Head Cases Part 7

"Well, curiosity killed the cat and never did no good for the mouse, neither. If we deliver this, there'd be a story in the local paper for sure. Some snot-nosed kid fresh out of newspaper school would have a field day comparing us to snails and all that."

"Yeah, and then laugh up their sleeve like they were the first ones to ever think of it."

"This baby's going on a one-way trip to the dead letter office." Bob tossed it in the trash can. "What they don't know won't hurt them."

After Bob left, Charlie picked the letter out of the can and looked at the return address. He went into the bathroom and locked the door, then tore open the envelope and slid the letter out. It was musty, like a canvas tent that had been stored in the bas.e.m.e.nt too long. Charlie unfolded the two yellowed pages and read the big cursive scrawl: Dear Rita:.

I know you really owe me nothing since it was a mutual decision to break up. I heard you got married, and I hope you're happy because you deserve it. Here in Kansas, even the sky is flat. I can hardly go day-to-day, sometimes there's no reason to get out of bed. Remember when you used to laugh and say I was crazy? Well, I guess you were more right than you know.

There's a hole where hope used to be. See that trick of words, how one letter can change everything. The world I see is now the word I see. Sometimes when the night is black, I look for stars and all I see are scars. My heart is bound with barbwire, and despair is a prison of my own design and execution. Funny, I wanted to be a writer, now I'm a waiter. I guess it's only people and words, and words tell lies.

I used to play the existentialist, all that heavy stuff about the individual and the freedom of choice. Well, Camus and Nietzsche are dead, so what does it mean? Maybe that's the point. Enough philosophy, I know that stuff always bored you silly. I'd love to hear from you, so drop a note (not a not) to say you're alive and that somewhere there are b.u.t.terflies and suns.h.i.+ne. I'm not asking you to understand, I just want to hear from you while I figure out if life is worth living. One letter makes all the difference.

Best wishes, Jason.

Charlie had a feeling that Jason was reunited with his old friends Cay-mus and Nietzsche, whoever they were. Well, if Jason wanted to feel good about himself, he should have gotten the h.e.l.l out of Kansas. Wait a second, Charlie thought. Didn't Nietzsche used to play middle linebacker for the Packers?

Charlie shook the gloom off like it was dandruff and stuffed the letter in his back pocket. He took a leak and went back to the sorting floor.

Red Stallings, the regional postmaster, was there, his postal blues pressed so sharply that they wore like wood instead of cotton. Red was a Viet Nam vet, and tried to run the office like it was a military unit. Charlie wished Red would choke on his "oh-seven-hundred hours" and his referring to sacks and jeeps as "ordnance." Red glared at Charlie as if expecting a salute, but Charlie just waved and rolled a cart of mail over to the loading bay.

Charlie killed the rest of the day, dodging Red when he could, then drove his jeep home. He pulled into the drive and looked at his small brown house with its blistered yellow trim and the window screens with fist-sized holes in them. He didn't think of it as his castle so much as a place where his mail got sent. He went inside and changed clothes so he could mow the gra.s.s.

His wife caught him as he was about to go out the door, her face sweaty. "I found this in your work shorts. It about went through the washer," she said, waving the letter in the air as if it were a stick she wanted him to fetch.

"Oh, I found that in the trash."

"Since when did you take up stealing people's letters?"

"When you started sticking your nose in my business, that's when."

"Why are you getting all mad over somebody you don't even know?" She shaded her eyes with the letter.

"There's something funny about that letter, and I'm going to try to figure it out," he said.

"Well, I read it, and it's crazy. Says here 'despair is a prison of my own design and execution.' What's that mean?"

"Maybe it means sometimes people ask for help and they never get an answer. It's like those letters addressed to Santa Claus. All these kids writing letters telling how good they've been and what the elves can make for them."

"It makes people feel good. What's wrong with that?"

"Those letters are nothing but a pain in the rump to the postal service. Because of junk like that, sometimes the real important messages get lost."

She crossed her arms. "You're getting strange on me, Charlie. That's just one little letter. Just think about the good news you deliver every single day."

"Yeah, I wonder. Sometimes I wonder if any news is good."

"Well, don't let that bad stuff rub off on you. Now get the gra.s.s mowed, and I'll fix us up some pork chops."

After dinner, Charlie spent the rest of the evening parked in front of the television set, sipping beer while the Lions ripped the Vikings on Monday Night Football. He forgot all about the letter.

But in his dreams, he was in a prison camp and words circled overhead like black buzzards and he was digging, digging, digging, trying to escape the oppressive unseen eyes of Jason, who was on guard duty in the barbwire tower above and Charlie was burrowing in the dirt when the searchlights found him and the dirt turned into mounds of rotting mail and a gate lifted and a lion came out to eat him and...he woke up tired and sweaty.

He made his rounds that day in a haze, as if he were underwater. The letters seemed to burn in his hands. He noticed that it wasn't the electric bills that bothered him, it was the personal letters. He found himself wondering what heartaches he was bringing to people's doors.

