A Hard Case Read online

  “The bathroom?” I asked quietly.

  Jeanette pointed to a five-gallon can covered by a seat, in its own special spot over in the bedroom area. I smiled. A yellow can with a seat painted a bright red, with a few yellow daffodils added for contrast. In this world, it was a luxury item of some beauty.

  “It’s uh, very pretty.” I murmured.

  “Jean painted it.” Jeanette said, suddenly sober, a mood I knew to be unusual for her. Maybe everything hadn’t been peaches and cream between the postmaster and his workers. Jean gently laid my suitcase on the bed. Did she know what it contained? I hoped not. She turned, a smile cracking the lines on her face.

  “Okay, we go back to work now.”

  As they turned to go, a thought occurred to me, something that needed asking. “Before you go, can you tell me where the previous postmaster lived?”

  “Here,” Jean said.

  “He was supposed to be temporary, too,” Jeanette chimed in. “But he decided to stay longer.”

  Yeah, that he did.

  I nodded and thanked them for the information. They exchanged glances and walked out of the door into the sorting room. I carefully unpacked my bottles and hid them in different places around the room. Why would a temporary postmaster want to stay longer? Did he simply like the life style out in the bush? Or something else? That old creepy crawl feeling I had known in Nam started sliding down my back and instinctively I looked around, as if I was back in the jungle. It had been a long time since that feeling and I wanted no part of it.

  Damn the boss. What has he gotten me into?

  I finished unpacking my bag and walked out into the sorting room. The twins looked up from what they were doing.

  “When does the mail plane come in?” I asked.

  Jean looked at her watch then at her sister, who looked at her watch, then they both hesitated a second, as if trying to decide whose turn it was. In the end, it was Jean who spoke—I think.

  “Thirty more minutes, at 1:30 p.m.”

  “How do we get the mail from there to here?”

  “Sometimes we don’t, sometimes it’s Charlie.”

  I removed my wire-rims with one hand and ran my other hand through my hair. Okay, so things weren’t as regulation as they looked. How in hell did a non-postal employee sign the papers when the mail left the plane?

  I took a deep breath and put my glasses back on.

  “Who signs the release forms?”

  “Charlie,” Jean answered.

  “Whose name does he use?”

  “His own.” Jeanette replied.

  “His own.” I looked down at the floor, then back up, staring into nothing. “Of course, his own.”

  It figured. With as big an outfit as the post office, anybody could sign almost anything without anyone being the wiser. So why would Charlie need to forge a name, like a postmaster’s? Because it was so right, so dumb, I started laughing. The two women looked at each other, with startled looks. Then because the postmaster was laughing, something must be funny, so they too started laughing.

  I stopped after a tear started flowing down my face and looked at the two women in turn. “Charlie, does not pick up the mail from now on.”

  A look of amazement replaced the smiling faces.

  “What will Charlie think?” Jean said.

  I smiled a Cheshire cat’s smile. “I don’t care what Charlie thinks. That’s postal property and I’m responsible, therefore I pick up the mail, understood?”

  The twins leaned toward one another, as if for protection.

  “Yes, sir.” They said in unison.

  I nodded. It was my first pronouncement, and it had come off well.

  But, wait a minute.

  ‘Um,” I said, “Will we have to borrow Charlie’s truck?”

  “Oh, no,” Jean said. “It’s not Charlie’s truck. It’s sort of a village pet. Anyone can use it, as long as they put some gas in it.”

  “Fair enough, where is it?”

  The twins stared at me without looking at each other. Then silently, they led me to the front lobby, around the counter, past the old man sitting in front of the stove and pointed out the front window. There, down the street past the church and commercial store, about a hundred yards away, sat the old pickup. I sighed. I had only been here an hour and already I was going head to head with law enforcement. A drink of solid vodka would have been welcome, and I resolved that a mid-morning pick-me-up was going to become a good habit.

