Рита Браун - Wish You Were Here

“That’s the purpose of a submarine sandwich. To make us look foolish.” Susan giggled.

Maude Bly Modena came in at that moment. She started to walk over to takeout, then saw Harry and Susan. She ambled over for a polite exchange. “Use a knife and fork. What’d you do to your hands?”

“I was cleaning stamps.”

“I, for one, don’t care if my first class is blurred. Better than having you look like Lady Macbeth.”

“I’ll keep it in mind,” Harry replied.

“I’d stay and chew the fat, ladies, but I’ve got to get back to the shop.”

Maude Bly Modena had moved to Crozet from New York five years ago. She opened a packing store—cartons, plastic peanuts, papers, the works—and the store was a smash. An old railroad lorry sat in the front yard and she would put floral displays and the daily store discounts on the lorry. She knew how to attract customers and she herself was attractive, in her late thirties. At Christmastime there were lines to get into her store. She was a sharp businesswomen and friendly, to boot, which was a necessity in these parts. In time the residents forgave her that unfortunate accent.

Maude waved goodbye as she passed the picture window. Harry and Susan waved in return.

“I keep thinking Maude will find Mr. Right. She’s so attractive.”

“Mr. Wrong’s more like it.”

“Sour grapes.”

“Am I like that, Susan? I hope not. I mean, I could rattle off the names of bitter divorced women and we’d be here all afternoon. I don’t want to join that club.”

Susan patted Harry’s hand. “You’re too sensitive, as I’ve said before. You’ll cycle through all kinds of emotions. For lack of a better term, sour grapes is one of them. I’m sorry if I hurt your feelings.”

Harry squirmed in her seat. “I feel as if there’s no coating on my nerve endings.” She settled in her chair. “You’re right about Maude. She’s got a lot going for her. There ought to be someone out there for her. Someone who would appreciate her—and her business success too.”

Susan’s eyes danced. “Maybe she’s got a lover.”

“No way. You can’t burp in your kitchen but what everyone knows it. No way.” Harry shook her head.

“I wonder.” Susan poured herself more Tab. “Remember Terrance Newton? We all thought we knew Terrance.”

Harry thought about that. “Well, we were teenagers. I mean, if we had been adults, maybe we’d have picked up on something. The vibes.”

“An insurance executive we all know goes home, shoots his wife and himself. My recollection is the adults were shocked. No one picked up on anything. If you can keep up your facade, people accept that. Very few people look beneath the surface.”

Harry sighed. “Maybe everyone’s too busy.”

“Or too self-centered.” Susan drummed the table with her fingers. “What I’m getting at is that maybe we don’t know one another as well as we think we do. It’s a small-town illusion—thinking we know each other.”

Harry quietly played with her sub. “You know me. I think I know you.”

“That’s different. We’re best friends.” Susan polished off her sandwich and grabbed her brownie. “Imagine being Stafford Sanburne and not being invited to your sister’s wedding.”

“That was a leap.”

“Like I said, we’re best friends. I don’t have to think in sequence around you.” Susan laughed.

“Stafford sent Fair a postcard. ‘Hang in there, buddy.’ Come to think of it, that’s what Kelly said to me. Hey, you missed it. Kelly Craycroft and Bob Berryman had a fight, fists and all.”

“You wait until now to tell me!”

“So much else has been going on, it slipped my mind. Kelly said it was about a paving bill. Bob thinks he overcharged him.”

“Bob Berryman may not be Mr. Charm but that doesn’t sound like him, to fight over a bill.”

“Hey, like I said, maybe we don’t really know one another.”

Harry picked tomatoes out of her sandwich. They were the culprits; she was sure the meat, cheese, and pickles would stay inside without those slimy tomatoes. She slapped the bread back together as Mrs. Murphy reached across the plate to hook a piece of roast beef. “Mrs. Murphy, that will do.” Harry used her commanding mother voice. It would work at the Pentagon. Mrs. Murphy withdrew her paw.

“Maybe we should rejoice that Little Marilyn’s made a match at last,” Susan said.

“You don’t think that Little Marilyn bagged Fitz-Gilbert Hamilton by herself, do you?”

Susan considered this. “She’s got her mother’s beauty.”

“And is cold as a wedge.”

“No, she isn’t. She’s quiet and shy.”

“Susan, you’ve liked her since we were kids and I never could stand Little Marilyn. She’s such a momma’s baby.”

“You drove your mother wild.”

“I did not.”

“Oh, yeah, how about the time you put your lace underpants over her license plate and she drove around the whole day not knowing why everyone was honking at her and laughing.”

“That.” Harry remembered. She missed her mother terribly. Grace Minor had died unexpectedly of a heart attack four years earlier, and Cliff, her husband, followed within the year. He couldn’t make a go of it without Grace and he admitted as much on his deathbed. They were not rich people by any means but they left Harry a lovely clapboard house two miles west of town at the foot of Little Yellow Mountain and they also left a small trust fund, which paid for taxes on the house and pin money. A house without a mortgage is a wonderful inheritance, and Harry and Fair were happy to move from their rented house on Myrtle Street. Of course, when Harry asked Fair to leave, he complained bitterly that he had always hated living in her parents’ house.

“Fitz-Gilbert Hamilton is ugly as sin, but he’s never going to need food stamps and he’s a Richmond lawyer of much repute—at least that’s what Ned says.”

“Too much fuss over this marriage. You marry in haste and repent in leisure.”

“Don’t be sour.” Susan’s eyes shot upward.

“The happiest day of my life was when I married Pharamond Haristeen and the next happiest day of my life was when I threw him out. He’s full of shit and he’s not going to get any sympathy from me. God, Susan, he’s running all over town, the picture of the wounded male. He has dinner every night with a different couple. I heard that Mim Sanburne offered her maid to do his laundry for him. I can’t believe it.”

Susan sighed. “He seems to relish being a victim.”

“Well, I sure don’t.” Harry practically spat. “The only thing worse than being a veterinarian’s wife is being a doctor’s wife.”

“That’s not why you want to divorce him.”

“No, I guess not. I don’t want to talk about this.”

“You started it.”

“Did I?” Harry seemed surprised. “I didn’t mean to. . . . I’d like to forget the whole thing. We were talking about Little Marilyn Sanburne.”