'Still here.'
'I just got a note from Jeff that a postal inspector called. He's coming up later this week.'
Doug smiled. 'A little late, isn't he?'
The policeman chuckled. 'A little.'
They were silent for a moment, and Doug realized that for the first time in over a month the two of them had nothing to say to each other. 'Well, I'll let you go,' he said. 'But I'll be by later. We'll talk.'
'Okay.'
'It is over, Mike.'
'I believe you.'
Doug laughed. '_Now_ you believe me.'
'Get out of here.'
'Later,' Doug said. He hung up the phone. What had the mailman been after, he wondered, and had he found it or done it or completed it? He had arrived in Willis two months ago and had left the town a shambles. Had that been what he wanted? Or had it been something else, something more? Perhaps they had thwarted him before he could finish what he had started. Or perhaps he had really had no motive.
Unbidden, Doug thought of the letter of resignation William Faulkner had tendered after working for a short time for the Postal Service: 'I will be damned if I propose to be at the beck and call of every itinerant scoundrel who has two cents to invest in a postage stamp.'
Perhaps it had been a motive as simple as that.
But they would never know, he realized. They would never know what the mailman had wanted, or whether he had failed or succeeded.
It didn't matter, though.
None of it mattered now.
It was over. It was finished.
He and Tritia brought Billy home from the hospital later in the morning, and Doug turned on the television while Trish made a bed for their son on the couch. For the first time in nearly two weeks the house did not seem to Doug like a violated fortress, like a temporary shelter in which he slept. It felt once more like a home.
Tritia poured Billy a glass of 7-Up and took it to him.
'Dad?' Billy asked from the couch.
Doug turned. 'Yes?'
'It's over, isn't it?' he asked.
He nodded at his son. 'Yes,' he said. 'Finally.'
'Finally,' Billy breathed gratefully, settling back on the pillow.
They made sure Billy was comfortable, then Tritia went into the kitchen to fix his favorite lunch -- macaroni and cheese with chopped-up hot dogs. It was about as nutritious as lint, but this was a special occasion and he deserved a special lunch to go with it.
Doug turned the TV to Channel 5 so Billy could watch _Dick Van Dyke_, and he watched it with him for a few minutes. On an impulse, during a commercial break, he walked outside, onto the porch. He stood there for a moment, then began to walk down the drive to the mailbox. It was a beautiful late-summer day.
The temperature was hot but not uncomfortably so, the harshness of June and July mellowed and gone. In the trees, bluebirds chattered happily and the sky above was cloudlessly blue. There was a slight breeze, not strong enough to disturb anything, but strong enough to act as a natural fan and keep his face cool as he walked.
He reached the mailbox and stopped. The box was open and Doug moved forward to peer inside.
Three coal-black envelopes lay neatly stacked next to the opening.
He remembered the sound of the car the night before, and he felt the return of a familiar coldness. Reaching in, he pulled the envelopes out. The paper felt strange and thick to his touch, slightly slimy, as though it was made from something organic. The contents were heavy and oddly shaped. A wave of revulsion passed through him. He had the sudden urge to drop all three envelopes on the ground, to stomp on them, to bury them with dirt. Without looking at their contents, he knew that whatever was inside the envelopes was evil.
He examined each piece of mail. On the front, in red scripted Old English letters, were his, Tritia 's , and Billy's names. No addresses.
He wondered if other people in town had received letters like these. If everyone in town had received letters like these.
He stared down at the mail.
Inside the envelope addressed to him, something squirmed.
He dropped all three envelopes on the ground and involuntarily jumped back. He was about to stomp on them, to kill and crush whatever was enclosed within the black paper, but he had a better idea and ran as quickly as he could back up the drive to the car. Pulling open the driver's door, he leaned across the seat and opened the glove compartment. He dug down under the flashlight, the repair receipts, theHandi -Wipes, and the AAA maps until he found what he was looking for.
A book of matches.
He ran back down the drive to where the three envelopes lay in the dirt.
Gingerly, he picked up the two marked with Tritia 's and Billy's names and placed them atop his own. He struck a match, but it blew immediately out. He tried again, cupping his hand around the timid flame, and was rewarded when the fire grew. He bent down, holding the match to the edge of the top envelope, hoping it would catch on fire.
It did, and he watched as the strange multicolored flames, now blue, now red, spread over the thick slimy paper. He had half-hoped to see what was inside once the fire had eaten away the envelope, but at the last second he looked away. Something told him it was not knowledge he wanted to have.
The envelopes burned quickly, brightly, and when the fire had done its work, there was only a small pile of smoldering ashes left. Doug kicked the pile, and blackened flakes scattered in the road, the light breeze sending the burned dust skittering across the dirt, fanning out in all directions. He watched the ashes dance into the ditch, under the brush, over the groundcover, mingling with the elements of the forest until all trace of them had disappeared.
He stood there for a moment, staring at the spot where the letters had been. Looking over at the empty open mail-box, he realized that this was the first time since the beginning of the summer that he was not afraid of it.
He was free.
The town was free.
The mailman was gone.
He breathed deeply. Lunch was waiting for him. He smelled hot dogs on the breeze. And macaroni and cheese. From the house he heard the welcome sounds of Billy's voice and Tritia 's voice and a television laugh track.
He had things to do. He had a storage shed to build. Smiling, feeling happy, feeling good, he closed the mailbox door and walked back up the drive toward home.