  Giving up another sigh, I thanked the twins, went out the front door onto the dusty street and shuffled my way past the small church building toward the pickup sitting beside what must have been Charlie’s house. It was a single story bungalow, probably the best looking house in the village. The closer I got to the pickup the more I felt that alienating the village constable, might not be a wise thing to do, but I was committed. I could literally feel the twins’ eyes boring into my backside. If I didn’t do what I said I was going to do, then for sure I would lose respect in their eyes and would become someone merely to be tolerated—a lone white man in a jungle. A mosquito buzzed my ear and beads of sweat started forming on my forehead, just what I needed. I drew even with the passenger side of the pickup.

  A quick look inside the cab revealed the keys were still in it. Ah, the solution to the problem. I would simply get in and drive away. Let Charlie come to his own conclusions. It was the coward’s way out, but I really didn’t feel like having it out with anyone. I rounded the front of the pickup and jumped in. A pump of the gas pedal, a turn of the key, and the old pickup roared to life, just as it was supposed to. The gears ground a little as I searched for first, but eventually I found it, pulled a U-turn, and headed back to the post office. In the rearview mirror I noted Charlie’s head poking out the front door of his house, mouth opened.

  Back in front of the post office, I came to a stop gently, maybe to give the old pickup a rest after Charlie’s mistreatment. A look in the rearview mirror revealed the street was empty except for two or three people. Odd. This was a fair-sized village with side streets, one that required a postmaster and two part-time helpers. Where in hell was everybody? But then, this was summer, so probably everyone was out fishing. A check of the time on my wristwatch showed 1:30 p.m.

  “Sir, it’s time for the mail plane.”

  Damn, where did Jean come from? Her face in the outside mirror was just inches from the window. I must be getting slow. I looked into her eyes; eyes that said nothing.

  “Uh, you ready to go, Jean?

  “Yes, sir. Jean will stay here to watch the office.”

  “Oops, sorry. I guess I haven’t learned which name goes with who.”

  She nodded and walked around to the passenger side of the pickup. “It’s all right, sir, people are always getting us mixed up.”

  “Jean, ah Jeanette, you don’t have to call me, sir, really. You can call me, Leo.”

  I swear if her face had been a light bulb, it would have lit up to full power.

  “Thank you, sir . . . Leo. We got so used to calling Mr. Justus, sir, it became a habit.”

  The old truck roared to life and I proceeded to look for first gear again. Finding it, I slowly let out the clutch and we moved out slow, like I was taking my first driver’s test. I looked over to Jeanette and saw not a middle-aged woman but a young wistful girl. Funny what a let-up in tension can do for a person.

  “Did Mr. Justus like to be called, sir?”

  A nod from her was all I got. I smiled to myself. With a name like Justus, why would anybody want a first name?

  “Watch out, Leo!”

  I woke up from my reverie just in time to crank the steering wheel to the right to avoid hitting Crazy Mary. She of course, was waving and laughing as if almost being hit was an everyday occurrence.

  “Son-of-a-bitch! Where in hell did she come from?”

  “From behind a bush.”

  Fully awake now, I looked in the rear-view mirror to see her still waving. “What t
he hell was she doing, taking a pee?”

  “Yes.”

  God damn it, I could have killed her. Crushed the life right out of her, leaving a bag of bones and blood and a bunch of loved ones to feel the loss.

  I realized my hand was trembling, and that brought me back to reality. I was stone cold sober. No one had been hurt. I was driving an old pickup down a dirt road at trolling speed. It was all right.

  Slowing down, I looked over to Jeanette to see a concerned worry frown. The middle-aged woman was back.

  “Sorry, I lost my temper back there,” I said.

  Jeanette nodded and kept her eyes straight ahead.

  I sighed. No points there, Bronski. If I wanted to regain points, I would have to keep myself under control. The important thing was to concentrate on the job at hand and try to forget the past.

  Without further mishap, the old truck pulled up onto the plain that served as the town’s airport. I switched off the engine and settled down in my seat to wait. Jeanette still sat quiet, hands in her lap. A light breeze coming through the window teased her graying hair. Heat waves shimmered above the runway. A mosquito wandered in through the window looking for a snack and I waved at it absently.

