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 press the point.

It was nothing he could prove. Still, he was determined to make out checks for the regular monthly payments on his bills and send them out tomorrow instead of waiting for the bills themselves to arrive.

Locking the front door behind them as they went inside, theAlbins decided to leave the dishes until tomorrow. From upstairs, they could hear the rough arrhythmic sounds of Billy's snores. Doug smiled. The boy was a regular lumbermill with his log sawing, his snores as loud and deep as those of an old man. Tritia turned the light off in the kitchen and they walked down the short hall to the bedroom.

"Don't you think Billy's been kind of quiet lately?" Tritia asked.

"No more than usual."

"It seems like something's bothering him. He's been, I don't know, distracted. Like today, when he came home from Lane's, I asked him what he'd been doing, and he just shook his head, wouldn't even answer me. Then he sat there and watched TV for the rest of the day."

Doug chuckled. "So what else is new?"

"I'm not joking. Could you just ask him what's wrong? After all, you are his father."

"Okay. I'll talk to him tomorrow. I don't know what you want me to find out, but --"

"Just see if he's in any kind of trouble, find out what's wrong. I'm probably just imagining things, but it never hurts to check. He's almost a teenager, you know."

Doug knew what she was hinting at, but he didn't pursue the subject.

"Okay. I'll talk to him."

"Thanks."

They had reached the bedroom. It was dark, and neither of them turned on the lights. "Of course," he said, "Billy's asleep now."

Tritia was silent.

"Sound asleep," he prodded.

He heard the sound of the bedspread being pulled down. The room was warm, but not nearly as warm as the living room in the front of the house. Far away, thunder rumbled. Doug began unbuttoning his shirt. "It's kind of romantic with the lights off," he said. "Don't you think? I --"

It was then that he felt her hand between his legs. Surprised, he reached forward in the darkness, and his fingers touched smooth rounded flesh. Somehow Trish had silently wiggled out of both her dress and her underwear. Their lips met, and he felt her warm wet tongue slide lovingly into his mouth. Her hands slowly unbuckled his belt, unzipped his zipper, pulled down his pants and shorts. He kicked off his shoes, stepped out of the clothes bunched around his ankles, and the two of them moved silently over to the bed. She pushed him onto his back without speaking, and he stretched out straight on the mattress. Her fingers, soft and gentle, grasped his penis, massaging it, making it hard. The bed creaked and jiggled as she moved into position, and he could smell the musky scent of her arousal as her pubic hair brushed his face. He moved his head upward, and his tongue touched moisture. He could taste her, sweet and sour, and as his tongue slid into her ready opening, he felt the warmth of her mouth engulf his penis.

It was nearly an hour later before they were through. It had been a long time since they'd both enjoyed it this much, since they'd allowed themselves to enjoy it this much. In the past year or so, their lovemaking had consisted of commercials rather than feature films, short quick trysts taken when they were sure Billy was asleep or would be gone for a long period of time. Ever since Doug had explained to his son the facts of life, they had both been careful that no clues to their lovemaking could be spotted by the boy. But this had been like the old days, long and unhurried and giving and wonderful.

Exhausted, sated, they fell asleep in each other's arms, still naked, still clutching each other.

8.

Billy stood outside the theater, waiting for his dad to pick him up. The movie had ended early nearly twenty minutes ago, and everyone else was gone. The parking lot was deserted. Even the ushers and other theater workers had finished cleaning up and were leaving.

Where was his dad?

He'd called home about ten minutes ago, once Brad and Michael's parents had come to pick them up, and his mom had said that Dad had just left and was on his way.

So where was he?

The last of the theater workers' cars left, loud rock music blaring distortedly from speakers that were not meant to handle such volume, and now the parking lot was empty save for an abandoned pickup at the far end. The overhead lights, one mounted on a telephone pole, the other on an actual lamppost, blinked simultaneously off.

And now there was only darkness and silence.

No, not quite silence.

There was a soft purring.

The sound of a new car engine.

Billy's heart began pounding. He stepped across the sidewalk and looked up and down the street, desperately searching for his dad, but his dad was nowhere to be seen.

There was only a new red car cruising slowly down the street toward him.

Panic gripped his chest, and he looked around for some place to hide. But the outside of the theater was flat and featureless, with no alcoves or indentations in which to conceal himself. There were not even any bushes behind which he could duck. The people who had built the theater had torn out all trees and bushes and had paved over the bare flattened ground for their parking lot.

