Рита Браун: Rest In Pieces

Both gentlemen rose to go and she forgot to give Blair one of her pumpkins, a lesser specimen because she was saving the monster pumpkin for the Harvest Fair.

Blair walked with Reverend Jones to his church and then bade him goodbye, turning back to the post office. He passed a vagrant wearing old jeans and a baseball jacket and walking along the railroad track. The man appeared ageless; he could have been thirty or fifty. The sight startled him. Blair hadn’t expected to see someone like that in Crozet.

As Blair pushed open the post office door Tucker rushed out to greet him. Mrs. Murphy withheld judgment. Dogs needed affection and attention so much that in Mrs. Murphy’s estimation they could be fooled far more easily than a cat could be. If she’d given herself a minute to think, though, she would have had to admit she was being unfair to her best friend. Tucker’s feelings about people hit the bull’s-eye more often than not. Mrs. Murphy did allow herself a stretch on the counter and Blair came over to scratch her ears.

“Good afternoon, critters.”

They replied, as did Harry from the back room. “Sounds like my new neighbor. Check your box. You’ve got a pink package slip.”

As Blair slipped the key into the ornate post box he called out to Harry, “Is the package pink too?”

The sound of the package hitting the counter coincided with Blair’s shutting his box. A slap and a click. He snapped his fingers to add to the rhythm.

Harry drawled, “Musical?”

“Happy.”

“Good.” She shoved the package toward him.

“Mind if I open this?”

“No, you’ll satisfy my natural curiosity.” She leaned over as Little Marilyn Sanburne flounced through the door accompanied by her husband, who sported new horn-rimmed glasses. Fitz-Gilbert Hamilton devoured Esquire and GQ . The results were as one saw.

“A bum on the streets of Crozet!” Little Marilyn complained.

“What?”

Little Marilyn pointed. Harry came out from behind the counter to observe the scraggly, bearded fellow, his face in profile. She returned to her counter.

Fitz-Gilbert said, “Some people have bad luck.”

“Some people are lazy,” declared Little Marilyn, who had never worked a day in her life.

She bumped into Blair when she whirled around to behold the wanderer one more time.

“Sorry. Let me get out of your way.” Blair pushed his carton over to the side of the counter.

Harry began introductions.

Fitz-Gilbert stuck out his hand and heartily said, “Fitz-Gilbert Hamilton. Princeton, 1980.”

Blair blinked and then shook his hand. “Blair Bainbridge. Yale, 1979.”

That caught Fitz-Gilbert off guard for a moment. “Before that?”

“St. Paul’s,” came the even reply.

“Andover,” Fitz-Gilbert said.

“I bet you boys have friends in common,” Little Marilyn added—without interest, since the conversation was not about her.

“We’ll have to sit down over a brew and find out,” Fitz-Gilbert offered. He was genuinely friendly, while his wife was merely correct.

“Thank you. I’d enjoy that. I’m over at Foxden.”

“We know.” Little Marilyn added her two cents.

“Small town. Everybody knows everything.” Fitz-Gilbert laughed.

The Hamiltons left laden with mail and mail-order catalogues.

“Crozet’s finest.” Blair looked to Harry.

“They think so.” Harry saw no reason to disguise her assessment of Little Marilyn and her husband.

Mrs. Murphy hopped into Blair’s package.

“Why don’t you like them?” Blair inquired.

“It helps if you meet Momma. Big Marilyn—or Mim.”

“Big Marilyn?”

“I kid you not. You’ve just had the pleasure of meeting Little Marilyn. Her father is the mayor of Crozet and they have more money than God. She married Fitz-Gilbert a year or so ago in a social extravaganza on a par with the wedding of Prince Charles and Lady Di. Didn’t Mrs. Hogendobber fill you in?”

“She allowed as how everyone here has a history which she would be delighted to relate, but the Reverend Jones interrupted her plans, I think.” Blair started to laugh. The townspeople were nothing if not amusing and he liked Harry. He had liked her right off the bat, a phrase that kept circling in his brain although he didn’t know why.

Harry noticed Mrs. Murphy rustling in Blair’s package. “Hey, hey, out of there, Miss Puss.”

In reply Mrs. Murphy scrunched farther down in the box. Only the tips of her ears showed.

Harry leaned over the box. “Scram.”

Mrs. Murphy meowed, a meow of consummate irritation.

Blair laughed. “What’d she say?”

“Don’t rain on my parade,” Harry replied, and to torment the cat she placed the box on the floor.

“No, she didn’t,” Tucker yelped. “She said, ‘Eat shit and die.’ ”

“Shut up, Fuckface,” Mrs. Murphy rumbled from the depths of the carton, the tissue paper crinkling in a manner most exciting to her ears.

Tucker, not one to be insulted, ran to the box and began pulling on the flap.

“Cut it out,” came the voice from within.

Now Tucker stopped and stuck her head in the box, cold nose right in Mrs. Murphy’s face. The cat jumped straight up out of the box, turned in midair, and grabbed on to the dog. Tucker stood still and Mrs. Murphy rolled under the dog’s belly. Then Tucker raced around the post office, the cat dangling underneath like a Sioux on the warpath.

Blair Bainbridge bent over double, he was laughing so hard.

Harry laughed too. “Small pleasures.”

“Not small—large indeed. I don’t know when I’ve seen anything so funny.”

Mrs. Murphy dropped off. Tucker raced back to the box. “I win.”

“Do you have anything fragile in there?” Harry asked.

“No. Some gardening tools.” He opened the box to show her. “I ordered this stuff for bulb planting. If I get right on it I think I can have a lovely spring.”

“I’ve got a tractor. It’s near to forty years old but it works just fine. Let me know when you need it.”

“Uh, well, I wouldn’t know what to do with it. I don’t know how to drive one,” Blair confessed.

“Where are you from, Mr. Bainbridge?”

“New York City.”

Harry considered this. “Were you born there?”

“Yes, I was. I grew up on East Sixty-fourth.”

A Yankee. Harry decided not to give it another minute’s thought. “Well, I’ll teach you how to drive the tractor.”

“I’ll pay you for it.”

“Oh, Mr. Bainbridge.” Harry’s voice registered surprise. “This is Crozet. This is Virginia.” She paused and lowered her voice. “This is the South. Someday, something will turn up that you can do for me. Don’t say anything about money. Anyway, that’s what’s wrong with Little Marilyn and Fitz-Gilbert. Too much money.”