He forced his eyes open, focusing on the digital clock on the nightstand: 7:10 a.m. The figures blurred as he realized he was going to be late for work. Still, he was unable to move, paralyzed by the sense of his wife's nearness…and his pounding head; the loose, queasy feeling deep in his gut.
Maybe I'll call in sick, Neal thought, reaching for the phone beside the clock—But his hand halted in midair, halfway to the phone. No, he'd called in yesterday and twice last week. Shit, he thought, his hand sagging to the side of the bed.
Then, with an effort of will, Neal sat upright and swung his legs out of bed. Ignoring the fresh wave of nausea, he stood up and stumbled across the room. He steadied himself against the chair and pulled on his postal trousers, the effort sending slivers of pain into his skull. For a moment he remained motionless, afraid he was going to throw up; but after several deep breaths, the nausea eased, and he shambled into the closet. Unable to find a clean shirt, he returned to the chair and bent over to pick up the wrinkled shirt off the floor. Feeling light-headed and dizzy, he sagged to a kneeling position. Again he breathed slowly and evenly; and, after a moment, he was able to stand. He slipped on the shirt and headed for the kitchen. Jerking open the fridge door, he found a can of Bud. With trembling fingers, he popped off the top and drained the beer in two long swallows. Then, as an afterthought, he searched through the junk drawer and found two Excedrin. He took them, drinking from the faucet over the sink.
Feeling slightly better, he shaved and left the apartment.
***
Neal nodded as he rushed past two clerks smoking on the loading dock behind the main post office. He pushed through the set of swinging freight doors, and cut across the main floor, past the rows of parcel post tubs, to the time clock. He felt a glimmer of hope as he punched in and glanced at the desk of the supervisor of carriers: 7:33. Only three minutes late, and Danberg had his back turned, checking the assignment board.
Maybe I can just ease by, Neal thought hopefully—
But Danberg turned before Neal could sneak by, a scowl etched on the supervisor's heavy features. "McCarthy, you're late," Danberg said, his high-pitched, nasal voice at odds with his huge frame. He shook his head, disgust replacing the scowl. "Did you sleep in that shirt?"
"No, I, I…" Neal stammered. He brushed at the front of his wrinkled shirt, his head throbbing again. Unable to think he mumbled an apology for being late.
"Sorry—?" Danberg almost choked. Looking furious, he shuffled through a short stack of papers on his desk, finally finding a letter. He held it up in a beefy hand and said, "This is for
you
from the postmaster, a letter of warning."
Neal's stomach churned, the sliver of pain in his head making dots dance before his eyes. Jesus, he was sick. He reached for the letter, but the supervisor jerked it back out of reach.
Face growing even redder, Danberg said, "Nuh-uh, you're late enough as it is. Go on to your case. I'll see you later." Still holding the letter, he turned back to the assignment board to study the various route numbers and assigned carrier names.
Too sick to argue, Neal stumbled away from Danberg's desk, moving along the row of blue carriers' cases, stopping at his route, C-21. Jesus, I should've said something to the big asshole, he thought, feeling angry and humiliated.
"Hey, Mac-the-gun," Ray Lewis said, backing out of his case, City-20. The tall black man was an old friend. They'd played city league basketball together for years, Neal firing up the outside bombs, Ray doing the rebounding and inside work. But that had been last year, before the accident.
"Better get hot, man," Ray suggested good-naturedly, gesturing at Neal's case, "there's a shitpot 'a mail…Say, you okay, Mac?" The smile disappeared from the black man's face. "You look kinda frayed around the edges."
Neal forced a grin. "I'm fine, Ray, fine…just a late start, skipped breakfast, you know?"
Ray nodded. "Yeah, I dig." He patted Neal's shoulder and moved back in his case. "Well, hang in there, man, hang in…"
Nodding to himself, Neal stepped into his own case. In front of him, the six rows of numbered slots for the letter-sized mail swam before his eyes, the color-coded streets blurred into a kaleidoscopic whirl—550 different addresses, arranged in order of delivery…and later eleven miles of walking to deliver it. Neal shook his head, feeling weary. He couldn't do it, not this morning, not today…But he knew he had no choice. Danberg and the letter. Danberg, the prick! A rush of anger partially revived Neal…no, he couldn't risk any more time off, sick or whatever. That's probably what the letter of warning was about, he guessed, glancing down at the mail lined up on his desk ledge—four feet of letters. No, too many years invested. Jesus, he sighed, looking left at his flat case, full of magazines and other flats thrown the day before. And to his right, the back of Ray's flat case. His stomach muscles knotted as he fought off the feeling of claustrophobia in the tiny cubicle. I am trapped, he thought, closing his eyes…
Kay in the doorway, smiling, beckoning
, so real, so near. Neal blinked and focused on the tiny case numbers.
