Postman Jack Dobbs waved at the elderly woman across the street, pushing a stroller. It was the mailman thing to do. The woman walked faster, reassuring her grandson everything would be alright.

The child expected nothing more than lies from grandma. Besides, he was more troubled by the absence of birds in the sky. There were none whatsoever today. The child crumpled up beneath the blanket, thinking of all he didn’t know.

Jack tumbled to the ground. The mailbag weighed him down on one side, so he fell without grace. Not that anyone would ever confuse Jack Dobbs for a man with grace, even on his best day. Letters and circulars spewed across the suburban sidewalk. Someone had shoved him from behind.

“The hell?” Jack snarled. He spun, ready to strike at the nameless coward.

Harold and Dillon stood over him. Jack unclenched his fists and his visions of retaliation faded as quickly as they’d swelled.

“Oh . . . hey fellas. What’s shaking?”

Harold gave a wolfish grin. “Black Jack Dobbs, sporting mailman blue. How about that, Dillon? They’ll let anyone pass the civil service test these days, huh?”

Harold had brown hair down to his shoulders and a round baby face with fair skin that made him look about 10 years younger than he really was, which was 28. He smiled too much, wore the same black jeans and matching denim jacket every day, and had dark eyes that never had to blink.

Dillon, on the other hand, never smiled. He kept his eyes hidden behind dark sunglasses, wore a navy Members Only jacket, and slicked his grey, thinning hair back across his square skull with pomade.

“Took that test when I was a kid,” said Dillon.

“Yeah?” said Harold.

“Civil service test, yeah. Wanted to have a fallback in case this didn’t take.”

“Did you pass?”

“No. Get up, Jack.”

Jack got to his feet and dusted off his trousers. He had the thin frame of a scarecrow, a thin nose to match, and the nervous pop-eyes of a whippet. He hoisted the mailbag over his shoulder and fidgeted with the strap.

“What’re you guys doing out of the city?” said Jack. Over Dillon’s shoulder, he saw the white Cadillac parked at the curb. The chrome grill twinkled, even in the dull autumn sun. Jack whistled. “New ride? Thing is sexy.”

“We’re not here to collect,” said Harold, removing a cigarette from behind his ear. He lit it and took a long drag and slowly exhaled the smoke, sizing Jack up. “So don’t go dripping in your Dickies, my guy.”

Jack laughed nervously. “Shit, ain’t nothing to collect. I been square with Troutman.”

“Oh?” said Dillon. “That’s not what Baker says. Baker heard we were coming to see you and he says you’re still in the hock from last weekend’s game. Isn’t that what Baker said, Harold?”

“Yeah. That’s what Baker said, Dillon. You know, Jack, you oughta get yourself into Gambler’s Anonymous.”

“They got billboards for it all up the highway.”

“We saw them on the way up here.”

Jack scratched the back of his neck with one hand and showed a trembling, empty palm with the other. “I got nothing on me, guys. Swear to Christ.”

Harold held out his hands. “You got to listen more closely, Jack. What did I just say? This isn’t a shake down. Personally, I don’t give a shit what you owe. We don’t work in the collections department.”

“Just want to have a word,” said Dillon.

“Yeah. We just want to talk to you. Three guys talking, is all this is.”

“Three guys talking about your mail route.”

That old sinking feeling grew in the pit of Jack’s stomach. “I can’t . . . I can’t lose this job, guys. If Troutman needs a favor, or whatever, can’t he wait ‘til I’m off the clock? It’s not long. Like, he wants, I can head into the city after five. Meet you guys.”

“Did we say anything about a favor?” said Harold, enjoying himself too much. “I didn’t say anything about a favor. Did you, Dillon?”

“Me neither, Harold” said Dillon, in his grim monotone. “Jack’s the only one broaching the subject.”

Harold and Dillon and their fucking vaudeville routine, thought Jack. “If it’s not a favor, what about my route then? What’s to talk about?”

