Рита Браун - Furmidable Foes

Men climbed on the roof, cleaning out drain spouts. Garden beds were edged. The grass spilling over onto the parking lot was weed whacked. The flurry of activity impressed the Very Reverend Herbert Jones as well as everyone working.

Elocution, Lucy Fur, and Cazenovia, the reverend’s Very Lutheran cats, played with Mrs. Murphy and Pewter, chasing one another under the Italian lilacs, blooming late this year, which was perfect for the upcoming event. The fragrance of lilac could lift a drooping spirit, enhancing lively spirits even more.

Harry, plugging in another white iris—she had some leftovers—commented to Susan, “Soon time for lunch, you think?”

Susan checked her beat-up old Omega. Each time she looked at her watch, she was reminded of how she couldn’t afford one now. Prices escalated for everything, even sweet corn.

“Another half hour.” Noticing Harry’s sigh she added, “We can set up now. What’s a bit early?”

“I am famished. Loading up the two trucks took so much time, I didn’t make breakfast and neither did Fair. Hey, look at that.”

Pewter, a triumph over gravity, shot straight up in the air to bat at a lilac bloom on which alighted a yellow swallowtail butterfly.

“If I hadn’t seen it, I wouldn’t believe it.” Susan laughed.

Her dog, Owen, played with Harry’s two dogs. The grade school children ran after them. The dogs would stop, turn, and return the favor, barking. Pirate’s voice, already deep, scared one of the little ones. The giant puppy stopped, felt terrible, and licked the boy whose older brother also comforted him. The older brother picked up the little guy, putting him briefly on Pirate’s back. The Irish wolfhound, so gentle, allowed it even though it’s not a great idea to place any child on a huge dog’s back because of the strain on the back.

Pirate lowered his large head and the child hugged him when his brother lifted him off, Pirate’s tail now flipping back and forth.

“Good doggie. Good doggie.”

Harry and Susan observed this. Then Susan said, “Same age developmentally, don’t you think?”

“Dogs are ahead.” Harry smiled. “Actually, they’re ahead of us emotionally for sure. I’ll go tell Pamela to put out the food.”

“Okay.”

Pamela Bartlett was always in charge of social arrangements for the club. She had been president of the Dorcas Guild since 1972. No one ever challenged her for reelection because every woman knew Pamela was the best. Truthfully, Pamela loved it, especially since her husband had passed away in 2005.

After talking with Pamela, Harry walked to her 1978 Ford truck and slowly backed it toward the rear of the church.

“She’s leaving me.” Tucker bolted for the truck.

Pewter turned from the lilac frolic to observe the dog. “She’s so needy. Oh, there goes Pirate. Dogs” —a pause— “have no idea what they’re doing.”

“No one has any idea what they’re doing.” Mrs. Murphy uttered an unwelcome truth, especially for humans.

Harry crawled into the back of the old truck and set up speakers. She dropped over the side, reached into the cab of the truck—no extended cabs or extra doors, a real true truck—and pulled out a fully charged CD player. Lowering the tailgate, she slid it on the bed, pulled down the two speakers, placed César Franck’s wonderful composition in D Major for the organ, and let it blast.

“Lunch,” Pamela called out while using a large metal spoon to smack the back of a metal pot.

All that commotion got everyone’s attention. Toting their tools with them, the thirty-some people gratefully gathered at the long tables set together, chairs already in place.

The men had put all that out before starting their chores in the morning. Pamela used old-fashioned checkered tablecloths like the ones Harry used at home. Little pots of flowers sat on each table, plates, napkins, utensils at one end.

Within minutes a line extended nearly to the first quad. No young person hurried to be first in line. This was Virginia. The children stood with their parents, and the ladies, widowed, served themselves first, with the exception of Pamela. Reverend Jones walked up and down the line chatting with everyone.

Both Janice and Mags told the others, seeing them for the first time since the robbery, that there were no suspects and they had no leads. Mags teased that Harry had kept them all working so feverishly, this was the first opportunity to speak of it.

Harry asked, “I guess you will find out how good your insurance company is. All that beer has to be worth a couple of thousand dollars.”

Janice replied to a nosy question, “Not quite that much, Harry. Remember the stores and restaurants buy our various brews at a discount.”

Mags jumped in. “What makes it exhausting is you have to alter your schedule for the adjuster’s schedule. Then they come out, ask all kinds of questions. They’d grill our drivers, grill us. The entire process is predicated on finding a way out of their responsibility and casting the blame on the client.”

Janice added, “Then the trucks will be inspected, for this was one of our trucks. It’s all a con.”

Mags shrugged. “We said, ‘The hell with it!’ ” She then covered her mouth with her hand. “Shouldn’t swear on church grounds.”

Susan, listening carefully, suggested, “Forget getting insurance through your computer. Go to a local agent.”

Mags replied, “What good will that do? They’ll place your account with one of the giant national companies.”

“The difference is you know where your local agent lives.” Susan grinned.

This got a laugh from the surrounding people, some of whom worked for local agencies.

After fifteen minutes, they bustled along. Everyone was seated and eating after Reverend Jones said grace.

Pewter wedged next to Harry’s leg and grumbled, “Why do they do that?”

Cazenovia asked, “Do what?”

“Prayers.”

Elocution, on Harry’s other side along with the two dogs, answered. “Bless the food. You know, give thanks.”

Pewter reached up to pat Harry’s thigh. “Wouldn’t it make more sense to give thanks after you’d eaten? Then you’d know if the food was good.”

Mrs. Murphy, not adverse to a treat, replied, “They do what they want. Or what they think they should do.”

“Too time consuming.” Pewter got a piece of fried chicken, so then Harry had to give everyone chicken.

“Harry!” Susan chided her. “Now I have to give Owen food. Why’d you start?”

Janice looked down at Pewter. “That cat hasn’t missed too many meals.”

“She’ll pay for that.” Pewter eagerly took another piece of chicken. “Revenge is sweet.”

Lucy Fur, daintily accepting some turkey from Reverend Jones, quoted the Bible. “Revenge is mine, saith the Lord.”

“You know, Lucy, you spend too much time with the Rev when he writes his sermons.” Pewter dismissed the quote.

As the four-legged contingent ate and blabbed, so did the two-legged.

Pamela finally sat down where Fair had saved a place for her—she was one of his favorite people.

Someone uttered the buzzword “polarization,” which fired up the group. Opinions flew like flies.

Ned, Susan’s husband, elected to the House of Delegates, couldn’t help it. He leaned toward the pastor. “Oh, Reverend Jones, I think millions of people all over the world are desperately scanning the horizon seeking someone on whom they can blame their problems.”

That started it all over again. Soon the entire group lobbed one idea, one opinion after the other, but it was respectful as well as educational.