  “Nice day,” I ventured.

  “Yes,” Jeanette answered, still staring out the front windshield.

  My hand patted my shirt pocket in vain. Although I had given up smoking, it was times like this I needed to smoke—real bad.

  Jeanette opened the glove compartment. “You want a cigarette? Charlie keeps some in here.”

  I took a deep breath, “No, thanks, I’m trying to quit.”

  Jeanette looked my way and blessed me with a smile. “Charlie too. He keeps them here for emergencies.”

  “Does Charlie have many emergencies?” I asked, still watching the heat waves.

  “About two packs worth a week.”

  “No, I meant in general.”

  “Oh,” she said, her smile disappearing. “Some.”

  I yawned. “What kind of emergencies does Charlie have?”

  “Drunks.”

  Now there was a non-committal answer if I ever heard one. Drunks are a problem everywhere. I was just about to ask her what other problems Charlie had, when a hum sounded in the distance.

  “Plane’s coming,” she said. “I’ll get the sacks ready.”

  Before I knew it, Jeanette had bounded out of the cab into the back of the pickup. So much for conversation. It was my understanding the pilot spent little time on the turn-around. It was land, shut the engine down for safety and get the mail off the plane ASAP. Sure enough, in nothing flat the pilot had taxied the plane right up to the pick-up with the wing over the top of the pickup’s cab and shut down. I waited until the pilot had hopped out and then backed the pickup to the cargo door at his direction and the unloading of the mail began.

  The pilot, a young guy in khakis and brown jacket, gave me a look. “Who are you?”

  “Leo Bronski. I’m the new temporary postmaster.”

  “Where’s Charlie? Isn’t he supposed to be picking up the mail?”

  “Not anymore.” I answered, as if it was unimportant, and began helping Jeanette unload mail sacks and boxes.

  The young man stood with one hand on the pickup bed, the other scratching at his face. “So you’re taking over.”

  I paused, uncertain how to answer this last statement.

  “I don’t know about taking over, but seeing the mail gets transferred from plane to the post office is part of the job.”

  After that exchange, Jeanette and I spent the next ten minutes unloading the plane as fast as we could. Out of the corner of my eye, I watched the pilot tapping his fingers on the side of the truck as if he were debating with himself. Meanwhile, I worked up a sweat placing the packages from the by-pass mail pallet onto the bed of the pickup.

  By-pass mail is how the bush survives. Most foodstuffs for the local village groceries come this way. Rather than go through the usual post office routine, the foodstuffs on their pallets are merely unloaded on the post office loading docks in Anchorage or Fairbanks by the supplier, then shipped as is to the respective village. It is up to the village postmaster to watch for any discrepancies.

  “That’s all, Leo”

  I stood up from placing the last package on the bed of the pickup.

  “Good,” I answered, “this old truck is getting full.”

  The pilot handed up a clipboard with a stare.

  “You want to sign this?”

  I took the clipboard from him and started looking at the paperwork, making sure it was in order. It looked to be so I signed it off. Finished closing the cargo door, the pilot walked over, grabbed the clipboard out of my hand and stalked back to the plane. Not very sociable. Ah, well, what the heck. I jumped down from the bed of the pickup to the ground.

  I looked around. Where in hell was Jeanette? The plane’s engine had already started, no doubt the pilot was waiting on us to move out of the way.

  “Jeanette!”

  “Up here!”

  Of course. Sitting on the boxes to make sure they didn’t fall off. I sighed, and got into the truck, started it, and off we went down the hill to the village. This time I kept a hard look out for Crazy Mary, but she was nowhere in sight. As I turned on to Main Street I saw a man in a black uniform with a stern look on his face standing in front of the post office. Uh-oh.

  Chapter 3

  “Bronski, I need the pickup!”