He cursed his imagination and ground the gears of the jeep. He pulled into Poplar Hills and didn't even stop to razz the punters. As he was bringing mail to 106, he almost fell over when a surge of heat flashed through him. He dropped the bundle he was carrying and gripped his knees until the spasm pa.s.sed. He stooped to collect the mail- a coupon book, a catalog, a telephone bill, and a letter- but he jerked his hand back when he touched the last item.

Charlie knew what the letter said, as plainly as if he could read it. "I'm coming for the kids," came the words, in an unfamiliar voice. "The courts can't keep me away from my own kids. And in case you're thinking about a restraining order, you go to the cops and I'll make you sorry you ever met me. Even sorrier than you already are. Only this time, there won't be any lawyers, just you and me. Just like the good old days."

Charlie shoved the mail in the slot and backed away. He shook his head and went to 107. He didn't believe in ESP c.r.a.p. Must be his blood sugar. He'd take off tomorrow and go to the doctor.

He opened the box at 107 and was about to shovel in the mail when the odd feeling struck him again.

"Howdy, Hank," came a sultry female voice. "I know you told me not to write you at home, but your wife doesn't open your mail, does she? Anyway, lover, that money you said you'd send hasn't gotten here yet. I like the little games we play, but the rent has to be paid. I'd hate to start sending letters to your wife, with a few photographs dropped in the envelope. What I'm asking for is cheaper than a divorce..."

Charlie slid the mail in and closed the box. He wiped his hand on his shorts, trying to get rid of the slimy feeling. The letters were talking to him. What was it his wife had said? Something about bad stuff rubbing off?

He picked up Mauretta Whiting's mail A single letter was among the sweepstakes bundles, and it spoke in a tear-soaked young woman's voice. "Aunt Retta, I'm sorry to hear about your cancer..."

Charlie jerked his hand back as if he had touched live snakes. If he was going nuts, madness wasn't slowly shadowing him like a moon eclipsing the sun, the way he always figured things like that happened. It was more like flipping off a light switch. Blood sugar, h.e.l.l. It was the letters.

He hurried back to the jeep. The out basket sat in the pa.s.senger's seat, and voices rose from it, old and thin, raspy and squeaky, ba.s.s and tenor, speaking in s.n.a.t.c.hes: "...and when Robbie overdosed..."

"...going to have to apply for food stamps..."

"...I'm afraid I have some bad news..."

"...died in that car wreck..."

"...don't blame you for running away..."

"...real lonely in here..."

The voices crowded each other, babbling in Charlie's mind, murmured lullabies of pain that carried him special delivery into a secret land where words bled and paper wept and postmen only rang once. He drove back to the office, making a stop along the way.

Charlie nodded to Susan at the back door of the post office. The Virginia Slim in her right hand had cherry lipstick stains on the b.u.t.t. Her other hand was on her round hip.

"Hey, Mr. Suns.h.i.+ne," she said. "Why don't you come back and join me at break time?"

"Maybe later. Can I borrow your lighter?" Charlie wasn't sure if he had thought the words, or spoken out loud.

"You don't smoke," she said, handing him the lighter.

He entered the storage area. Bob stood just inside the door, grinning and fanning himself with an L.L. Bean catalog. Bob asked about the five bucks he had lent Charlie the Thursday before.

"Check's in the mail, pal," Charlie said, making his way to the sorting area. The mountain of mail called to him, a cast of thousands clamoring for attention. Sc.r.a.ps of sorrow, broken phrases, and poisoned lines swirled in his mind like a siren song.

"...sorry to have to tell you..."

"...death of..."

"...never did love you..."

"...a question about your tax return...."

"...kill you, you b.a.s.t.a.r.d..."

"...what about the kids..."

"...just couldn't face..."

"...thank you for submitting your ma.n.u.script, but..."

"...come to the funeral..."

Charlie bent to the pile and thumbed the lighter, holding the flame to one corner of a drug store flyer. The flame flickered for a second, sending a thread of greasy black smoke to the ceiling, then burst brightly to life. Red stepped around the corner and dropped his coffee mug in amazement. A brown puddle spread around his spotlessly buffed boots.

"What's going on, soldier?" Red bellowed.

Charlie pulled the .38 from under his jacket. Red's military training failed him when it mattered most, because all he could do was stand there with his jaw hanging down. Charlie fired twice, hitting Red in the stomach and knocking him backward. Red tumbled into a letter cart, his life leaking out to stain the snowy whiteness of the mail.

The fire kicked up into a roaring blaze. Bob ran up, having heard the shots but unable to reconcile those sounds with the everyday hum of postal business. He looked into the eyes of Charlie, but his friend had been replaced by a scowling specter whose eyes shone like sun-bleached skulls.

"Can't you hear them?" Charlie yelled. "The hurt...people and words...it's all our fault. We have to stop the hurt."

Bob backed away, sweat popping up on his beefy face. "Uh, sure, buddy, whatever you say." After a hot, heavy pause, as if waiting for the cavalry to arrive, Bob added, "And you can just forget about the five bucks."

