He returned the next night a little earlier and saw the dwarf three houses up from his own, in the exact spot he'd seen him before, and he quickly ran inside and locked the door and closed the curtains, hiding behind the couch.
He was gone the next three afternoons, but he realized he could not be away every day. It was not practical. He only had three more weeks until he started teaching, and there was still a lot of unpacking to do, a lot of things he had to work on around the house. He could not spend each and every afternoon wandering through shopping centers far from his home in order to avoid the mailman.
So he stayed home the next day, keeping an eye out for the mailman, and by the end of the week he had settled into a routine. He would hide in the house when the mailman came by, shutting the curtains and locking the doors. Often he would turn on the stereo or turn up the television before the mailman arrived, but he would inevitably shut off all sound before the mailman actually showed up and sit quietly on the floor, not wanting the dwarf to know he was home.
And he would hear the rhythmic tap tap tapping of the little feet walking up the wooden porch steps, a pause as the mailman sorted through his letters, then the dreaded sound of metal against metal as those stubby fingers forced open the mail slot and pushed in the envelopes. He would be sweating by then, and he would remain unbreathing, afraid to move, until he heard the tiny feet descend the steps.
Once there was silence after the mail had been delivered, and Jack realized that though he had heard the mail slot open, he had not heard it fall shut. The dwarf was looking through the slit into the house! He could almost feel those horrid little eyes scanning the front room through the limited viewspace offered by the slot. He was about to scream when he heard the slot clack shut and heard the light footsteps retreat.
Then the inevitable happened.
As always, he waited silently behind the couch until the mailman had left and then gathered up his mail. Amidst the large white envelopes was a small blue envelope, thicker than the rest, with the seal of the postal service on the front. He knew what that envelope was—he'd gotten them many times before.
Postage due.
Heart pounding, he looked at the "AMOUNT" line, knowing already how much he owed.
Twenty-five cents.
A quarter.
And he stood there unmoving while the shadows lengthened around him and the room grew dark, and he wondered where the dwarf went after work.
The next morning Jack went to the main branch of the post office. The line was long, filled with businessmen who needed to send important packages and women who wanted to buy the latest stamps, but he waited patiently. When it was his turn, he walked up to the front counter and asked the clerk if he could talk to the postmaster. He was not as brave as he'd planned to be, and he was aware that his voice quavered slightly.
The postmaster came out, a burly man on the high side of fifty, wearing horn-rimmed glasses and a fixed placating smile. "How many I help you, sir?"
Now that he was here, Jack was not sure he could go through with it. His head hurt, and he could feel the blood pulsing in his temples. He was about to make something up, something meaningless and inconsequential, when he thought of the dwarf's cruel little face, thought of the demand on the postage due envelope. "I'm here to complain about one of your mailmen," he said.
The postmaster's eyebrows shot up in surprise. "One of our mail carriers?" Jack nodded. "Where do you live, sir?"
"Glenoaks. Twelve hundred Glenoaks."
The postmaster frowned. "That's Charlie's route. He's one of our best employees." He turned around. "Charlie!" he called.
Jack's hands became sweaty.
"He's right in the back there," the postmaster explained. "I'll have him come out here, and we'll get this mess straightened out."
Jack wanted to run, wanted to dash through the door the way he had come, to hop in the car and escape. But he remained rooted in place. The post office was crowded. Nothing could happen to him here. He was safe.
A man in a blue uniform rounded the corner.
A normal-sized man.
"This is Charlie," the postmaster said. "Your mail carrier."
Jack shook his head. "No, the man I'm talking about is ... short. He's about three feet high."
"We have no one here who fits that description."
"He delivers my mail every day. He delivers my neighbors' mail."
"Where do you live?" Charlie asked.
"Twelve hundred Glenoaks."
"Impossible. I deliver there."
"I've never seen you before in my life!" Jack looked from one man to the other. He was sweating, and he smelled his own perspiration. His mouth was dry, and he tried unsuccessfully to generate some saliva. "Something weird's going on here."
"We'll help you in any way we can, sir," the postmaster said.
Jack shook his head. "Forget it," he said. He turned and strode toward the door. "Forget I even came by."
The next day he received no mail at all, though looking out the window, he saw the dwarf happily walking down the other side of the street, delivering to other homes. The next day, the same thing. Jack stayed on the porch the following afternoon, and before he knew it the little man was walking up his sidewalk, whistling, holding a fistful of letters, a cheerful look on his cruel hard face. Jack ran inside the house, locked the door, and dashed into the back bathroom. He sat down on the toilet and remained there for over an hour, until he was sure that the dwarf was gone.
Finally, he washed his face, opened the bathroom door, and walked down the hallway to the living room.
The mail slot opened, two letters fell through, and the slot closed. He heard that low, rough laugh and the quick steps of the dwarf running off the porch.
The gun felt good in his hands. It had been a long time. He had not held a pistol since Vietnam, but using firearms was like riding a bike and he had forgotten nothing. He liked the weight against his palm, liked the smooth way the trigger felt against his finger. His aim was probably not as good as it had once been—after all, he had not practiced for almost thirty years—but it would not need to be that good at the close range at which he planned to use it.
He waited behind the partially open curtains for the mailman.
And Charlie stepped up the walk.
Jack shoved the pistol in his waistband and yanked open the door. "Where is he?" he demanded. "Where's the goddamn dwarf?"
The mailman shook his head, confused. "I'm sorry, sir. I don't know what you're talking about."
"The dwarf! The little guy who usually delivers the mail!"
"I'm the mailman on—"
Jack pulled out the gun. "Where is he, goddamn it?"
"I—I d-don't know, sir." The mailman's voice was shaking with fear. He dropped the letters in his hand and they fluttered to the walk. "P-please don't shoot me."
Jack ran down the porch steps, shoving his way past the mailman, and hopped into his car. With the pistol on the seat beside him where he could easily reach it, he drove up and down the streets of the neighborhood, looking for the small man in the tiny blue postal uniform. He had been driving for nearly ten minutes and had almost given up, the lure of the pistol fading, when he saw the dwarf crossing the street a block and a half ahead. He floored the gas pedal.
And was broadsided by a pickup as he sped through the closest intersection, ignoring the stop sign.
The door crumpled in on him, a single jagged shard of metal piercing his arm. The windshield and windows shattered, harmless safety glass showering down on him, but the steering wheel was forced loose and pushed through his chest. In an instant that lasted forever, he felt his bones snap, his organs rupture, and he knew the accident was fatal. He did not scream, however. For some strange reason, he did not scream.