The Interview (16 page)

He saw something in my face. It might have been that my smile was as
real as a three-dollar bill. Or maybe it was the simple fact that
people who prey on the weak as a way of life are constantly on the
lookout for someone looking to return the favor.

He started towards the front door. I cut him off. “You can't go
inside right now. In fact, it would be better if you just left for a
while.”

“What are you talking about? Get out of my way before I call
the cops. Asshole.”

He put an arm out to push me out of the way. I grabbed his wrist,
spun his arm down and back, then pinned it between his shoulder
blades. I swept his feet out from beneath him and he went down face
first. Hard. I put my knee into the middle of his back, and yelled,
“Casey!”

This was not part of my plan. Casey stepped out, saw me on top of
Ted, then disappeared back inside. The problem, as I saw it, was how
to extract myself from this situation, get the mail delivered, and
not end up in jail. I had gotten lucky this morning. I wasn’t
counting on my luck holding up. Ted had a cell phone clipped to his
belt. I plucked it off, dialed Fred's number from memory, then
listened to Sammy Hagar sing “I Can't Drive 55” until
Fred answered the phone.

“Hello.”

“Fred. It's Kelly.”

“Hey man. What are you doing?”

“Little bit of nothing. Listen, I need you to drive over to
Orleans.”

“Man, I am looking at the finest woman right now. She's washing
her car-”

“Fred, focus.”

“-in a two-piece. Oh man, you're not going to believe what
she's doing right now.”

“Fred, I need you to stop what you're doing and come over to
Orleans now.”

“She knows I'm checking her out. Dude, she's leaning across the
hood. You have got to see this.”

“Fred, I have a situation.”

“I wanted to call you, but you don't have a cell. You need to
get a cell phone, Kelly. Where you at?”

Some people, like Casey, get it. Fred does not.

I took a deep breath, let it out, and said, “I'm on Orleans. I
need you to get over here now.”

“Whose phone you using if you're on Orleans?”

“I borrowed it from the guy I'm sitting on. Can you please get
over here?”

Casey and Kristin appeared. Casey carried a backpack. Kristin had a
suitcase. Kristin saw her husband and flinched.

“What are you doing, Kristin? What do you think you're doing?”

I gave him a shot with my knee and he shut up.

“Who's that?” Fred asked.

“Orleans. Now.” I hung up the phone and tossed it on the
grass.

Casey grabbed Kristin's hand and led her to the Acura. “Don't
look at him, Kristin.”

Kristin looked at her husband pinned beneath me, but Casey kept her
moving. “You got him, Kelly?”

“Got him.”

“See ya.”

“Late.”

I waited till the two women backed out of the driveway and drove out
of sight.

“I'm going to let you up now.”

“Good. I'm going to kick your ass now.”

“You can give it your best shot.”

I stood up, and put distance between the two of us.

Ted rose to his feet, massaging his shoulder. “You could have
broke my arm, you prick.”

“There's still time,” I replied casually.

He shook his head at me. “Can I go in my house now, Mr.
Mailman?”

“Gosh. You make mailman sound like a bad word.”

“You're going to sound like a little girl when I get through
with you.”

“I don't think so, Ted. I'm a little stronger than your wife,
and I don't have things like misguided love holding me back. You want
to come at me, do it now.”

“I'll come at you when I'm ready.” A thin smile split
his mouth. “And you're not.”

“Whichever. It'll end the same regardless.”

“She'll be back. She always comes back.”

“Then we'll do it all again, Ted. It's not happening anymore.”

He walked away. Bullies are all the same.

I walked over to my truck, grabbed a smoke and lit it. I sat on the
back bumper and waited for Fred to show up. I scanned the surrounding
houses but saw no signs of any neighbors. Or maybe they were just
choosing to sit this one out. I tried to figure out how I was going
to get Casey's mail truck back to the office while I waited for Fred
to show up. I didn't think the cops were going to be a part of our
little drama unless a neighbor called it in. Ted didn't seem like the
cop-calling type.

Fred showed up about the time I was stubbing the cigarette out. I
walked over to him and said, “Watch my truck while I finish up
this street.”

