The Parallel Apartments (36 page)

“Hello, miss?” said Justine.

“Eeeeee!” said the mail lady, tossing her keys in the air and falling backward into the parking lot. “You scared the hell outta me. Dammit.”

“I'm sorry,” said Justine, standing up. “Are you okay? I was just wondering…”

“Dammit.” The mail lady found her keys. As she stood up, some Bonz fell out of her shirt pocket.

“Here,” said Justine, picking them up and giving them back. “Dog biscuits are a good idea.”

“Dammit.”

“Ma'am, I need to get a couple of letters back I mailed by accident. They're probably right on top in there.”

“You want me to
give
you some government property?”

“Well, no, I just need my two letters back, they're both the same, kind of creamy, soft envelopes, and I addressed them with this kind of pen…”

Justine disinterred her calligraphy felt pen from her backpack and scribbled on the palm of her hand.

“…and they just weren't ready to mail yet.”

A long silver Chrysler was idling behind Justine and the mail lady. Clearly the driver was waiting for them to move so he could mail his letters.

“I'm not giving you anything in this box.”

“I just live down the street. I'm mailing them to my own house and to a neighbor. Can't you give them to me?”

“If you live that close, they'll get delivered by noon. Just go wait.”

Justine felt it would damage her case to explain she was never going there again, so she kept her mouth shut.

The mail lady was settling down. She renewed thumbing through her hoop of keys, keeping an eye on Justine.

“Please?”

“No. Begone!”

“I need them. It's a matter of life or death.”

“Oh no it isn't.”

“Oh yes it is too. If those people open those letters, they'll be so upset that there might be a death.”

“So call them and say don't open the letters.”

“If you knew them, you'd know that they'd both open their letters even faster.”

Especially Charlotte. Livia would open hers immediately if she wasn't supposed to, the disobedience itself the reward, but Charlotte would open hers out of pure worry, mixed with a bit of Emily Post–era manners.

I was worried sick,
she would say.
And, look, I was right
—
you were going to commit suicide and blame your mother, Livia.

“You should've thought of that before you mailed them,” said the mail lady, not softening at all, in fact growing more impervious, like ten-minute epoxy.

The Chrysler crept forward a few inches. A Roto-Rooter van got in line behind him.

“
I
didn't mail them,” said Justine. “See, someone stole them. I got mugged, and the mugger stole my letters. And my billfold, and my car, and left me in some dirt to die. That's why I look like this. So I have to get those letters back because they weren't ready for mailing.”

The mail lady's slacks were held up with a thick belt from which hung a flashlight, a little holster with some kind of black tube in it, and a pair of white, furry booties.

“I'm not lying,” said Justine, stamping, and corrugating her face as if to warn of a tantrum.

“Did you really get held up?” she asked, leaning back and hooking her ring fingers in her belt. “What'd he look like?”

“Ah, he was big and tall, and he was wearing a shirt and some pants. Blue. And he had a gun. A Gatling gun, and a mask. Of pantyhose. I couldn't see his face.”

There were four cars in line now. The last one was anonymized by black tinted windows and customized with hydraulics. It beeped and performed silly gymnastics.

“Why didn't he take your backpack?”

“Oh, he just went through it for valuables.”

“Lemme go call the cops for you, then.”

“No. No, they already know. I filed a report for the arraignment. All the cops are looking for him right now. Those letters are going to be evidence, you know.”

The mail lady sighed and opened the belly of the mailbox. She began to stuff mail into her canvas sack. Justine nearly began applauding with relief.

“Hey,” said Justine. “They were on top. You probably already put them in your bag.”

The mail lady paused. She unholstered her black tube.

“If you do not leave, kid, I will mace you.”

The Chrysler driver put the car in park and rolled down his window. The Roto-Rooter man got out of his van. The tinted-windows car jittered and rocked.

Justine backed up, tripping on her backpack.

“I hate you.”

“What's going on here?” said the Roto-Rooter man, whose hair resembled Valerie Bertinelli's. “Why are you pointing mace at her?”

“Back off, fellah,” she said. “Unless you want some, too.”

“I just want my letters back.”

The Chrysler beeped consumptively, then a crinkly old man emerged. He was wearing a strange, amply pocketed denim onesie, and holding a parcel tied with twine.

“Ain't nobody gonna squirt mace on nobody,” he said, shaking his finger at both Justine and the mail lady.

“Is that more than thirteen ounces?” said the mail lady fiercely, pointing at his parcel. “You can't mail that in this mailbox if it's over thirteen ounces.

You'll have to wait for the lobby to open.”

“I know the rules,” said the old man, who had an embroidered oval patch over one of his breast pockets that said
REAL
HAPPY.

“What happened to you, young lady?” said the Roto-Rooter man, pointing politely at the unfinished cut on Justine's wrist. “Would you like me to take you to a doctor?”

“No, I really just need my two letters back that I accidentally mailed. I—”

“You said they were stolen!” shouted the mail lady.

The bouncing car paused for a moment to let out a woman who also had superb hair, but more like Scott Baio's. She carried her own can of mace.

“Give her her letters back, look at her, she's loco, open your eyes.”

“No. It's against the law, and I don't like her, anyway. She scared me and I fell over and sat on my flashlight.”

“Serves you right for raising the postage again,” said the Hispanic woman, her Mace trained on the mail lady.