Biting down on his lower lip, Neal repeated Ray's advice: Hang in there, hang in there. He picked up a handful of mail, and slowly he began to throw letters into the case: 295 S. Hartson…Jay's Drugs…104 S. Seymour…"Wait a minute," he murmured to himself, noticing the name on the letter: Johnson. Yeah, that's a forward, he reminded himself, placing the letter aside, to be sent to the forwarding computer in Oakland. As he continued to work, he felt himself slipping into the old familiar rhythm of it: throwing the letters into their proper slots, placing the forwards aside…
bip, bip, bip, plunk, bip
—
Suddenly Neal stopped casing, staring at an address on a small letter: Resident, 300 S. Montgomery. No such number, he thought, South Montgomery didn't even have a 300 block. He tapped the letter on the case between 298 and 402 S. Montgomery, where the missing 300 should've been. It wasn't uncommon to get a bad number, but it was strange to get mail for a nonexistent block. Maybe they meant 300 S. Hartson or 200 S. Seymour. Whatever, Neal thought, scribbling,
No such Number C-21
, on the letter; then he set it aside to take to the throwback case later. But something about the piece of mail destroyed his rhythm, stirring a vague feeling of apprehension. He rested for a moment, closing his eyes…
the closed door and the numbers, 300
. He blinked, wondering what it all meant, if anything. Maybe it's just the booze, he thought, I'm going around the bend. He shook his head, feeling sheepish.
Still, the vague feeling lingered.
At 11:10 Neal was the last carrier to tie out his route. Danberg had been by three times, grumbling under his breath. And finally, after pushing the tub of mail and parcels out back, Neal loaded his Jeep and left the post office. He decided to stop for lunch before starting his route.
***
At the Circle K near South Seymour, Neal parked the jeep. He ate a ham sandwich and drank two beers. By noon the headache had almost disappeared and his stomach was settled.
He climbed back into his jeep and delivered the first of his route—parking and looping South Seymour and South Hartson; then he moved the vehicle to 102 South Montgomery for the next relay. After loading the flats and two bundles of mail into his carrying bag, Neal checked the back of the jeep for parcels: nothing for South Montgomery. He slipped the rubber band from the first bundle of letters and began working his way up the street: thumb through the mail, check for flats, deliver it all, go to the next house—another rhythmic cycle. His mind drifted to Kay, the dream, the number on the door…and the strange letter today. At the end of the second block, he cut the lawn at 298—
Neal stopped suddenly, as if he'd run into an invisible wall. Silver was out, the big German shepherd lying on the porch! "Easy, boy, easy," he whispered, backing away carefully from the huge dog. The shepherd stood up, the silver hair bristling along its neck, its black eyes watching Neal. Then it growled—a dry rasp from deep in its throat, barely audible but full of menace—and began slowly creeping down the stairs, its eyes unwavering.
"Jesus," Neal swore, reaching for the can of dog spray at his side. "Easy, boy," he repeated in a hoarse voice, shaking the small can. "That's a good boy," he added, moving his carrying bag in front of himself like a shield.
The dog hesitated for a moment, watching Neal shake the can; then it dropped into a crouch—
"Silver," Mrs. Jones shouted, banging open the screen door, "get in here!" Almost instantly, the big dog turned and ran up the steps, disappearing into the house. "Sorry," the elderly woman said, wiping her hands on a red-checked apron. "I was making strawberry jam, forgot he was out. But Silver won't bite…" She moved down the steps. "Got anything for here?"