“What's going on?”

“Domestic dispute. Casey's got the wife. We have to get her
truck back to the post office, then you get to finish her route up
while I go do Stefan's swing.”

“Why are you doing the Stefan swing? I thought Robert was on
there today.” Fred focused on the subject that made sense to
him. Everything else required too much energy for him.

“Truck trouble,” I said then went and grabbed my bag. I
finished up the street without further incident. “I'm going to
go park in front of my house. Come get me.”

I live on the second to last street on my route. It was convenient,
but I had a feeling that my stay here had just run its course. You
don't beat up one of the neighbors without offending someone. Annette
would end up taking the heat for my actions.

Fred pulled up beside me and I repeated the transfer of Casey's mail.
I climbed in the back, rode up to where Casey's truck was parked,
then hopped out.

“Meet me at the office, then you can drive me back here.”

“You're making friends everywhere you go today, you know that?”

“I always make friends. I'm just a nice guy.”

We made the drive to and from the post office with no cops pulling us
over. We both could have gotten in serious trouble with me riding in
the back of his truck, but I didn't see any option. In the larger
scheme of things it was minor for me, but Fred was taking a risk.

“Thanks, Fred,” I said as he dropped me back at my
truck. “I owe you more than one.”

“You got that right, Kelly. I'll see you. Let me know when
you're ready to explain all of this to me.”

I nodded. He drove away. I finished up my route then headed over to
Route Five to do the Stefan swing.

EVERY TOWN HAS AT LEAST one moment in its history that invades the
darkest corners of its inhabitants’ collective memory.
Placentia is no different in that regard. The same is true of haunted
houses. Every town has one. Placentia's haunted house and moment are
tied together in the wreck that is 129 Main Street.

I've been working in this city for nearly eighteen years and for all
that time, 129 has been vacant. The house is a dead address as far as
the USPS is concerned. It receives no mail. When I first started out,
I carried mail in that part of town a lot. All the newbie carriers
do. I never noticed the house back then. If it didn't get mail then I
didn't care about it.

There are a variety of stories about the house. The house was a
commune of Satan worshippers. A prom after-party went horribly wrong
back in the sixties, resulting in ten dead teens. The homeless people
who dare to seek shelter within its walls either die in the night or
are crazy by the time the sun rises. Pick your urban legend, in
Placentia they all start at 129 Main.

The house itself is unremarkable. Two stories, four glassless windows
on the top floor. A sagging roof with chimneys at either end. The
ground floor has the same number of windows, though they are boarded
up, and two doors. A decrepit, old porch that is more vines than wood
runs the length of the house. The stairs that lead up to the porch
have no risers. The property is completely overgrown with weeds, palm
trees, juniper bushes, and wild roses that form an impenetrable wall
of flora. The house is not visible from the street save the sagging
roof and two chimneys.

The house is as haunted as a house can get, but only if you look
really hard.

From 2000 to 2005, seventeen young women vanished without a trace
from the city of Placentia. They ranged in ages from sixteen to
nineteen. They were all Hispanic, and they were all believed to be
runaways. This belief was based in part that no bodies were
discovered. No witnesses ever came forward with testimony that said
different. There was no physical evidence that indicated any type of
foul play. And last, the Placentia Police Chief did not want the FBI
trooping through his city. Chief Warren Malone liked his job, and he
wasn't about to give it up because a couple wetbacks got lost on the
way home from the market. He sent out missing persons bulletins and
nothing more. Technically, he did exactly what was required of him.
Realistically, Malone did the absolute minimum required of him.

For the most part, the city went along with Malone's picture of
runaway girls. Or more importantly, the folks that paid the higher
property taxes went along with it. All the girls came from illegal
parents. If you're born in America, then you're American. Doesn't
matter if your parents are illegal or not. That didn't change the
perception of the girls who vanished, however.

Everything came to a violent conclusion in September of 2005. Stefan
Hughes was a ten-year veteran of the Postal Service. He was a good
carrier as far as I remember. Personally, I didn't know him. I never
heard anyone say anything bad about him, except that he took the
leaving of his wife badly.