“I didn't do that.”

“Stamps went up again?” said
REAL
HAPPY,
who stomped with one foot, then the other, then looked up into the trees. “Goddammit.”

“It went up?” said the Roto-Rooter man. “To what?”

“Quarter,” said the Hispanic woman.

“Oh, goddammit everything,” said the old man again, in a way that sounded like he'd been stunned by some federal surprise every single day of his life.

“Hey, that means I didn't put enough on there,” said Justine. “You have to give them back to me so I can put more stamps on.”

“I don't have to do anything,” said the mail lady, locking the mailbox.

“Give her the letters, see,” said the old man, like James Cagney.

“I think I'd like to talk to your supervisor,” said the Roto-Rooter man, whose lovely hair shined and floated gently like a condor on a breeze.

“I don't have a supervisor. I'm the Postmaster General. And the Postmaster General says why don't all y'all take a deep breath and fuck y'allselves.”

The mail lady held her spray in both hands like a cop pointing a pistol at a perp.

Justine, eyes shut, hands clawed, lunged for the bag.

“Hey!”

Justine, her face buried in the mail lady's tiny waist and her hands in her mailbag, heard the sound of hairspray spraying and felt a cool liquid soak into her hair on the back of her head.

Screams. Medieval-thumbscrew screams. The mail lady ripped her bag away. Justine turned. All three of her defenders were on the ground flopping and croaking like electrocuted game fish.

“Girl.”

And with a jet of oleoresin capsicum the mail lady filled Justine's cool green eyes.

In less than fifteen minutes Justine was able to stand and open her eyes without retching. Her colleagues were nowhere to be seen, though their vehicles were still there; each was being loaded onto a flatbed wrecker by tanned men in sleeveless work shirts who ignored her completely.

The mail lady was gone.

Justine walked back home.

It was Tuesday. Charlotte's Fifth Avenue was in the driveway, as was Livia's Maverick. Justine had obviously been missed.

Justine crawled under the hedge marking a property boundary. She had spent some time in conference with trees and grass and bugs lately; the inside of a hedge was familiar if not altogether comfortable.

The effects of the pepper spray were largely gone except that Justine felt as if her lungs were enormous, capable of holding many cubic yards of oxygen and sustaining her if she chose at that moment to participate in an Iron Man competition.

She breathed deeply, slowly. She arranged herself so she could watch for Shook, the mailman, and intercept him. It shouldn't be more than a couple of hours. She would not fall asleep.

Justine fell asleep.

For the second time in just a few hours, Justine was awakened by a police car.

This one idled noisily in the driveway. The passenger door was open. The driver, a narrow-skulled cop who looked barely thirteen, was yawning so hard his eyes were tearing up and he needed both hands to cover his mouth.

Standing on the porch of her house was an older, larger cop, whose old, large face was decorated with a dense black toothbrush moustache. Next to him stood Charlotte, dressed only in her slippers and baby-blue bathrobe. Standing with them was Livia, who was wearing exactly the same thing as when she had kissed her daddy. Lou himself and Dot were nowhere in sight. Charlotte was holding a photograph. The cop was holding Justine's letters. Livia was tightly holding herself.

“Which are you?” the cop said to Charlotte.

“Charlotte,” she said with an aged tremor. “Her grandmother.”

“And you're…?” said the cop, appraising Livia.

“I'm her mother. Adoptive. Livia Moppett.”

“Well,” said the cop, holding up a letter in each hand, “this is for you, and this is for you. But you owe me three cents apiece first. Postage due. Lemme have the picture.”

Charlotte found a coin in her robe pocket. She gave it and the picture to the cop. He gave them the letters, which they opened.

Charlotte covered her mouth and squeezed her eyes shut. Livia froze.

Charlotte dropped her letter and ran down the side yard toward the alley. One of her baby-blue slippers came off.

“Mother. Stop.”

Livia picked up her mother's letter.

The expression she made was not one Justine had ever seen before, until recently. Where? Oh. On Troy. When he drove away.

Livia dropped her mother's letter, then ran after her. Before she could get far, Charlotte came running back.

“She's not in the car in the alley! What did your letter say?”

“The same as yours,” said Livia, stuffing the letter into the pocket of her robe.

“Get my keys. We're going to go look for her.”

The cop picked up and read Charlotte's letter.

“Klaus,” he said, thrusting at the yawning cop the letter and a four-by-six-inch picture of Justine taken for her sophomore yearbook. “Let's go find her.”

“What for?” said Klaus, still yawning like a sinkhole.

“She's wanted.”

“For what?” said yawning Klaus.

“For one,” said the toothbrush cop, “destruction of government property. For two, suicide-attempting. That's not allowed in Travis County or in the kingdom of God. For three, assault with intent to kill on a federal employee. For four, loitering. And there's littering and a bunch of other stuff. Plus, she's missing, also against the rules.”

Livia came back out of the house with the keys. Charlotte was already in the passenger seat of her car.

“You go by yourself,” said Livia, handing her mother the keys. “Someone needs to be here in case she comes home.”

Livia went inside the house and shut the front door with a gentle
kalak.

The yawning cop got into the backseat of the cruiser and lay down, and toothbrush got into the front. They backed out of the driveway and pulled away, lights and siren in full festival.

Both Charlotte and her car screamed into the street and disappeared into the deep arch of magnolias.

XI

April 1988