'I don't encourage him.'
She smiled teasingly. 'Come on, don't tell me you don't feel a little macho thrill every time he goes careening off into the underbrush?'
' 'Careening off into the underbrush?' '
'All right, Mr. Teacher. It's summer. Quit lecturing.'
He chuckled. 'Those who can, teach.'
She playfully stuck her tongue out at him, then returned to her weeding.
Doug went back inside and turned off the television. He stood for a moment in the middle of the living room, thinking. There were a few things he had to take care of this morning, some correspondence he'd let slide through these last two weeks of finals and graduation, and he figured he'd better get them out of the way before settling down to some serious non-work. He was going to give himself a week off before starting his big project for the summer: the storage shed. It had been three years now since he'd first promised Trish he'd build a storage shed in the back yard to house their tools and firewood and extraneous garbage, and though each June he'd sworn that he was going to build the shed, somehow he had never actually gotten around to it. This year, however, he had finally broken down and bought a prefab construction kit. This year, he was going to do it. He figured he'd spend this week reading, lounging about, and just relaxing. Knowing his ineptitude with tools and his incompatibility with manual labor, the storage shed, which theoretically should be a one- or two-week project, would probably take all summer, and he wanted to make sure he enjoyed at least part of his vacation.
He walked through the kitchen and down the short hall to the bedroom. His desk was on the other side of the brass bed, inconveniently close to the closet.
A stack of books and papers sat next to the dusty uncovered typewriter, and he pushed everything aside as he sat down on the hard metal ice-cream chair he used in lieu of the wooden swivel seat he'd originally wanted. He quickly glanced through the pile. Bills. Bills. More bills. A letter from an ex-student who'd joined the army.
His application for the grant.
He dropped everything else on the desk and held up the yellow application form, staring dumbly at it. The application was for a federal program that offered teachers in specific fields year-long paid sabbaticals so they could conduct independent research. There was nothing he really wanted to, or needed to, research, but he desperately wanted the year off and had managed to put together a rather convincing application. He thought he'd sent it in last month, but apparently he hadn't. He looked at the deadline date on the form.
June seventh.
Five days away.
'Shit,' he muttered. He placed the application in an envelope, addressed it, and affixed a stamp. He went back outside and walked down the porch steps.
'What is it?' Trish asked.
'My study grant. I forgot to send it.'
She grinned up at him. 'Those who can, teach.'
'Very funny.' He walked across the gravel driveway to the mailbox, opening the metal door, throwing in the envelope and pulling up the red flag. He walked back across the gravel, stepping carefully in his bare feet. Ronda would pick up the mail around lunch; it would get to the post office around four, get to Phoenix by the next morning, and probably arrive in Washington two or three days after that. It would be cutting it close, but he would probably make it.
He went back inside to make out bills.
Doug and Tritia ate lunch on the porch, sandwiches, while Billy ate inside and watched reruns of _Andy Griffith_. The weather was warm but nice, and they tilted the umbrella on the table to keep out the worst of the sun. Afterward, Doug did the dishes and they both retired to the butterfly chairs on the porch to read.
An hour passed, but Doug could not relax and enjoy himself. He kept looking up from his book, listening for thesputtery cough of Bob Ronda's engine, the metallic squeal of old brakes, thinking of his application wasting away in the mailbox, curiously annoyed that the mailman had not shown up on time. He looked over at Trish. 'The mail hasn't come yet, has it?'
'Not that I know of.'
'Shit,' he muttered. He knew it was stupid to turn Ronda into a scapegoat when it was his own stupidity that had led him to wait this long before sending the grant application, but he could not help feeling a little angry at the mailman. Where the hell was he? He returned to his book, trying to read, but soon gave it up, unable to appreciate the words in front of him. His mind kept wandering and he found himself reading the same sentence over and over again, not comprehending. He placed his book on the plastic table next to him and settled into the chair, closing his eyes for a moment. He heard Trish get up, open the door, go inside. He heard the humming wash of water through pipes as she poured herself something to drink in the kitchen.
But he did not hear the mailman's car.
Trish came back out, her bare feet loud on the creaking wood, and he opened his eyes. Something was wrong. Bob Ronda inevitably came by about eleven or, at the very latest, twelve. He was a talker and he often stopped to chat with people, but he also knew his job and was extraordinarily efficient in his work. New people were added to the route each year, families arrived to vacation in their summer homes, but somehow Ronda found the time to talk, to deliver the mail, and to still finish his route by four. He had been delivering the mail for the past twenty years, as he would tell anyone who would listen, since Willis had been on a star route with so few people that being a mailman was a part-time job. He now wore a postal service cap, but he still favored Levi's and western wear, and he still drove his beat-up blue Dodge. A tall heavy man with a white beard and mustache, Ronda took his postal-service credo very seriously and had been known to deliver mail even when he was ill. Which was why he had never, to Doug's knowledge, been late with his delivery.
Until now.
He glanced at his watch. It was two-fifteen.
He stood up. 'I'm going to go into town and drop off my application at the post office. I can't wait any longer. Mail leaves town at four. If that thing doesn't get in on time, I'm dead.'
'You shouldn't have waited so long.'
'I know. But I thought I already mailed it.'
Trish stood up, pulling out her sweaty shorts where they stuck to her buttocks. 'I'm going into town anyway, I'lldrop.it off.'
'Why are you going to town?'
'Dinner,' she said. 'I forgot to pick up everything I needed yesterday.'
'I'll go.'
She shook her head. 'You'll stay here and rest. Because tomorrow you are going to paint the porch.'
'Oh, I am, am I?'
'Yes you are. Now go get your letter. I'll put on my shoes and sort through the coupons.'
Chuckling, Doug walked down the driveway to the mailbox. He withdrew the envelope from the box and returned to the house, stepping inside. The front curtains were drawn to keep out the afternoon sun, and there was a fan perched on the small table next to the hat rack. The swiveling head turned at a ninety degree angle, creating an indoor breeze that cooled everything from the Franklin stove and the bookcase along the left wall to the couch where Billy lay watching _The Flintstones_.
'Turn that off,' Doug said. 'Why are you wasting your day watching TV?'
'I'm not wasting it. It's _The Flintstones_. Besides, it's summer. What should I be doing? Reading?'
'That's right.'
'You don't read for fun.'
'Your mother and I do.'
'I don't.'
'Why not?'
'I read when I have to. That's good enough.'
Doug shook his head. 'After this show's over, the television goes off. You find something else to do.'
'God,' Billy said disgustedly.
Trish came out of the bedroom, putting on her sunglasses, her purse over her shoulder, keys in hand. She