  This was accompanied by a finger poke on my chest as soon as I jumped out of the cab. I knew this confrontation had to come. Having control of the pickup was part of the scenario of having control of the village. Or maybe that’s how Charlie saw it. As for me, I knew I needed the pickup to get the mail at the airport.

  In many small towns and villages in the Alaskan west, the post office was the center of things. If a woman was the postmaster, then the post office is where the women of the town met for a few minutes each day to discuss the local news. If the postmaster was a man, it was much the same, except the men met instead of the women.

  When I received the first finger poke, my first inclination was to try something physical, like a remembered karate kick from my days in Nam. But, reason forced its way into my brain, and I realized Charlie was probably waiting on me to try something. I decided to hold my temper in check, so I put my hands in my pockets and smiled.

  “Charlie, you can have the pickup as soon as I get the mail unloaded. You wouldn’t want the town to go without their mail, would you?”

  “Huh?” The finger lowered.

  “Well, you know how everyone depends on the mail, right?”

  “Yeah . . . ?

  His arms folded into a “convince me” fashion with full eye contact. I almost grinned. Military commanders and then civilian bosses had tried that old trick on me since day one. I simply stared back at the forehead of the other party. The other party usually got tired of looking into my eyes because they couldn’t see anything but a solid stare. After seeing the eye contact trick wasn’t going to work, Charlie backed off a step and relaxed. There would be no fisticuffs this day.

  “Charlie,” I continued, “the only time I want the truck is to pick up the mail. It is for the good of the town. I’ll even put some gas in once a week. How’s that for a deal?”

  Hands on his hips now, Charlie nodded. He had to. I was being very reasonable and peaceful. It’s hard to hit somebody when they’re being reasonable and not presenting a threat. I admit to breathing a sigh of relief. If I thought the town was quiet before, well, it was really quiet now and I could imagine eyes digging into my back from all directions. I jumped back into the pickup.

  “I’ll be done with the truck as soon as I get it unloaded, okay?”

  Charlie nodded again as I started the pickup and drove it around to the side of the post office. Jean immediately popped out of the side door and we began unloading the mail into the back sorting room. Jeanette gave me a smile.

&n
bsp; “You handled Charlie real good, Leo.”

  I watched, maybe with a little pride, as Jean gave her sister a questioned look.

  “Leo?”

  “He says we don’t have to call him, ‘sir.’” Jeanette answered.

  Jean looked to me in disbelief. “Really?”

  “Leo is my name, not sir.” I answered and smiled to show how munificent I could be.

  “Ah . . .” was all the talkative Jean could muster.

  We started unloading the truck without further conversation to slow us up. When we were done, I moved the truck to the front of the post office with the keys left in the ignition to show my good faith. Charlie would hopefully do the same for me. Strange, though, that he did not say one word about not picking up the mail from now on. That set me to wondering what kind of a deal did he have with the former postmaster? Maybe he simply told the postmaster he was picking up the mail and that was it. Well, I reasoned, time would tell. Anybody that said village life was simple, did not know what they were talking about. The boss had his nerve, telling me that coming out here would be a rest. I left the pickup and walked back into the post office, there was work to be done, and I needed a stiff drink—straight up.

  * * *

  It was late evening with the sun behind a cloud and a fog coming in from the river. I stood in my darkened quarters with a glass of my favorite beverage in hand, looking out the side window with its curtains partially drawn. Wouldn’t do to have people see me drinking Jack Daniels. Jack Daniels was my one true friend and I wouldn’t want him to be ashamed to be seen drinking with me. I could talk to him and say anything I wanted. He helped me maintain that brick wall that hid those things I didn’t want to see. From time to time, a brick came loose, but “Old Jack” helped me mortar it back in place. I held the glass up and studied the fine brown liquid. I sighed with contentment.

  The day hadn’t gone so bad, “Eh, Jack”? A misunderstanding or two, but things had gone well during my first day. After the little run-in with Charlie, life in the post office settled down to sorting mail, front counter and customer attention and the routines of running a post office.