“Quit blabbering and we’ll tell you,” Harold said. “You got to listen closely when people talk. It’s important to put on your listening ears when it’s time for business, dig?”

Jack nodded and rocked side to side on his heels.

“Follow along now,” said Dillon. “You deliver over on Potts Road?”

“Unless they need me to cover somewhere else, yeah. I walk Potts.”

“Including that big ol’ house on the corner of Potts and Juniper?”

Jack lifted his thin brows. “That ugly two-story number with the tower thing and the porch that goes all the way ‘round? Can’t miss that one. Place gives me the wicked bad willies.”

“The willies?” said Dillon.

“Means the creeps,” said Harold.

“Why’s that house give you the willies, Jack?”

“Like, I can always feel the lady inside watching me when I go up to the box. All posted up in that tower window, like a gargoyle. Throwing eyeball daggers down at me.”

“Maybe she likes you,” Harold joshed.

“What about it though? You gonna knock the place over?”

“Christ,” laughed Harold, shaking his head. “A look inside the mind of a degenerate.”

“Troutman’s sister lives in that house,” said Dillon

“Miss Frick?” Jack’s eyes widened. “That’s the man’s sister?” He tried to recall if he’d swiped any Christmas cards from that address, looking for cash. He probably had. Jack made it a point to give himself a nice holiday bonus every year. Leave it to the elderly to still mail bread.

“Broad changed her name to Frick a while back,” said Harold. He pitched the cigarette butt over Jack’s shoulder, barely missing him. “We don’t think she was married though. Think she changed it because the name Troutman rings bells around here, you know? So tell us, what’s she like?”

Jack shrugged. “Shit, I’ve never talked to her. I’m just the mailman. Barely talk to anyone on my route. They’re all just names and addresses to me. Miss Frick, like I said, I can feel her watching me. I avoid looking up at that tower. I’m afraid to make eye contact with her. Probably turn me to stone. Come to think of it . . .”

“What?” said Harold.

“Her mailbox is busting at the seams. Been having to jam shit in there for a couple days now.”

“Is that out of the ordinary?” said Dillon.

Jack pulled at his chapped lower lip. “Too lazy to bring in the mail. I don’t know. It can get like that once in a while. People get bored plucking bills every day.”

“She live alone?” said Harold.

“Guess so. Only seen mail addressed to her, if that’s that what you mean.”

“What type of mail?”

“I don’t know. Circulars. AARP magazine. Election ads. Usual shit.”

“She gets boring mail,” said Dillon. “Noted. You ever see anyone going in there, ever?”

“I always figured she was like a hermit or whatever.” Jack looked thoughtfully down at the sidewalk. “Didn’t know she was the man’s sister.”

“Estranged sister,” Harold corrected. “Family shit. Always ugly.”

Dillon pushed his sunglasses up his nose. “Think, Jack. This is important to the man.”

Jack pretended to think harder about the question. He bit his lip and everything. He felt like he was in that book, from his one semester in community college. The Trial, that’s what it was called. By some twisted Kraut. Then a memory did flash into his mind.

“Wait . . . yeah, a couple weeks ago, maybe three, there was some guy delivering groceries. I crossed paths with him as he was coming through her gate.”

“Sure they were groceries?” said Harold.

“I recognized the logo on the bags. The stupid pig with the straw hat. That’s Darby’s Market, the local chain.”

Harold looked at Dillon. “They got good cookies there. Big, soft ones.”

They helped Jack pick up the mail before the blossoming October breeze could scatter it further. Harold asked if he could feel how heavy the mailbag was and Jack reluctantly complied, sliding it over Harold’s shoulder.

“Hot damn, it’s like a boulder. You must be getting shoulders like an ox, Jack.”

Jack laughed uneasily and looked around. He thought he saw a curtain move in the Miller residence across the street.

“Now about that favor,” said Dillon.

Jack slouched. “You said there was no favor,” he whined. “Fucking . . . c’mon, guys.”