Neal nodded, his legs rubbery. He handed the woman a letter and a
Sunset
. She took the mail, thanked him, and followed the big dog back through the screen door. Neal swallowed hard, glued to the spot. He knew he was typical of most carriers: leery of all dogs, scared shitless of the big ones. And Mrs. Jones was typical, too: her dog wouldn't bite. Yet, 28,000 carriers a year were bitten…
After a few moments, Neal moved stiffly to the corner of South Montgomery and Spruce—a busy intersection. Still shaken by the confrontation with Silver, he stood at the curb for a minute, idly watching the cars blow by. The dull headache had returned. He closed his eyes, taking in a deep breath…
the door and the numbers, 300
…He snapped his eyes open as a Kawasaki roared by. Stepping off the curb, Neal smiled. If there had been a 300 S. Montgomery, it would be here in the middle of busy Spruce Street. Still smiling, he crossed the street and thumbed through the mail for 402 S. Montgomery. But he couldn't shake the lingering sense of unease stirred by the image of the door in the dream and the association with the bum piece of mail…and his head throbbed.
***
As usual after work, Neal stopped at Jack's Club. After three double vodkas, he felt much better. In the cool darkness the tension eased from his body as he listened to the jukebox: "…rose-colored glasses…" He recognized the twangy, old-man voice of John Connelly, one of his favorite western singers. The music completed the restoration: his headache was gone.
Suddenly light reflected in the mirror over the bar. Neal looked up and saw a woman framed in the doorway…long, dark hair, high cheekbones, a full smile… "Jesus!" he gasped to himself, setting down his drink. He stared unbelieving…Then the others crowded in behind the woman, and Neal realized she was too young, too short to be Kay. But for a minute there—He sighed deeply and, with a trembling hand, picked up the glass and drained it. He ordered another and stared in the mirror. Jesus, boy, you look like hell, he told himself, his gaze dropping to his crumpled postal uniform shirt. He tried to smooth out the wrinkles with his hand, remembering how neat Kay had been about his clothes—a fresh shirt to work each day. His face felt warm, and he swallowed trying to clear the lump in his throat. Ignoring the fresh drink, Neal tossed a couple of bills on the bar, deciding to go home and do some laundry.
***
At the corner near his apartment, Neal stopped at the 7-Eleven. He picked up a box of detergent, a can of chili, some tortilla chips, and a twelve-pack of Bud. Then he drove around behind the apartment to his stall. Before he could get out, he heard someone shouting his name, "Mac, Mac…hi, Mac!"
It was his friend Billy, riding up on his Big Wheel.
"Hey, what do you say, pal?" Neal asked, stumbling as he climbed out of the car. He set the bag of groceries down on the dented hood of the Pinto, realizing he was beginning to feel the drinks.
"Hi, Mac," the five-year-old boy repeated breathlessly. "Guess what?"
Neal raised his eyebrows and shrugged, almost laughing at the boy's obvious excitement. "Don't know."
"B 'n W had kittens in the laundry room this morning, right in Mrs. Sem'ar's basket."
Neal laughed, picturing the apartment busybody's face. Then he asked, "B 'n W?"
The boy nodded. "You know, Jackie's cat."
"Oh, yeah," Neal said, controlling his glee. "I bet Mrs. Seminara was…surprised."
Billy frowned. "She got mad, told Jackie's mom, but—" The frown dissolved into a smile. "—Jackie says I can have a kitty when they're bigger."
"That's great. Let's celebrate." Neal pulled out the bag of tortilla chips and offered some to Billy, remembering the first time he'd seen the boy. About a year ago…Billy was riding his Big Wheel at the time, too, around noon on a Sunday, wearing a pajama top but no bottom, crap running down his leg; and his big eyes bright and shiny, even though he'd eaten nothing since dinner the night before. Neal had taken him upstairs to Kay; and they'd cleaned the boy up, fed him, and played with him for an hour or so, until his mother, Sandy, had got up and come looking for her son. Jesus, Kay had loved kids, but they never had any. Neal rubbed his numb face, closed his eyes…
the doorway of light, framing a woman
—
"Hey, Mac, can I have some more?" The little boy was tugging at Neal's pants pocket.
"Well, I think it's dinnertime, pal," Neal answered, roughing up the boy's hair.
Billy shrugged, then his face brightened. "Time for Sesame!"
Neal hoisted the boy up on his shoulders, then picked up the bag of groceries. "You'll be carrying me soon, bub."
Billy giggled, bouncing up and down as Neal climbed the apartment steps. Stumbling, Neal realized he was slightly drunk. At Billy's door, he dropped the grocery bag, set the boy down, and rapped twice.
Sandy answered. "Hi, Mac."
Billy scooted past his mother, headed for the TV set.
"Figured it was about dinnertime for the boy," Neal said slowly, carefully keeping the slur from his voice. He bent over and picked up the grocery bag.