Рита Браун - Wish You Were Here

Bob said something; his voice was low. The color ran out of Kelly’s face.

Bob walked over to his truck, got in, started the motor, and pulled out as Kelly staggered to his feet.

Jolted by the sight of blood, Harry shelved any concern about manners. She opened the door, hurrying over to Kelly.

“Better put some ice on that. Come on, I’ve got some in the refrigerator.”

Kelly, still dazed, didn’t reply immediately.

“Kelly?”

“Oh—yeah.”

Harry led him into the post office. She dumped the ice out of the tray onto a paper towel.

Kelly was reading his postcard when she handed him the ice. He sat down on the bench, rolled up his pants leg, and winced when the cold first touched his leg. He stuck his mail in his back pocket.

“Want me to call Doc?” Harry offered.

“No.” Kelly half smiled. “Pretty embarrassing, huh?”

“No more embarrassing than my divorce.”

That made Kelly laugh. He relaxed a bit. “Hey, Mary Minor Haristeen, there is no such thing as a good divorce. Even if both parties start out with the best of intentions, when the lawyers get into it, the whole process turns to shit.”

“God, I hope not.”

“Trust me. It gets worse before it gets better.” Kelly removed the ice. The bleeding had stopped.

“Keep it on a little longer,” Harry advised. “It will prevent swelling.”

Kelly replaced the makeshift ice pack. “It’s none of my business, but you should have ditched Fair Haristeen years ago. You kept hanging in there trying to make it work. All you did was waste time. You cast your pearls before swine.”

Harry wasn’t quite ready to hear her husband referred to as swine, but Kelly was right: She should have gotten out earlier. “We all learn at our own rates of speed.”

He nodded. “True enough. It took me this long to realize that Bob Berryman, ex–football hero of Crozet High, is a damned wimp. I mean, pushing me down the steps, for chrissake. Because of a bill. Accusing me of overcharging him for a driveway. I’ve been in business for myself for twelve years now and no one’s accused me of overcharging.”

“It could have been worse.” Harry smiled.

“Oh, yeah?” Kelly glanced up quizzically.

“Could have been Josiah DeWitt.”

“You got that right.” Kelly rolled down his pants leg. He tossed the paper towel in the trash, said, “Harry, hang in there,” and left the post office.

She watched him move more slowly than usual and then she returned to her tasks.

Harry was re-inking her stamp pads and cleaning the clogged ink out of the letters on the rubber stamps. She’d gotten to the point where she had maroon ink on her forehead as well as all over her fingers when Big Marilyn Sanburne, “Mim,” marched in. Marilyn belonged to that steel-jawed set of women who were honorary men. She was called Big Marilyn or Mim to distinguish her from her daughter, Little Marilyn. At fifty-four she retained a cold beauty that turned heads. Burdened with immense hours of leisure, she stuck her finger in every civic pie, and her undeniable energy sent other volunteers to the bar or into fits.

“Mrs. Haristeen”—Mim observed the mess—“have you committed a murder?”

“No—just thinking about it.” Harry slyly smiled.

“First on my list is the State Planning Commission. They’ll never put a western bypass through this country. I’ll fight to my last breath! I’d like to hire an F-14 and bomb them over there in Richmond.”

“You’ll have plenty of volunteers to help you, me included.” Harry wiped, but the ink was stubborn.

Mim enjoyed the opportunity to lord it over someone, anyone. Jim Sanburne, her husband, had started out life on a dirt farm, and fought and scratched his way to about sixty million dollars. Despite Jim’s wealth, Mim knew she had married beneath her and she was a woman who needed external proof of her social status. She needed her name in the Social Register. Jim thought it foolish. Her marriage was a constant trial. It was to Jim, too. He ran his empire, ran Crozet because he was mayor, but he couldn’t run Mim.

“Well, have you reconsidered your divorce?” Mim sounded like a teacher.

“No.” Harry blushed from anger.

“Fair’s no better or worse than any other man. Put a paper bag over their heads and they’re all the same. It’s the bank account that’s important. A woman alone has trouble, you know.”

Harry wanted to say, “Yes, with snobs like you,” but she shut up.

“Do you have gloves?”

“Why?”

“To help me carry in Little Marilyn’s wedding invitations. I don’t want to befoul them. Tiffany stationery, dear.”

“Wait a minute, here.” Harry rooted around.

“You put them next to the bin,” Tucker informed her.

“I’ll take you to the bathroom in a minute, Tucker,” Harry told the dog.

“I’ll knock them on the floor. See if she gets it.” Mrs. Murphy nimbly trotted the length of the counter, carefully sidestepping the ink and stamps, and with one gorgeous leap landed on the shelf, where she pushed off the gloves.

“The cat knocked your gloves off the shelf.”

Harry turned as the gloves hit the floor. “So she has. She must know what we’re saying.” Harry smiled, then followed Big Marilyn out to her copen-blue Volvo.

“Sometimes I wonder why I put up with her,” Mrs. Murphy complained.

“Don’t start. You’d be lost without Harry.”

“She is good-hearted, I will admit, but Lord, she’s slow.”

“They all are,” Tucker agreed.

Harry and Mim returned carrying two cardboard boxes filled with pale cream invitations.

“Well, Harry, you will know who is invited and who isn’t before anyone else.”

“I usually do.”

“You, of course, are invited, despite your current, uh, problem. Little Marilyn adores you.”

Little Marilyn did no such thing but no one dared not invite Harry, because it would be so rude. She really did know every guest list in town. Because she knew everything and everybody, it was shrewd to keep on Harry’s good side. Big Marilyn considered her a “resource person.”

“Everything is divided up by zip code and tied.” Mim tapped the counter. “And don’t pick them up without your gloves on, Harry. You’re never going to get that ink off your fingers.”

“Promise.”

“I’ll leave it to you, then.”

No sooner had she relieved Harry of her presence than Josiah DeWitt appeared, tipping his hat and chatting outside to Mim for a moment. He wore white pants and a white shirt and a snappy boater on his head, the very image of summer. He pushed open the door, touched the brim of his hat, and smiled broadly at the postmistress.

“I have affixed yet another date with the wellborn Mrs. Sanburne. Tea at the club.” His eyes twinkled. “I don’t mind that she gossips. I mind that she does it so badly.”