Harold adjusted the mailbag securely on his shoulder. With a petulant smile, he said, “Do us a quick favor, or you don’t get this back.”

“C’mon,” Jack moaned. “I’ll get canned, anyone sees you playing around with it.”

“Don’t do the favor, we return this bag to the post office and tell them we saw you chuck it in a dumpster behind the Wawa.”

“Jesus Christ, no . . .” Jack’s voice wilted. “All anyone ever gets is junk. That’s all it ever is. I may as well be called the junkman.”

“Junkman or not, you still have to deliver it, right Jackie?” said Harold.

Jack gnawed his thumbnail and thought about his hatred for Troutman. He’d never even seen the man and he hated him with a passion. Not many people had seen him nowadays, allegedly. And he only spoke directly with a handful of intimates—two of them being Harold and Dillon. The fact that Jack couldn’t put a face to his hatred made him hate the man even more. He imagined the old man was like the Crypt Keeper, with less charm.

With shaking hands, he applied ChapStick to his lips and said, “Well what’s the favor?”

“Need you to deliver a package to Miss Frick,” said Dillon.

“Very special delivery,” said Harold.

Jack waited for the punch line. “What’s it, a bomb?”

Harold laughed. “Mind of a degenerate. Don’t worry about what it is. All you’ve got to worry about is getting it inside her house.”

“How am I supposed to do that? Delivering a package don’t mean she invites me in for tea.”

“I figure you’ve got to take a leak,” said Harold. “You been out in that truck all day, pounding Red Bulls and you’ve got to piss so bad your teeth are floating in the yellow sea.”

“Why the package if I’m gonna ask her to use the john? Why not just ask to take a piss?”

“Troutman said give her the package too,” said Harold. “There ain’t no why.”

Dillon grunted in an affirmative, final manner.

Jack felt like crying. He’d woken up in bed, next to Wendy, beautiful Wendy, his hand on her bare hip. The dawn light making her skin glow. The taste of last night’s cocktails still on his lips.

He’d give anything to be back there.

He wiped his nose on his sleeve. “That it? I give her the package, I take a piss. That’s it then?”

“He wants you to take a look around,” said Dillon.

“You got those shifty eyes, Jack,” added Harold. “Time to put them to good use.”

“Look around for what?”

Dillon stuck his hand in his jacket. Jack flinched. Dillon pulled out a Polaroid and handed it to Jack. It was old, with rumpled edges.

Jack squinted, holding the photo inches from his face. “What am I looking at?”

“It’s a wall,” said Harold. “With yellow wallpaper. It’s faded a bit, but see, it’s got like a yellow floral design. Yellow ivy or something. You got to relax your eyes and look at it.”

“Troutman wants you to see if that wallpaper is still up in the house,” said Dillon. “He said it should be only up on one wall, if it’s still there. If it is, the man wants you to take a picture of it. As proof.”

“For real? He wants me to take a picture of a wall? That’s how come you two came all the way out here, to fuck me up and tell me to take a picture of a wall?”

“A wall with yellow floral wallpaper,” said Harold. “And don’t make me lose my manners now, Jack. Do not do that.”

“Well, shit, is it on the first floor or the second or what? Where do I even start?”

“That’s for you to find out. The man can’t remember.”

“I don’t know,” said Jack. “I don’t think she’ll let me in. She seems like a, you know, like a private person.”

“You have to try, Jack,” said Dillon.

“Look at me, guys. I mean . . . look at me. Would you invite me in to use your bathroom?”

“I wouldn’t let you fart within a block of my house,” said Harold. “But you have to try.”

“You have to try,” repeated Dillon, in a tone that let Jack know it wasn’t an option.

“Okay, well, if I do this, maybe one of you could get Baker’s ear? Ask him to shave some off my vig?”

Harold shrugged cheerfully. “Jack, we’d be more than happy to have that discussion later, after you do the thing.”

“Shit, guys.” Jack let out a collapsing sigh. “Do you have this package I’m supposed to deliver?”

