his words.
Doug said nothing but put his arm around Trish, ignoring the man and moving down the hill toward the parking lot with the other townspeople. As he turned around to unlock the car door, he happened to see the new mailman standing tall among the mourners. It was hard to tell from this distance, but it looked as though the man was watching them. And it looked as though he was still smiling.
Billy told Mrs. Harte he was going to go out and play, and she said that was all right as long as he stayed within calling distance of the house. His parents could come back anytime, and she didn't want them to think she had lost him.
Billy said he was just going to The Fort; it was right behind the house, and as soon as he heard his parents' car, he'd run immediately back.
Mrs. Harte said it was okay.
The Fort was located in the green belt behind the house but was not visible from any window. He and Lane Chapman had built it last summer out of leftover materials from the construction of a summer cabin down the road. Lane's father's company had built the cabin, and Lane's father had given them posts, two-by-fours, planks, and even some cement -- enough material to build the basic structure of two rooms. It had taken them most of the summer to scrounge up the rest of the wood and the signs, decorations, and furniture for the inside, but after they'd finished, The Fort was perfect. Even better than they'd thought it would be. The front and sides were camouflaged with branches of sumac and manzanita; the rear wall was backed against a tree. You entered from the roof, climbing the tree until you were on top of The Fort, then pulling the string that unlatched the hinged trapdoor. There were no stairs and no ladder, but the jump was not far.
Inside, the Big Room was decorated with cast-offknicknacks salvaged from garbage cans around town: old album covers, bamboo beads, an empty picture frame, a bicycle wheel. Lane had added a stolen Stop sign given to him by another friend in order to lend the place a touch of class. The other room, the HQ, was smaller and carpeted with a stained throw rug they'd scavenged from the dump. It was here that they kept the _Playboys_ they had found in a sack of newspapers destined for recycling.
Billy walked down the short path in back of the house. He could have called Lane and had him meet him at The Fort, but he wanted to be alone today.
He felt sort of strange and sad and lonely, and though it wasn't exactly a pleasant feeling, it was not something he wanted to push away and force out of his system. Some emotions just had to run their course -- you had to think about them, experience them, let them pass of their own accord -- and this was one of those.
He also didn't feel much like talking, and with Lane around talking would have been unavoidable. The boy talked more than anyone he had ever met, and while sometimes that was fine, it was not always appropriate, and he just wasn't in the mood for conversation today.
Still, he felt slightly traitorous coming here alone. It was the first time he'd been to The Fort without Lane, and it seemed somehow wrong, as if he were breaking some type of pact, though there had been no such agreement either spoken or unspoken between them.
He reached The Fort and quickly clambered up the forking branches of the tree, swinging himself onto the roof and opening the trapdoor. He dropped into the Big Room and stood there for a moment, looking at the old metal ice chest that they had turned upside down and made into a chair. The ice chest had been given to them by Mr. Ronda, who, when he had seen them sorting through a pile of garbage at the side of the road, had offered to give them the ice chest as well as a few pieces of plywood paneling he had at his house. He'd brought the materials by the next day, leaving them next to the mailbox.
Billy thought of Mr. Ronda's kind face now, of his blue laughing eyes, of his thick white beard. He had known the mailman all his life. He had seen him every day until he had had to go, to school, and had seen him every Saturday, holiday, and summer after that. When he had needed rubber bands for a school project, Mr. Ronda had saved rubber bands for him, delivering them along with the mail each morning. When he had done a report on the post office, Mr. Ronda had taken him on a tour. Now the mailman would never help him again, would never drive by to drop off the mail, would never talk, would never smile, would never live.
He felt his eyes filling with tears, and he moved through the curtains into the HQ. He wanted to feel sad, but he didn't want to cry, and he forced his mind to think about something else for a minute. He would come back to Mr. Ronda in a while, when he was ready.
He sat down on the rug and picked up the top _Playboy_. He flipped through the thick magazine until he came to the first pictorial. 'Women in Uniform,' the headline read. His eyes scanned the page. There was a woman straddling a fire hose, wearing only a red fireman's hat and a red slick raincoat. Underneath that photo was a