Stefan was the regular carrier on Route Five. He was as white as you
can get, but he spent every day in predominantly Hispanic
neighborhoods, and he seemed to enjoy it. My hat was off to him.
Route Five was no picnic back in those days, and he didn't have
little old ladies giving him Target cards at Christmas. Or even a
bottle of water on a hot day, for that matter. As 2005 dragged on for
Stefan, he became withdrawn from the rest of us.

I remember the day Stefan didn't come back to the office until nearly
seven at night. It was brutally hot, easily topping 105 for most of
the day. I didn't get back to the office until after six o'clock, and
Stefan was still out and had not been heard from. Six o'clock is
pretty much the cut off for Placentia carriers to be out. I know
other cities have carriers out till eight or nine at night, but not
Placentia. Jason, the closing supervisor at the time was the only
person left in the building when Stefan parked his truck. According
to Jason, Stefan dumped his outgoing mail, cleaned up his route, then
left with no explanation as to why he was so late. The next day, he
called in sick. Everyone assumed heat stroke, and nobody thought much
about it.

Stefan walked into the office at 12:10 PM that afternoon. The
receiving clerk reported Stefan was carrying an aluminum bat in one
hand. Stefan walked straight back to the postmaster's office without
saying a word to anyone. He shut the door behind him, and proceeded
to beat Lupe Gonzalez to death. The same receiving clerk who watched
him walk in with the bat, watched him walk out without the bat, but
covered in Lupe's blood and brains. As Stefan walked by him, the
clerk swore he heard Stefan mumble, “I killed the Gardener.
Lupe's the Gardener. I killed the Gardener.”

The police found Stefan's car parked in front of 129 Main Street
about an hour later. They found Stefan lying naked on the floor of
what had once been a living room. Stefan had cut his wrists, then
painted his body with his own blood. On the floor next to his body he
had written, “The Gardener is dead.”

Over the course of the investigation the police found numerous
trinkets that tied Lupe Gonzalez to the seventeen missing girls.
Rings, bracelets, earrings, necklaces, and various other items which
were discovered in a locked shed on Lupe's property. They also found
pictures of the girls in death.

The police also found a beautiful rose garden behind 129 Main Street.
Seventeen rose bushes, carefully trimmed and lovingly maintained. And
beneath each bush was a dead girl.

Placentia was in shock. The Hispanic population was near riot. Postal
vehicles were the targets of vandalism, and on a handful of
occasions, carriers were threatened. In the end, even angry families
need their welfare checks. And without the letter carriers, there
would be no checks.

Chief Warren Malone resigned. The bodies were dug up and given proper
Catholic burials paid for by the United States Postal Service. Lupe
Gonzalez was dubbed The Gardener by the media, the cops, and us. The
collective memory began to fade. Life went back to normal for us at
the Post Office and the residents of Route Five. For reasons not
known, the house at 129 Main Street remained standing. And for
reasons quite obvious, Route Five remained without a carrier.

A year after Stefan went postal, a newbie carrier came back to the
office and claimed that she had seen a girl calling to her from the
porch of 129 Main. The carrier promptly quit. From that day, the
legend of the house grew within the ranks of Placentia letter
carriers. No one wanted to carry the street. It became known as “The
Gardener Swing,” and people would quit on the spot before they
carried it.

Lucinda came to our office in 2007. We had gone through five
postmasters in the two-year period since Lupe's death, and we needed
some stability. Lucinda brought it, and more. The first thing she did
was address the problem concerning the 100 block of Main Street. She
renamed the swing, “The Stefan Swing.” She made it clear
that anybody who referred to “The Gardener Swing” would
be written up. Bill Rush, a Vietnam vet who had the deepest wrinkles
I have ever seen, stepped up and took the route. Five others,
including myself, volunteered to do The Stefan Swing on Bill's day
off.

I THOUGHT OF ALL THAT as I stood in front of 129 Main Street. I knew
I had been staring at the house for too long, but there was something
holding me there.