“It’s in the car.” Dillon nodded behind them at the Caddie.

“If it’s the man’s sister, why can’t Troutman just go in there himself, look for the wallpaper?”

“Listening ears, Jack,” said Dillon. “We said they’re estranged.”

“Family shit,” said Harold, sadly shaking his head. “Always ugly.”

Jack licked his lips. Every year they started chapping with the slightest cold. Wendy was always sticking ChapStick in his work pockets. The cherry flavor he liked best. He’d give anything to be back in bed with her and those heavenly bare hips.

He said, “If the sister notices the box isn’t postmarked, she’ll be suspicious.”

“Still fishing for an excuse,” said Harold. “Tut tut, Black Jack. Who do you think we are? The thing’s postmarked. Don’t worry about that. Now, come on. Baker said you’re always down for whatever.”

“Baker’s an asshole.”

They walked to the Cadillac.

###

Dillon parked across from the corner of Potts and Juniper. The two-story house stood under the looming shadow of an ancient willow, whose gracing arms stretched above the roof, engulfing it. The house cut a mean profile, with its dark greys and deep purples. Dead leaves fluttered down on to the sloping roofs. The distinct, stone turret punctuated up one corner of the house, with a lone, round window near the top. Ivy crept up the stones, but hung on lightly, like the house was repelling nature. It humbled the rest of the neighborhood’s modest single-family homes. A black iron fence framed the property, like a warning.

To the right of the house’s blood red door, they could see the overflowing mailbox.

“Joint looks creepy.” said Harold.

Dillon grunted in agreement.

Harold opened the bag of salt and vinegar chips in his lap and started eating. “I could never live alone in a house that big. I’d start hearing voices or some shit. One time, I housesat for Walt, and he’s got that big townhouse, you know. Gave me the creeps being on the top floor, in the bedroom. I slept on the couch every night so I could watch the front door. You always got to be able to see the door.”

“It was their parents’ house,” said Dillon. “Built by Troutman’s grandfather. Back in the 1890s, I think.”

Harold crunched loudly. “What’s all that shit the man’s always talking about then? About how tough he had it as a kid? Looking at his dear old childhood home, I got to tell you, it doesn’t exactly scream hard times.”

“Just cause you come up in a fancy house doesn’t mean you got it easy. The parents could’ve been assholes. If anybody can relate to that, it’s you.”

“Amen. How come his sister lives in that Better Homes palace and Trout’s in that rinky-dink condo?”

“Have you ever been to his place? It’s nice. All modern conveniences and it overlooks the river. At night you can see the whole city lit up. As to how the sister got to keep the house, who the fuck knows. Daddy’s girl. I don’t know.”

“Maybe that’s why they don’t talk no more. Maybe Trout wanted the house but the folks left it to her when they kicked the bucket.” Harold balled up the empty bag of chips and shoved it into the larger bag of chips he used for trash. “You got any brothers or sisters?”

“A sister. Couple years older. Like Trout and his, we don’t talk. I’ve told you all this before.”

“When’s the last time you two spoke?”

Dillon’s head snapped to face Harold. “Quit asking about her.”

28 years, Dillon thought. 28 years since his sister had driven their mother to an early grave. It was the stress she caused. Dillon always knew it. The agita. Screaming at one another every day. Coming to blows a couple times. In between their bouts, the godforsaken silence was even worse. You could cut the tension in their home with a spoon. No wonder Dillon took to the streets. Who the hell would want to live in a house that toxic?

Dillon pushed the memories back down into the recesses of his mind.

“Me? I slept on the floor as a kid,” said Harold. “Rotten den. Nicotine dripping from the ceiling in the summer. Whole dump smelled like ma’s Bacardi breath and her boyfriends’ B.O. You remember that flop?”

Dillon dully grunted. Of course he remembered.

