David Handler - The Snow White Christmas Cookie

Rut answered the door wearing a navy blue wool bathrobe over a flannel shirt, baggy slacks and carpet slippers. “Good morning, young fella,” he said, turning up both of his hearing aids. “I can see from your long face that you’ve come to bring me some sad news. I’ll spare you the discomfort. I already heard about him from the Jewett girls. So let’s you and me crack open a couple of bottles of stout and drink to the poor son of a bitch. Somebody ought to.”

“All right, Rut,” Mitch said, unzipping his coat.

“Nice to be back in my own place, let me tell you,” Rut chattered as he led him into the parlor, where a fire was going in the potbelly stove. “Not that I’ve had more than two minutes to myself. Mary insisted on tucking me into bed last night at ten o’clock sharp. Made sure I took my pills. And when I opened my eyes at six this morning Madge was already here to feed me my breakfast and more pills. And then Tina showed up to clean up from last night. She just left. I’ll let you in on a little secret-the timing of this here snowstorm suits me just fine. I’d much rather be here than at some halfway house for the soon-to-be departed. But the doctors won’t allow me to be on my own anymore. It seems I get to thinking on things and forget where I am.”

“That happens to me with great regularity.”

“At your age it’s okay. But when you get to be my age people take a mighty dim view of it-especially when you’re behind the wheel of a moving automobile at the time.” Rut tottered into the kitchen and returned a moment later carrying two glasses of foamy stout on a serving tray along with a plate of leftover deviled eggs and ham sandwiches. He set the tray on the coffee table. They raised their glasses in the air. “Here’s to Bryce, who never had a happy day in his life,” the old fellow declared. “I hope he’s found himself some peace.”

They drank. Then Rut eased himself slowly down into his favorite overstuffed chair, his slippered feet up on the ottoman.

Mitch sat in a chair across the coffee table from him, helping himself to a deviled egg. “Is it true that he owned the house on Big Sister?”

“He did indeed,” Rut confirmed. “Lucas left it to him, which riled Preston to no end, let me tell you.”

“Why didn’t Bryce want anyone to know about it?”

Rut shrugged his soft shoulders. “That was Bryce. He had a renegade streak a mile wide. A tough one to get to know, too. Talked to hardly a soul here in town except for Glynis.”

“The family’s lawyer?”

Rut nodded his head. “I hear he paid a call on her last week.”

“How did you hear that?”

“Her secretary happens to be a cousin of mine.”

“Rut, is there anyone in Dorset who isn’t a cousin of yours?”

“Bryce and Glynis were childhood friends, you know. Back before Lucas died and Preston gave Bryce the boot.”

“Was Bryce visiting her as his friend or his lawyer?”

“That sort of information my cousin can’t share with me. She’d lose her job.” Rut sipped his stout. “The house will pass to Preston now. He’ll be mighty pleased about that.”

“You’re not the first person who’s said that to me today.”

Rut peered at Mitch over the rim of his glass. “Josie’s a fine looking girl. High-spirited, too. She’ll find herself another fellow pretty fast. Or one will find her.”

“I suppose so.”

Rut continued to peer at him. “Anything you want to get off your chest?”

“Such as?…”

“I had my eye on Josie last night. Something about the way she kept watching one of the other fellas at the party gave me the impression she wasn’t entirely content with Bryce. We’re both men here, so there’s no point in tiptoeing around-it was you who she was looking at. And it’s been you sharing that island with them these past months. Bryce was quite a bit older than Josie. Also plenty frayed around the edges. Everybody knows that you and Josie are friends. Wouldn’t surprise me one bit if you were a little something more than that. Can’t say I’d blame you-a healthy young cocksman such as yourself.”

“Rut, I’m the Jewish film critic from New York, remember? I think you’re confusing me with someone else.”

“It isn’t someone else who keeps Dorset’s resident trooper glowing. That there is one contented woman, let me tell you. Always a smile on her face. Any man who can satisfy a gorgeous handful like Miss Desiree Mitry, well, the fellows at the firehouse have nothing but admiration for you, Mitch. Fact is, you’re something of a hero to them.”

“This is an actual topic of conversation at the firehouse?”

“Heck yeah. What do you think they talk about-fire safety procedures? And that’s just the fellas. Imagine what the gals over at the Town and Country beauty salon are saying.”

“I’d rather not, if you don’t mind,” Mitch said unhappily. This was the downside to living in a small town. Everyone thought they owned a front-row seat to your private life. “Rut, there’s nothing going on between Josie and me. Des is the only woman in my life.”

“Glad to hear it. I felt the same way myself about my Enid, God rest her soul.”

“You told me last night that you lusted after Paulette Zander for years.”

“Still do, truth be told,” Rut conceded. “But thinking about it and doing it are two entirely different things. I always figured a man’s free to dream about any woman he chooses just so long as he doesn’t cross the Mendoza Line.”

“I think you mean the Maginot Line.”

The old fellow frowned at him. “I do?”

“The Mendoza Line refers to Mario Mendoza, the famously light-hitting major league shortstop of the seventies. He was so deficient with a bat in his hands that cracking.200 came to be known as the Mendoza Line.”

“I think you’re wrong about that one, young fella.”

“I could be,” said Mitch, who’d learned never to argue with anyone who was over the age of eighty. There was no point. He reached for a ham sandwich and took a bite, chewing on it thoughtfully. “What do the guys at the firehouse say about Hank Merrill?”

“Hank’s an affable fella. Everybody likes Hank.”

“Everybody except for you, you mean.”

“Don’t think I follow you.”

“I got the distinct impression last night that you don’t care for him.”

“Naw, Hank’s okay,” the old postmaster said grudgingly. “You just need to understand the background of the situation. Paulette fell to pieces when that husband of hers, Clint, ran off. Just sat there in her house day and night drinking cheap white wine and chain-smoking cigarettes. Stopped showing up for work. Any other postmaster would have canned her. But I covered for her. And she got through it eventually. Sobered up, quit smoking. Only, it was like a part of her died inside. She was never the same person again. When I first met Paulette she was a lighthearted gal, quick to laugh, with a smile that’d make you melt. Want to know something? I can’t remember the last time I saw Paulette smile.” He shook his tufty white head. “When she took up with Hank it had been a lot of years since she’d had a man friend. And, well, Hank was still a married man at the time. Cheating on his wife Mary Ann, to put it plain and simple. He and Paulette used to sneak off to the Yankee Doodle for hot-sheet matinees. I didn’t approve. Figured he was using that beautiful, lonely woman strictly for the sex. Turned out I was wrong about that. Hank did leave Mary Ann for her.”

“But you still don’t approve.”

Rut shifted uneasily in the chair. “I don’t think he’s good enough for her. It’s nothing personal. I’d feel that way about any man who came into her life.”