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Back THE MAILMAN Save as PDF
Chapters (57)
  1. DEDICATION
  2. ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
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  57. 55

Either the postmaster wasn’t here, or he was so sick he couldn’t answer the door, or he was hiding.

No matter what, he would give the front door one more try, and if he didn’t get an answer, he would call the post office in Phoenix. He walked back around to the front of the house and was about to knock on the front door one last time when he saw a white envelope on the brown straw mat at his feet. It had not been there before. Of that he was certain.

He picked up the envelope. His name was on the front, written in a shaky, childish scrawl. He tore the envelope open and pulled out the piece of paper inside. On it were written two words in that same shaky hand:

Stay Away

He pounded on the door. “Howard!” he called. “Let me in. I know what’s happening. Howard!”

But the door remained stubbornly closed, the curtains unmoving, and for all of his effort he heard no sound from inside the house.

He got the number of the main branch of the post office from Directory Assistance and dialed from the bedroom. He closed the door with his foot. Billy was in the kitchen with Tritia, helping her to make bread, and he didn’t want the boy to hear the conversation. A woman’s voice came on the line. “United States Postal Service Information, how may I direct your call?”

“I want to complain about one of your mailmen.”

“Just a moment, sir. Let me transfer you to our Personnel department.”

Doug listened to a few seconds’ worth of innocuous Muzak before a man’s voice came on the line. “Hello, this is Jim. How may I help you?”

“I want to complain about one of your mailmen.”

“Could I have your name and zip code?”

“My name’s Doug Albin. My zip code is 85432. I live in Willis.”

“Willis? I’m sorry, sir, but if you have any complaints you should direct them to the postmaster in your area.”

“That’s the problem. I can’t get a hold of my postmaster. Besides, our mail service has deteriorated so much that I think it’s time you knew about it.”

“Let me connect you to my supervisor.”

“I’d—” Doug began, but there was a click. More Muzak. Mantovani Beatle songs.

A minute or so later another man came on the line. “Chris Westwood.”

“We’re having a lot of problems here with our mail. I want someone to do something about it.”

“You’re in Willis?”

“That’s right.”

“What exactly is the trouble?”

“Our mailman is dumping our mail by a creek instead of delivering it.”

Westwood’s voice became more concerned. “That is a serious charge, Mr.—”

“Albin. Doug Albin.”

“Mr. Albin. That doesn’t sound very likely to me—”