Doug looked at Tritia incredulously. “Let me get this straight. You and I both hear from friends we haven’t seen or contacted in years; we’re going to get the raise we asked for; and my application will have no problem getting in because the deadline is a week later than I thought?”

“Hard to believe, isn’t it?”

“I’m buying a lottery ticket today. If our luck holds out, we’ll be millionaires by midnight.”

She laughed.

“You think I’m kidding? This isn’t just a happy coincidence. This is luck.” He grabbed her around the waist, drawing her to him. “We’re on a roll, babe.”

“ ‘Babe?’”

Doug turned around. Billy was standing in the back doorway. He seemed tired, but he smiled as he walked into the kitchen. “Can I call you that too, Mom?”

Tritia pulled out of Doug’s arms, turning toward Billy. “Very funny. Your father, as usual, is being a buffoon. I expect you to observe his mistakes and learn from them.”

Doug tried to grab her, but she pulled away from him on her way to the bedroom and he managed only to slap her rear. Billy watched them mutely. Ordinarily he would have joined in, but now he stood passively, a blank expression on his face.

Tritia put away her letter, then went into the bathroom. Billy continued on into the living room, turned on the television, and sat silently down on the couch. Doug stood in the kitchen, carefully watching his son. They had talked to him last night, a long intense discussion of death and dying in which, he’d thought, a lot of fears were faced and confronted, but apparently little if anything had been laid to rest. Billy was obviously still quite disturbed over the mailman’s suicide. And, Doug had to admit, so was he. Like Billy, he had never really had to face death; it had never hit close to home. Although he had known people who had died, they had all been, like Ronda, acquaintances rather than close friends, and he was not sure what he would do or how he would react if his parents died or Trish was taken from him or something happened to Billy. Despite his talk with his son, which was filled with the current psychologically accepted beliefs concerning the necessity of facing negative feelings and fears, he preferred not to dwell on such subjects. It was a shallow and easy way out, but rather than seriously confront his own feelings, he chose to joke, to laugh, to go on with his life as if nothing had happened.

He found himself thinking of the mailman now, though. Imagining how he must have looked with the top of his head blown off, blood and wet brains splattered on the tile behind him. Death, in any form, was a difficult subject to deal with, but violent suicide was messy and gruesome as well.