'Last night, around nine o'clock, our electricity went out. We thought at first that it was just a blackout, but the power never came back on. Then, this morning, our water was shut off. I went out to check the pipes, but there was nothing wrong. The meter said we had no water pressure at all. I want to get both our water and electricity turned back on.'
The girl retreated to her computer. 'Can I have your name and address?'
'DougAlbin . Lot Four-fifty-three, Trail End Drive.'
One key at a time, the girl punched his name and address into the computer. She examined the screen before her. 'According to our records, you notified us that you wished to discontinue service.'
'Discontinue service? Why the hell would I do that?'
'I don't know, sir.' She stood up. 'Here, let me check. We should have your letter on file.'
'My letter?'
'According to our records, you sent us a letter last Thursday.' She walked across the office to the file cabinets. After a few moments of searching through a row of forms' and papers, she pulled out a single sheet of typing paper stapled to a business envelope. 'Here it is.' She returned, handing him the paper.
He scanned the typed text, reading aloud: ' 'Dear Sirs, On June 12, my family will be moving to California, where I have taken a job with the Anaheim Unified School District. Please disconnect my electricity on June 11 and my water on June 12. Thank you.' ' He glanced up sharply. 'What is this?'
The girl looked confused. 'I don't know what you mean, sir. You didn't send us that letter?'
'I most certainly did not. Now I want my electricity and water turned back on, and I want you to find out who did send it.'
'Well maybe it was a joke. Maybe one of your friends --'
'It's not a joke, and I don't think it's funny.' His hands were shaking, and he put them up on the counter. He realized that he was being unnecessarily harsh with this girl, that he was taking his anger out on her though she obviously knew nothing, but there was a sickening feeling beginning to form in the pit of his stomach, a feeling of helplessness, a feeling that he was being dragged into something he could not hope to fight against, and it made him want to yell at someone. He closed his eyes and forced himself to calm down. 'I'm sorry,' he said. 'Just turn my water and electricity back on.'
'It'll be this afternoon before we'll be able to put a man on it,' she said. 'There's a five-dollar hookup charge --'
'Look,' Doug said, keeping his voice intentionally low and even, 'you guys screwed up. You turned off my water and electricity without me asking you to, and I'm sure as hell not going to pay for your mistake.'
The girl stiffened, her manner suddenly defensive. 'It's not technically our mistake. We received a letter --'
'I'm not going to waste my day playing word games,' Doug said. 'Let me speak to your supervisor.'
'The manager's out of the office right now, but I can leave your name and number and have him call you when he returns.'
'Do that. And do you think you could have my water and power turned back on? My wife and son would like to take a bath sometime today, and it would be nice if we could cook our dinner tonight.'
The girl nodded. 'We'll get this straightened out. I'm sorry for any inconvenience.' Her voice was conciliatory, with a hint of worry in it, and he realized that she was worried about what he would say to her supervisor.
'It's not your fault,' he told her. 'I don't mean to take it out on you.
I'm just frustrated right now.'
'I understand. And I'll have the manager call you as soon as he returns,'
she promised.
'Thanks.' He turned and walked out the door, reaching into his pocket for his car keys.
His hands were still shaking.
His anger grew stronger after his trip to the phone company. Here, again, they had received a letter supposedly from him telling them to discontinue service, but when he asked them to reconnect his phone, they told him there would be a twenty-dollar charge and that the earliest phone service could be reinstated would be Thursday. He went up the office hierarchy, telling his tale to increasingly authoritarian men until he had reached the district manager, who told him, unequivocally, that service would be reinstituted only after he paid the charge and that the earliest possible hookup date would be Wednesday. He could, if he so desired, file a refund request explaining the particulars of his situation. The request would be sent to Mountain Bell headquarters and its merit judged there.
He angrily pulled out of the small parking lot and nearly backed into old Mrs. Buford, who honked her horn at him. She yelled something he could not understand through her closed window. He waved his apology.
Letters.
Who would send letters to the phone company and the water and power company asking them to discontinue his service?
No, not who? Why? He already knew who had sent the letters, or at least had a good idea who'd done it.
The mailman.
John Smith.
It was not logical, and he had no idea why the mailman would do such a thing, but there was no doubt in his mind that it had been he who'd sent the false messages. There was something about the almost perfect calligraphy of the forged signature that reminded him of the professional-caliber speaking voice of the mailman. There was fear mixed in with his anger, but anger definitely had the upper hand, and he drove directly to the post office, intending to voice his opinions, his suspicions, his accusations to Howard.
The parking lot was crowded, but a Jeep was pulling out just as he arrived, and Doug quickly drove into the spot. He picked up the envelopes from the seat next to him. They were still damp, the paper smooth and softly pliable against his fingers. He nodded politely to the old men seated on the bench outside the building, then pushed open the door.
The first thing he noticed was the heat. It was warm outside, but it was absolutely hellish in here. The air was humid and stagnant; nothing came out of the ceiling vents, and the familiar low whistle of the swamp cooler was absent.
The office was crowded anyway, though. Six or seven people stood in line, letters and packages in hand, and he could smell the sickeningly tart odor of women's perfume and men's deodorant mixed with the scent of freshly flowing sweat. He glanced toward the counter, but Howard was not there. Instead, the mailman stood behind the front desk, talking in low patient tones to the elderly female customer before him. There was sincerity in his voice and on the expression of his face, but it was a false smarmy sincerity, the superficial interest shown by a salesman to a mark, and Doug found the mailman's attitude both condescending and offensive.
The mailman was not sweating.
Doug tried to peek behind the paneled partition in back of the mailman to find out if Howard was somewhere in the rear of the post office, but he could not see anything. He was surprised that Howard would let the new man take charge of the front counter, particularly after what the postmaster had revealed to them the other night. He could not remember ever seeing Ronda within the post office unless it was to pick up or drop off a batch of mail, and he had never seen anyone besides Howard working behind the counter.
Somehow that made Doug even angrier.
The old woman accepted the change given to her by the mailman, put it in her purse, and turned to walk away. Doug quickly stepped past the other patrons up to the counter. 'Excuse me,' he said shortly. 'I'd like to talk to Howard.'
The mailman looked at him, with a hint of a smile playing about his thin lips. 'There were other people in line before you, sir. Please wait your turn.'
His eyes rested for a second on the soggy letters in Doug's hand. He said nothing and his eyes betrayed no recognition, but his smile grew broader.
'Could you just call him out here for a moment?'
'I'm sorry, sir. Please wait your turn.'
He was about to argue, but when he turned to look at the people behind him, he saw them gazing at him