He was stuck. There was nothing he could do, no place he could go.

The car pulled into the parking lot. The passenger window slowly lowered, and against the darkness of the interior he saw the mailman's milk-white face and bright-red hair.

The car stopped next to him. "Need a ride?" The smooth voice was seductive, suggestive.

"My dad's coming to pick me up," Billy said. His heart was pounding so crazily that he thought he might have a heart attack.

"Your dad's not coming," the mailman said. His voice was still silky, but there was an undercurrent of menace in it. The passenger door opened. "Get in."

Billy backed away.

"Your dad's not around anymore," the mailman said, and chuckled. There was something about the way he stretched out the word "around" that sent a chill of goosebumpsdown Billy's arms. "Get in."

"No," Billy said.

"You'll get in, and you'll like it." The mailman's arm stretched out through the open door.

And continued to stretch.

And continued to stretch.

Until his cold white fingers were clamped around Billy's throat.

And Billy awoke screaming.

9.

It was Doug's turn to make breakfast, and he plugged in the waffle iron and mixed the batter while Tritia went outside to do her morning watering. He stirred the waffle mix absently. The screaming bothered him. Billy had never had a nightmare of that magnitude before. Even after they had calmed him down, convinced him it was only a dream, he was still pale and trembling and he seemed reluctant to let them leave. But he refused to tell them what the nightmare was about. Doug had pressed him, but Tritia had told him with a slight tug on the arm that the questioning could wait until a more opportune time.

Billy had slept the rest of the night on the couch downstairs.

The batter mixed, Doug moved into the living room and peeked out the window. He had placed a letter in the mailbox late yesterday afternoon before Howard came over, a long detailed answering letter to Don Jennings, catching him up on the milestones of his life over the past decade. The red flag on the box was down now, and he glanced over at the clock. Six-thirty-three. The mail was being delivered earlier every day. And on a Saturday. He thought the post office had discontinued Saturday service.

He walked outside onto the porch, down the steps, and up the drive. Last night's storm had not materialized, passing over Willis without even bothering to say hello, but it had left behind it some hellacious humidity. By the time he reached the mailbox, he was already starting to sweat. He opened the metal door.

His letter was gone and in its place was a thin white envelope with striped blue trimming addressed to Trish.

"My tomatoes!"

He could hear Trish's cry from the road. He hurried up the drive to where she stood in the garden, hose in hand. She looked at him and pointed to the plants at her feet. "Thejavelinas got my tomatoes again!" She kicked the ground. "Goddamn it!"Javelinas had eaten her tomato plants each summer for the past three years. Last year, the tomatoes had been greenish red and almost ripe when the wild pigs had raided the garden. This year, Doug had made a little chicken-wire fence around the garden to keep the animals out, but apparently it hadn't worked.

"How are the other plants?" he asked.

"Radishes are okay, zucchini is salvageable, cucumbers are all right, cilantro and the herbs are untouched, but the corn is completely ruined. Damn!"

"Need some help?"

She nodded disgustedly. "We'll redo what we can after breakfast. I'll just finish watering right now."

"We could set traps if you want.Hobie knows how to do it."

"No traps," she said. "And no poison. I hate the little bastards and I want *hem to die, but I don't want to be the one to kill them."

"It's your garden." He walked around to the front of the house and went up the porch, hearing the sound of slow tired footsteps on the floor as he stepped through the door. He stood unmoving, mouth open in mock incredulity, as Billy headed away from the couch toward the kitchen. "I don't believe it," he said.

"Miracle of miracles!"

"Shut up," Billy said.

"You actually got up on your own."

"I have to go to the bathroom," Billy mumbled, making his way down the hall.

"Wait a minute," Doug said seriously.

Billy turned around.

"Are you all right?"

The boy stared dumbly at him for a moment, then recognition registered on his face. He nodded tiredly and walked into the bathroom, slamming the door and locking it.

Doug deposited the envelope on the coffee table in front of the couch and opened the refrigerator, taking out the butter and jam. From the cupboard he withdrew honey and peanut butter, setting them all on the counter next to the plates. The dirty dishes from last night were still in the sink, but he figured he'd do the dishes all at once after they finished breakfast. He opened the now hot waffle iron and ladled in some batter, closing it and listening to the quiet sizzle, smelling the familiar rich buttermilk odor.

