postmaster said, looking down at his plate, pushing the empty potato skin with his fork.
'That's the one thing that really gnaws at me, that I can't understand: why he did it.' He looked up at Tritia , his eyes red but his voice even. 'You knew Bob.
He was an easygoing guy. He didn't let things get to him. He wasn't an unhappy man. He liked his job, loved his family, had a good life. And nothing changed.
There was no big catastrophe, no death in the family, nothing that would push him over the edge. Besides, if something was bothering him, he would have told me.' His voice trembled slightly and he cleared his throat. 'I was his best friend.'
Tritia put her hand on his. 'I know you were,' she said softly.
He wiped his nose with the back of his hand, forcing himself not to give in to tears. 'Ellen's taking it really hard. I mean, harder than I thought she would. She always seemed like such a strong woman.' He smiled sadly. 'Bob used to call her the Rock.' He absently fingered his napkin. 'She was all drugged out when I went to see her the other day. The doctor's giving her . . . I don't know what all. He says it's the only way to keep her calm. The boys are the ones who have to take care of everything, but you can see that the strain's starting to show. They have questions just like I do, and there just aren't any answers.'
'Are they still staying at the house?' Doug asked.
Howard nodded. 'I told them to get out, at least for a while. It just stirs up bad memories, and I'm sure it's not doing Ellen any good.'
Doug had a sudden picture of the two sons waking up each morning, each of them taking a shower in the same bathtub where their father had blown his brains out, getting their soap from the indented soap dish in which puddles of his blood and pieces of his fragmented scalp had lain. He wondered how Ellen bathed, how she avoided thinking about what she had seen.
'It'll be all right,' Tritia told him.
'I miss him,' Howard said bluntly. 'I miss Bob.' He took a deep breath, then the words came out in a rush. 'I don't know what I'm going to do with my Saturdays anymore, you know? I don't who I'm going to be able to ask for advice or give advice to or go places with or . . . Shit!'
And he began to cry.
After dinner, they sat on the porch. It was warm, humid, felt like rain.
Bats, fluttering shadows of darkness, spun in and out of the illuminated circle generated by the streetlamp. From down the road came the harsh electric sounds of a bug zapper instantaneously frying its victims.
'We used to go bat fishing when we were little,' Doug said absently. 'We would hook a leaf or something to fishing line and throw it up into the air next to a streetlight. The bats' radar told them that it was a bug, so they'd dive for it. We never caught anything, but we came close a few times.' He chuckled.
'I don't know what we would've done ifwe'd've caught one.'
'You do stupid things when you're little,' Howard said. 'I remember we used to shoot cats with pellet guns. Not just cats that were wild or strays. Any cat.' He downed the last of his beer. 'Now it's hard for me to rememberbein' that cruel.'
They were silent for a while, too full and too tired to make the effort at conversation. In the east, above the ridge, lightning flashed, outlining billowy dark clouds. Like most summer storms, it would probably come at night and be gone by morning, leaving behind it a heaviness and humidity that would create a boom business at the air- conditioned movie theater and would send people running to the lakes and streams. They looked upward. The evening was moonless, and though there was obviously a storm approaching, the sky directly above them was an astronomer's dream, filled with millions of pinprick stars.
Doug's chair creaked as he shifted his weight, leaning forward. 'Where's, uh, John Smith tonight?' The name sounded ludicrous when spoken. 'Is he at your house?'
'Don't know.' The beer must have loosened his tongue, for Howard shook his head, a vague movement in the darkness. 'He's usually not there this early, though. He goes out at night, but I don't know where he goes or what he does.
Some nights I don't think he comes home at all.'
'What makes you say that?'
'Well, I been having a hard time sleeping lately. I'm real tired, but I
can't fall asleep.'
'That's understandable,' Tritia said.
'Yeah, well sometimes I get up and walk around, you know, just to have something to do. The other night, I was going out to the kitchen to get a drink of orange juice, and I notice as I pass by that his door's open. I look in there and the bed's made and he's gone. That was around two or three in the morning.'
'Maybe he has a girlfriend,' Tritia suggested.
'Maybe.' Howard sounded doubtful.
'Have you ever seen him sleeping?' Doug asked.
'What kind of question is that?' Tritia frowned.
'Humor me.'
'No,' the postmaster said, speaking slowly, 'come to think of it, I
haven't.'
'Ever seen his bed unmade?'
Howard shook his head. 'But he does stay in his room on Sundays. Don't even open the door. Just stays in there like he's hibernatin ' or something. I
think he sleeps then.'
'All day?'
Howard shrugged. 'I don't know. Maybe not. Maybe he does something else.
He always seems real tired on Monday morning.'
Doug felt the coldness wash over him. He didn't know why he was pursuing this line of questioning or what he hoped to find out, but there was something about the mailman that bothered him in a way he could not explain. 'Have you been getting many complaints about him?' he asked.
'None.'
Doug felt more than a twinge of disappointment. He had been half-hoping to hear that there was a ground swell of resentment against the new mailman, that either residual feelings for Ronda or a recognition of the mailman's own obvious peculiarity had brought in a negative verdict from the public.
'As a matter of fact,' Howard continued, 'people seem to be very happy with the job he's doing. I can't remember the office ever being so busy.
People're sending more letters, buying more stamps. I don't rightly know what it is, but the people seem to be more satisfied than they were before.' His voice took on an edge of bitterness. 'That's all well and good, mind you, and I'm not complaining, but I can't help thinking that this is like a judgment against Bob.
I mean, no one's said anything bad about him. In fact, it's exactly the opposite. I hear nothing but praise and good things about him. But on a professional level, people seem to be happier with John.' He was silent for a moment, and when he spoke again, his voice was filled with quiet conviction.
'Bob was a damn fine mail carrier. The best I've ever known or worked with, and I can't help feeling that he's being betrayed.'
Doug and Tritia were silent.
Howard stood up and walked over to the railing, staring out at the green belt. 'John's a good worker. He's polite and hardworking. He does a fine job.'
The postmaster's voice was so low they could barely hear it. 'But I don't like him. I don't know why, but, God help me, I don't like the man. I don't like him at all.'
Howard left after ten. Doug offered to drive him home, but he said he was not drunk, and indeed he seemed to have no trouble walking in a straight line or speaking clearly. Still, Tritia made him drink a cup of coffee before he left, and both of them watched from the porch as he drove away, red taillights disappearing into the trees.
Doug had asked him about the mail, had told him that he suspected that the new mailman was losing letters, but the postmaster, once again closed off, said that what was happening was common. Mail, like tides, he said, had ebbs and flows, it was never constant. But there seemed to be a pattern here, Doug argued. They were getting no bills or junk mail, nothing negative. Coincidence, Howard said, and although Doug did not believe him, he did not
