in the winter and going crazy with all the summer people who wanted delivery to their camps and cottages when the warm weather came. Instead, there would be a Winnebage for “Scenic Trips Through New England.” There would be “Puttering in the Garden.” There would be “All Sorts of New Hobbies.” Most of all, there would be “Rest and Relaxation.” And somehow, the thought of farting his way through his late sixties and early seventies like a defective rocket just didn’t jibe with his fond picture of the Golden Years of Retirement.
He turned the small blue-and-white mail truck onto Town Road No. 3, wincing as the glare of sunlight shifted briefly across the windshield. The summer had turned out every bit as hot as Aunt Evvie had prophesied—all of that, and then some. He could hear crickets singing sleepily in the high summer grass and had a brief vision out of the Golden Years of Retirement, a scene entitled “George Relaxes in the Back Yard Hammock.”
He stopped at the Millikens’ and pushed a Zayre’s advertising circular and a CMP power bill into the box. This was the day all the power bills went out, but he hoped the CMP folks wouldn’t hold their breath until the Millikens’ check came in. The Millikens were poor white trash, like that Gary Pervier just up the road. It was nothing but a scandal to see what was happening to Pervier, a man who had once won a DSC. And old Joe Camber wasn’t a hell of a lot better. They were going to the dogs, the both of them.
John Milliken was out in the side yard, repairing what looked like a harrow. George gave him a wave, and Milliken flicked one finger curtly in return before going back to his work.
Here’s one for you, you welfare chiseler, George Meara thought. He lifted his leg and blew his trombone. It was a hell of a thing, this farting. You had to be pretty damn careful when you were out in company.
He drove on up the road to Gary Pervier’s, produced another Zayre’s circular, another power bill, and added a VFW newsletter. He tucked them into the box and then turned around in Gary’s driveway, because he didn’t have to drive all the way up to Camber’s place today. Joe had called the post office yesterday morning around ten and had asked them to hold his mail for a few days. Mike Fournier, the big talker who was in charge of things at the Castle Rock P.O., had routinely filled out a HOLD MAIL UNTIL NOTIFIED card and flipped it over to George’s station.
Fournier told Joe Camber he had called just about fifteen minutes too late to stop the Monday delivery of mail, if that had been his intention.
“Don’t matter,” Joe had said. “I guess I’ll be around to get today’s.”
When George put Gary Pervier’s mail into his box, he noticed that Gary’s Monday delivery—a Popular Mechanix and a charity begging letter from the Rural Scholarship Fund—had not been removed. Now, turning around, he noticed that Gary’s big old Chrysler was in the dooryard and Joe Camber’s rusting-around-the-edges station wagon was parked right behind it.
“Gone off together,” he muttered aloud. “Two fools off hooting somewhere.”
He lifted his leg and farted again.
George’s conclusion was that the two of them were probably off drinking and whoring, wheeling around in Joe Camber’s pickup truck. It didn’t occur to him to wonder why they would have taken Joe’s truck when there were two much more comfortable vehicles near at hand, and he didn’t notice the blood on the porch steps or the fact that there was a large hole in the lower panel of Gary’s screen door.
“Two fools off hooting,” he repeated. “At least Joe Camber remembered to cancel his mail.”
He drove off the way he had come, back toward Castle Rock, lifting his leg every now and then to blow his trombone.
Steve Kemp drove out to the Dairy Queen by the West-brook Shopping Mall for a couple of cheeseburgers and a Dilly Bar. He sat in his van, eating and looking out at Brighton Avenue, not really seeing the road or tasting the food.
He had called Handsome Hubby’s office. He gave his name as Adam Swallow when the secretary asked. Said he was the marketing director for House of Lights, Inc., and would like to talk to Mr. Trenton. He had been dry-mouthed with excitement. And when Trenton got on the old hooter, they could find more interesting