Free Snow Globes and Hand Grenades by Kevin Killeen Page B

On last year’s trip, he got a sudden violent jerk on his line from a fish that awoke him from a nap in his shore chair. The drag on his reel was whining and grinding as the fish pulled out more and more line. He leaped up, planted his feet in the mud and gripped the pole as tight as he could, fighting with the unseen fish for two minutes before it shot up above the water. It was a large mouth bass, a five pounder.
    Patrick and Tony ran up behind the mailman.
    The fish arced and skipped and thrashed and buffeted across the sun streaked lake chop. “You’re not getting away from me,” the mailman told the fish.
    Just then the mailman felt a violent tug on his leather bag shoulder strap. It slipped off his shoulder and fell halfway down his arm. But he cocked his elbow shut tight, pinning the strap between his arm muscles, and looked to see what it was.
    Two boys in nothing but white underwear and masks were yanking on the mailbag.
    The mailman’s heart hammered. “I’ve got you,” he yelled. The boys jerked and twisted and pulled on the strap. Swatting them with a fistful of letters in his left hand, the mailman kept his bag strap tight in his clenched right arm. He danced toward the boys on the sloped lawn, letting them run with the bait a little to tire them out. They fought and pulled, moving about eight feet away from the spot of the original strike. It was no use. Patrick and Tony were panting inside their masks, losing energy. Their naked skin was pink with over exertion. “You’re not getting away from me,” the mailman thundered. But just as he said that—the strap went slack.
    Tony gave it one more sudden pull and the mailbag snapped loose from the shoulder strap. The mailman fell backwards one way, and the boys fell backwards the other.
    â€œLet’s go,” Tony yelled.
    The boys jumped up and Patrick took the mailbag. They ran through front yards barefoot in the grass while the mailman watched lying on his back. Patrick started throwing out a trail of coupons and junk mail, bank statements and anything that didn’t look like a regular letter Mimi had described. They darted to the right between two houses and started looping back to get their clothes.
    â€œHave you got it?” Tony said running.
    â€œI’m looking for the last name,” Patrick said tossing out more utility bills and credit card offers addressed to Mimi’s neighbors. They passed a retired man in one back yard practicing his nine iron shots with a plastic golf ball. He wore a light windbreaker and was whistling “Stardust.” His back was to them and he didn’t see a thing.
    The mailman clambered to his feet and tucked in his shirt. He picked up some letters he had dropped and stumbled up the front steps of Mimi’s house and pounded on the door. Mimi’s mother, who had been on the sofa watching
The Young and the Restless
, jumped up to unlock the door.
    â€œWhat’s wrong?”
    The mailman leaned against the doorframe, panting. “Call the police. They attacked me.”
    â€œWho?” She looked around.
    â€œNixon and another guy, both in their underwear.”
    Mimi’s mom leaned farther out the front door and saw the trail of letters on the lawns. The mailman handed her a stack of bills—and Mimi’s letter—which had been in his delivery hand when the attack began.
    Patrick and Tony reached the bushes where their clothes were hidden and fell to their knees. They took off their masks. Patrick dumped over the mailbag in the mud. They rifled through the letters with their gloved hands.
    â€œI can’t find it. There’s nothing here.”
    â€œWell, we can at least tell her the good news. There was no mail for her house today.”
    Mimi’s mom threw the mail down atop the closed lid of the upright piano and called the police. She brought the mailman a glass of water, which he drank sitting on the front porch steps.