Рита Браун - Wish You Were Here

That night Mrs. Murphy and Tucker tried to distract Harry from her low mood. One of their favorite tricks was the Plains Indian game. Mrs. Murphy would lie on her back, reach around Tucker, and hang on like an Indian under a pony. Tucker would yell, “Yi, yi, yi,” as though she were scared, then try to dump her passenger. Harry laughed when they did this. Tonight she just smiled.

The dog and cat followed her to bed and when they were sure she was sound asleep they bolted out the back door, which contained an animal door that opened into a dog run. Mrs. Murphy knew how to throw the latch, though, and the two of them loped across the meadows, fresh-smelling with new-mown hay.

There wasn’t a car on the road.

About half a mile from the concrete plant Mrs. Murphy spied glittering eyes in the brush. “Coon up ahead.”

“Think he’ll fight?” Tucker stopped for a minute.

“If we have to make a detour, we might not get back by morning.”

Tucker called out, “We won’t chase you. We’re on our way to the concrete plant.”

“The hell you won’t,” the raccoon snarled.

“Honest, we won’t.” Mrs. Murphy sounded more convincing than Tucker.

“Maybe you will and maybe you won’t. Give me a head start. I might believe you then.” With that the wily animal disappeared into the bushes.

“Let’s go,” Mrs. Murphy said.

“And let’s hope he keeps his promise. I’m not up for a fight with one of those guys tonight.”

The raccoon kept his word, didn’t jump out at them, and they arrived at the plant within fifteen minutes.

The dew held what scent there was on the ground. Much had evaporated. Gasoline fumes and rock dust pervaded. Human smells were everywhere, as was the scent of wet concrete and stale blood. Tucker, nose to the ground, kept at it. Mrs. Murphy checked out the office building. She couldn’t get in. No windows were open; there were no holes in the foundation. She grumbled.

A tang exploded in Tucker’s nostrils. “Here!”

Mrs. Murphy raced over and put her nose to the ground. “Where’s it go?”

“It doesn’t.” Tucker couldn’t fathom this. “It’s just a whiff, like a little dot. No line. Like something spilled.”

“It does smell like a turtle.” The cat scratched behind her ears.

“Kinda.”

“I’ve never smelled anything quite like it—have you?”

“Never.”

5

Even Mrs. George Hogendobber’s impassioned monologue on the evils of this world failed to rouse Mrs. Murphy and Tucker. Before Mrs. Hogendobber had both feet through the front door she had declared that Adam fell from grace over the apple, then man broke the covenant with God, a flood cleansed us by killing everyone but Noah and family, Moses couldn’t prevent his flock from worshipping the golden calf, and Jezebel was on every street corner, to say nothing of record covers. These pronouncements were not necessarily in historical order but there was a clear thread woven throughout: We are by nature sinful and unclean. This, naturally, led to Kelly Craycroft’s death. Mrs. H. sidestepped revealing exactly how Hebrew history as set down in the Old Testament culminated in the extinction of a paving contractor.

Harry figured if Mrs. Hogendobber could live with her logical lacunae, so could she.

Tossing her junk mail in the wastebasket, Mrs. Hogendobber spoke exhaustingly of Holofernes and Judith. Before reaching their gruesome biblical conclusion she paused, a rarity in itself, walked over to the counter, and glanced over. “Where are the animals?”

“Out cold. Lazy things,” Harry answered. “In fact, they were so sluggish this morning that I drove them to work.”

“You spoil those creatures, Harry, and you need a new truck.”

“Guilty as charged.”

Josiah entered as Harry uttered the word guilty .

“I knew it was you all along.” He pointed at Harry. The soft pink of his Ralph Lauren polo shirt accented his tan.

“You shouldn’t joke about a thing like that.” Mrs. Hogendobber’s nostrils flared.

“Oh, come now, Mrs. Hogendobber, I’m not joking about the Craycroft murder. You’re oversensitive. We all are. It’s been a terrible shock.”

“Indeed it has. Indeed it has. Put not thy faith in worldly things, Mr. DeWitt.”

Josiah beamed at her. “I’m afraid I do, ma’am. In a world of impermanence I take the best impermanence I can find.”

A swirl of color rose on Mrs. Hogendobber’s beautifully preserved cheeks. “You’re witty and sought-after and too clever by half. People like you come to a bad end.”

“Perhaps, but think of the fun I’ll have getting there, and I really can’t see that you’re having any fun at all.”

“I will not stand here and be insulted.” Mrs. Hogendobber’s color glowed crimson.

“Oh, come on, Mrs. H., you don’t walk on water,” Josiah coolly replied.

“Exactly! I can’t swim.” Her color deepened. She felt the insult keenly; she would never think of comparing herself to Jesus. She turned to Harry. “Good day, Harry.” With forced dignity, Mrs. Hogendobber left the post office.

“Good day, Mrs. Hogendobber.” Harry turned to the howling Josiah. “She has absolutely no sense of humor and you’re too hard on her. She’s quite upset. What seems a trifle to you is major to her.”

“Oh, hell, Harry, she bores you every bit as much as she bores me. Truth?”

Harry wasn’t looking for an argument. She was conversant with Mrs. Hogendobber’s faults and the woman did bore her to tears, but Mrs. Hogendobber was fundamentally good. You couldn’t say that about everybody.

“Josiah, her values are spiritual and yours aren’t. She’s overbearing and narrow-minded about religion but if I were sick and called her at three in the morning, she’d be there.”

“Well”—his color was brighter now, too—“I hope you know I would come over too. You only have to ask. I value you highly, Harry.”

“Thank you, Josiah.” Harry wondered if he valued her at all.

“Did I tell you I am to be Mrs. Sanburne’s walker for the funeral? It’s not Newport but it’s just as important.”

Josiah often escorted Mim. They had their spats but Mim was not a woman to attend social gatherings without clinging to the arm of a male escort, and Jim would be in Richmond on the day of Kelly’s funeral. Josiah adored escorting Mim; unlike Jim, he placed great store on status, and like Mim he needed much external proof of that status. They’d jet to parties in New York, Palm Beach, wherever the rich congregated. Mim and Josiah thought nothing of a weekend in London or Vienna if the guest list was right. What bored Jim about his wife thrilled Josiah.

“I dread the funeral.” Harry did, too.

“Harry, try Ajax.”