The toilet flushed and Billy came out, walking straight through the kitchen to the living room, where he automatically turned on the television.

"TV on Saturday morning?" Doug said. "That's sickening."

Billy ignored him and turned on a cartoon, settling back into the couch to watch.

Tritia came in, looking hot and angry, as he pulled the first four waffle squares from the iron. "You want these?" he asked.

She shook her head. "Give them to Billy."

"Why don't we go on a picnic today?" Doug suggested, dropping the waffles on a plate. "We haven't done that for a while. It's going to be hot and horrible anyway. We'll go to Clear Creek."

"Sounds good," Billy said from the living room.

Tritia looked at her son, pushed the hair back from her forehead, then nodded her assent. "All right," she said. "Let's do it."

They decided to hike down the path through the green belt rather than drive or walk along the road. It was faster, more fun, and would take them to a less-populated section of the creek. Tritia made them salami-and-cheese sandwiches on homemade bread, and Doug carried the ice chest while she and Billy hauled the folding chairs. To their right, the low gentle slope of the land graduated into a steeper rise, dirt and light sandstone giving way to darker granite. The vegetation changed from pine andmanzanita to aspen and acacia, with longvinelike tendrils of wild strawberries growing parasitically over the rock face, intermixed with ferns and bottlebrush and poison sumac. The trail itsajfwas lined with the tiny red flowers of Indian paintbrush. To their left, the level ground swooped downward to meet the creek, and the path followed this descent in its own late unhurried way.

They heard the creek before they saw it, a low continuous gurgle that sounded remarkably like the peal of distant thunder. As they grew closer, the amalgam of sounds became differentiated and they could hear birds and bugs as well as water. This section of the creek was flanked by saplings -- aspen and cottonwood and sycamore -- that grew in chaotic abundance between the boulders that ran like a second stream along the side of the creek, and they had to walk quite a ways past the bend before finding a flat spot of dirt close enough to the water to set up camp.

They set down the ice chest between their chairs. Billy had worn his cutoffs and, after grabbing a can of Coke, immediately jumped into the creek, splashing wildly to cool himself off. The water level was low, but still deep enough for him to swim. He dogpaddled for a few moments, dunking his head and pushing from rock to rock, then, bored, stood up and began wading upstream.

"Don't go too far!" Tritia called out.

"I won't!" he yelled back.

Doug sat down on his chair. He had brought along the latest Joyce Carol Oates novel to read. He found Gates, as a person,unrelievedly pretentious and phony, and most of her books boring and much too long, but there was something compelling about her as an artist, and he found himself inevitably reading her novels and short-story collections as soon as they came out. He didn't like either her or her work, but he was a fan.

Strange how that worked, he thought.Hobie was a hardcore Clint Eastwood fan, and he was not. Yet when it came down to it, he liked more Clint Eastwood movies thanHobie did.

Life was full of paradoxes.

The mailman was a paradox. Doug hated the man, but as he had told Howard, the man had been delivering the most consistently good mail they had ever received. Of course, the carrier had nothing to do with the contents of the mail -- if the messenger was not to be blamed for the message, he was not to be congratulated either -- but it was hard not to associate the two.

He glanced over at Tritia , peacefully looking out over the creek at the cliffs beyond. He was surprised that she had not felt any real dislike for the mailman, that she had not picked up on the unnaturalness that seemed to be an inherent part of his makeup. Ordinarily, she was by far the more sensitive of them, noticing instantly any behavioral aberrance, making snap judgments based on intuition, which were usually correct. He did not see how she could be so blind this time.

He opened the book on his lap. Why had he been thinking about the mailman so much lately? It was beginning to border on the obsessive. He had to force himself to stop it. He had to quit sitting around, worrying, fretting, and find something else with which to occupy his time. Instead of thinking about the mailman, he should be getting to work on that damn storage shed.

But Howard didn't like him either.

That meant nothing. Two negative reactions to a person's personality did not mean that that person was evil.

Evil.

_Evil_.

There. He had thought it, if not actually said it. For that was the word that had been floating in the back of his mind since the day at the funeral when he had first seen the mailman. It was a simplistic word, almostcartoonish in its romantic-pulp implications, but much as he hated to acknowledge or recognize it, it was the word that best described what he felt about the mailman.