Harold’s mom, Lisa, worked for Troutman. “Entertaining” clients. Dillon’s job back then was to make sure the clients didn’t get too rowdy with the women—back when Troutman dabbled in the skin trade. That felt like a lifetime ago. When the night was over, Dillon would drive Lisa back to her crummy apartment above the laundromat. Walk her upstairs. Dillon was worried he’d get herpes just looking at her.

Young Harold was left to fend for himself on nights his mom was entertaining, which was most nights. Dillon would find him sitting on the floor, eating uncooked macaroni and whatever scraps the mice in the cupboards hadn’t gotten to before him.

The smell of that apartment was distinct—dank Tupperware. That subtle, sour smell the plastic gets after years of use, after years of leftovers coagulating. The place was so small and shoddy, the windowpanes would rattle when you walked. Dillon remembered how young Harold used to walk with a light step—afraid to make noise and summon a beating. Harold stepped lightly to this day.

One late night, Dillon dropped Lisa off and found Harold with two black eyes and a split lip. Harold couldn’t’ve been more than 13 at the time. One eye was swollen all the way shut. Lisa didn’t seem to notice. Or if she did, it didn’t faze her. Dillon crouched over young Harold and asked him what had happened. Harold pointed at his mom’s bedroom with a broken purple crayon.

Lisa’s new boyfriend Graham was passed out on the bed. A shithead cop in Troutman’s pocket. Guess he thought the badge made him invincible. A bottle of Smirnoff lied exhausted on the lamp table next to him. Dillon rolled up his sleeves and closed the bedroom door.

That was the last time Harold ever saw his mom. Troutman let him work as an errand boy. Mostly keeping an eye on people for the man. Harold thought it was cool. He felt like a spy. Then once Harold could handle a gun, the man partnered him up with Dillon.

Dillon stared straight ahead at the old house. Harold nudged him with his elbow.

“You listening to me?” said Harold. “I’m pouring my heart out here.”

“Just thinking,” said Dillon.

“About what?”

“About what’s behind that wall.”

“The one with the yellow wallpaper?”

Dillon nodded. “There’s more in that house than peeling wallpaper.”

“No doubt. But like we told Jack, it’s not our place to worry about that. Troutman liked the wallpaper as a kid? He blew his first load in that room? Who cares? He wanted us to know, he would’ve told us.”

“I don’t even think Troutman knows. You said yourself he’s slipping upstairs.”

“Yeah, but the man had a photo of the shit. An old photo. He carried it around like a photo of his grandchild. It’s got to mean something to him.”

Dillon gave a slight laugh-grunt. “Troutman ever strike you as the sentimental type?”

Harold thought on it a moment. “You know what we should do? We should ask Walt. He’s known Troutman since the Kennedy administration.”

“If the man wanted Walt involved, he’d have gotten him involved. He’s got us on this thing. That’s enough.”

“It wouldn’t hurt to ask. We’re just curious, is all. It’s a curious thing. All of this.”

Dillon grunted, less enthusiastically this time.

The mail truck cruised up to the curb outside the front of the house. A few seconds later, Jack Dobbs came out holding the small, brown package Troutman had wrapped up for his sister. Jack tossed a nod at the Caddie.

“Jerkoff,” said Harold, picking crumbs out of his teeth. “He even walks dishonestly.”

The hinges on the iron fence’s gate squeaked horribly and Jack clenched his teeth at the sound. He seemed to hesitate, but changed his mind and shuffled down the walkway and up the porch’s steps to the red door. The intensity of the door’s color was a bold sight against the house’s dark grey siding—chipped and fading.

Harold and Dillon watched as Jack knocked and waited. He shambled nervously in front of the door. Finally, it opened.

“Is she wearing a robe?” said Harold, squinting. “Norma fucking Desmond over here.”

They were too distant to make out her face. Jack handed her the package and started into a little pee-pee dance.

Harold laughed. Dillon laughed without smiling.

Jack danced for almost a minute before Miss Frick let him in the house. He squeezed past her. She dipped her head outside and looked around suspiciously. Satisfied her mailman had shown up alone, she shut the door.