"But the voices...we're to blame...letters and lies."

Bob's eyes flitted to the now-raging fire and then settled on the gun pointed toward his face. He licked his lips. "Easy, now, Charlie...yeah, I can hear them."

He tried to turn and run, but d.a.m.ned if Charlie wasn't another corn-fed country boy gone crazy and Bob's feet may as well have been freight scales. The bullet whistled into his throat. He fell like a sack of junk mail, without bouncing.

Charlie grinned into the bonfire, adding a few armfuls of mail to the immolation, a burnt offering to some great Postmaster in the Sky. The voices in the letters screamed in pain and supplication. Out of the corner of his sepulchral eyes, Charlie saw Susan trying to crawl away from the loading dock. If he didn't stop her, she might rescue the letters in the drop box out front.

Susan fell face-first as two bullets slammed into her back. Her half-finished cigarette rolled away from her slack hand and down the ramp, coming to a stop in the shadow of Charlie's jeep.

He wheeled the remaining carts of letters to the fire and tipped them in, including the cart that contained the late Red, who stoically rode shotgun on his final mission. Charlie saluted him and crouched to avoid the black layer of smoke that clouded the office. He reloaded his gun.

The voices in his head faded, leaving an echo as bitter as ash. Charlie could think his own thoughts again, but they made no more sense than the voices he had stilled, because he could only think in words, and words told lies.

He went out the back door, the heat from the fire curling his hair. Sirens wailed in the distance, reaching Charlie as if from across a void, from another zip code. He ignored them as if they were fourth-cla.s.s letters.

Charlie climbed into the jeep. It was time to make the rounds.

THE WEIGHT OF SILENCE.

By Scott Nicholson.

Silence wasn't golden, Katie thought. If silence were any metal, it would be lead: gray, heavy, toxic after prolonged exposure.

Silence weighed upon her in the house, even with the television in the living room blasting a Dakota-Madison-Dirk love triangle, even with the radio upstairs tuned to New York's big-block cla.s.sic rock, even with the windows open to invite the hum and roar from the street outside. Even with all that noise, Katie heard only the silence. Especially in the one room.

The room she had painted sky blue and world green. The one where tiny clothes, blankets, and oversized books lined the shelves. Wooden blocks had stood stacked in the corner, bought because Katie herself had wooden blocks as a child. She'd placed a special order for them. Most of the toys were plastic these days. Cheaper, more disposable.

Safer.

For the third time that morning, she switched on the monitor system that Peter had installed. A little bit of static leaked from the speaker. She turned her head so that her ear would be closer. Too much silence.

Stop it, Katie. You know you shouldn't be doing this to yourself.

Of course she should know it. That's all she heard lately. The only voices that broke through the silence were those saying, "You shouldn't be doing this to yourself." Or else the flip side of that particular little greatest hit, a remake of an old standard, "Just put it behind you and move on."

Peter said those things. Katie's mom chimed in as well. So did the doctors, the first one with a droopy mustache who looked as if he were into self-medication, the next an anorexic a.n.a.lyst who was much too desperate to find a crack in Katie's armor.

But the loudest voice of all was her own. That unspoken voice that led the Shouldn't-Be chorus. The voice that could never scream away the silence. The voice that bled and cried and sang sad, tuneless songs.

She clicked the monitor off. She hadn't really expected to hear anything. She knew better. She was only testing herself, making sure that it was true, that she was utterly and forever destroyed.

I feel FAIRLY destroyed. Perhaps I'm as far as QUITE. But UTTERLY, hmm, I think I have miles to go before I reach an adverb of such extremity and finality.

No. "Utterly" wasn't an adverb. It was a noun, a state of existence, a land of bleak cliffs and dark waters. And she knew how to enter that land.

She headed for the stairs. One step up at a time. Slowly. Her legs knew the routine. How many trips over the past three weeks? A hundred? More?

She reached the hall, then the first door on the left. Peter had closed it tightly this morning on his way to work. Peter kept telling her to stop leaving the door open at night. But Katie had never left the door open, not sincea"

Leaving the door open would fall under the category of utterly. And Katie wasn't utterly. At least not yet. She touched the door handle.

It was cold. Ice cold, grave cold, as cold as a cheek whena"

You shouldn't be doing this to yourself.

But she already was. She turned the k.n.o.b, the sound of the latch like an avalanche in the hush of a snowstorm. The door swung inward. Peter had oiled the hinges, because he said nothing woke a sleeping baby faster than squeaky hinges.

The room was still too blue, still far too verdant. Maybe she should slap on another coat, something suitably dismal and drab. This wasn't a room of air and life. This was a room of silence.

Because silence crowded this room like death crowded a coffin. Even though Led Zeppelin's "Stairway To Heaven" jittered forth from the bedroom radio across the hall, even though the soap opera's music director was sustaining a tense organ chord, even though Katie's heart was rivaling John Bonham's ba.s.s beat, this room was owned by silence. The absence of sound hit Katie like a tidal wave, slapped her about the face, crushed the wind from her lungs. It smothered her.

It accused her.