“Son of a bitch,” said Harold. “Black Jack might have some charm in him after all.”

Dillon grunted.

“Maybe she’s lonely,” Harold added. “Maybe he’ll get laid.”

Dillon sat in silence and watched the red door and thought about the yellow wallpaper.

“You ever been inside Troutman’s condo?” said Harold.

Dillon grumbled in the negative. “No. Walt told me about it.”

###

Harold lounged in the passenger seat and watched a guy down the street hang homemade ghosts from a tree on his well-manicured lawn. The ghosts were made of white bed sheets, with black eyes and mouths painted on them. Classic spooky style, Harold thought, appreciatively. The guy already had out some homemade tombstones, complete with puns, stuck crookedly around the lawn. The one that read “I.M. Wormfood” got a laugh from Harold.

Dillon continued staring at the house and shook his head. “How long’s it been?”

Harold checked his watch. “About 10 minutes. It’s a big house, Dillon. A lot of ground to cover. A lot of rooms to check for stupid wallpaper.”

“I don’t know. Something’s off.”

“Plus, maybe he really is getting laid.”

Dillon pushed his sunglasses tighter up his nose. “I don’t like this. Doesn’t feel right.”

“What doesn’t?”

Dillon grunted dismissively. Harold could usually decipher Dillon’s grumbles. This one was cryptic. A subterranean message from deep within his throat. Something was really bugging his partner.

“Jesus Christ, we’ll be home by dinner,” said Harold. “That’s what’s important. Now let’s just sit tight and wait for Black Jack to—”

“There he is.”

Jack came out of the red door and hobbled awkwardly down the wooden steps. A blurry flash of Miss Frick appeared in the doorway before the phantom lady vanished back inside.

Harold and Dillon could hear the screech of the iron gate as it closed shut behind Jack. He walked past his mail truck and toward the Caddie.

“Why’s he coming over here?” said Harold, slouching in his seat. “Goddamn jerkoff.”

Jack continued toward the Caddie. He looked pale.

Dillon rolled his window down and growled at Jack, “Get back to your truck. Meet us at the Wawa, like we said.”

Jack leaned into the window. When he opened his mouth nothing came out. He scowled and looked at Dillon, confused.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” said Dillon. “Get back in your mail truck and drive away.”

Jack held up his hands. His palms were smeared with blood.

“Oh shit,” said Harold.

Jack unzipped his postman’s jacket. Blood oozed out from a wound in his side.

“Harold, get something for the backseat,” ordered Dillon.

Harold thought fast. He ran out of the Caddie and over to the mail truck. Jack had left the back door open. Harold scooped up as many circulars as he could carry. While he spread them over the backseat, Dillon rested his pistol in his lap, one eye on the red door.

Jack leaned on the roof of the Caddie and waited with a strange patience. Time had stopped. He didn’t blame Dillon for not wanting to get blood in his car. It sure was a nice car.

The backseat lined with circulars, like a luxury birdcage, Harold swung the door open and helped Jack crawl in. Resting on his good side, he let out a shrill moan that sent chills from Harold’s earhole to his asshole.

Harold folded up a circular and forced it into Jack’s hand

“Here, press down hard as you can on the wound. Guess all that junk mail serves a purpose after all, huh?”

Jack tried to laugh but it hurt too much.

As they pulled away from the curb, a strong gust of wind travelled through the street. One of the ghosts the man was hanging in the tree blew into his face, knocking him off balance. Harold watched as it thrashed against the man, who desperately tried to get the bedsheet off his face. The ladder tipped and the man fell off—crashing on to one of the tombstones.

Harold saw this and trembled. He buckled his seatbelt.

Dillon drove as casually as possible out of the neighborhood. Harold took one more look at the house. Behind a pane of frosted glass at the top of the turret, the shape of the old woman stood over them.

Next Chapter: Part Three: King Nigel