A Hard Case Read online

  There was one interesting interlude when a Jimmy somebody came in with an artifact from somewhere and wanted to know in a few slurred words if I wanted to buy it. I said, “no thank you.” No need to get something that might be stolen. His sister came in shortly, a Martha somebody, wanting to know if we had seen her little brother. She was upset, probably about the artifact. Huh, brothers and sisters, who could tell.

  I rubbed the almost-empty glass against the stubble on my cheek. Should I grow a beard here or continue to shave? Would anyone in the village care whether a white man shaved or not? Probably not. Shaving would mean lugging a little more water from the town’s well located in the powerhouse. Hauling water and the continued thrum of the powerhouse engines would take some getting used to. Another rub of the glass against my stubble, I had a beard when . . . quick! I finished off the glass and noted that my brick wall was safe for the moment.

  Out the window, I saw a woman come out of the fog into the light of the lone street lamp, which had just turned on. Instinctively, I moved back into the room so she wouldn’t see me staring at her. It was the good-looking woman in the brown outfit I’d seen this afternoon. Damn, if she didn’t look nice and while I thought about lust and silk sheets, she disappeared back into the fog. Others came and went in a hurry, each disappearing into the fog apparently following the woman. Was something mysterious happening, or was my drink and imagination working overtime?

  Eyes drooping, tired of thinking, I turned away from the window and decided to hit the sack. My day was over.

  Chapter 4

  “Bronski!”

  It was the boss, yelling in my ear with his usual assertive manner. I took time to glance at the girls who had become quiet, moving boxes as if afraid they were going to wake a cranky baby.

  “Yes, sir.” I answered, trying to keep a neutral tone of voice. My little voice already was offering opinions why the boss would be calling when I hadn’t been here quite twenty-four hours. Maybe Charlie had called or maybe someone had noted the smell on my breath? I let the speculations die away and listened to a cheerful boss—for once.

  “So, Bronski, all settled in?”

  “Yes, sir, things seem to be going okay.”

  “Good. Good. Anything you need that I can send?”

  I about dropped the phone when I heard that question. The boss was being too nicey-nice. Besides, he would never consider sending more vodka, so it was apparent I would have to get that on my own.

  “No sir, everything is fine. I have enough.”

  I looked up. The girls had edged closer, still moving boxes. Evidently, the big boss didn’t call that often.

  “Well, Bronski, I’ve been talking to some people.”

  “Excuse me, sir.”

  I covered the mouthpiece. “Girls, would you mind going up front, I think I just heard somebody come in the door.”

  They exchanged looks and nodded, then slowly walked toward the front. For sure, something juicy was going to be talked about.

  “Okay, sir, I’m back.”

  “Somebody listening, eh, Bronski? You moved them off? Good thinking.”

  I rolled my eyes. The boss was laying it on thick. He never, but never, complimented people. It was not in his makeup.

  “What was it you wanted to discuss?” I asked, in what I hoped was a suspicious manner.

  “Well, I was talking to a postal inspector the other day; you know John Crouch, don’t you?”

  Yeah, I knew the man. He was the kind of guy so suspicious, that he ran a check on his mother one time, so the rumor went, wanting to know if she got a traffic ticket when she was a teenager. A real son-of-a-bitch who loved to see people bleed.

  “Yes, sir, I have made his acquaintance.”

  “Oh, yes, I remember now. The time when you . . .”

  The boss coughed. Another delay, while he tried to extract thirty years of cigar residue out of his lungs. He finally stopped. He would live for another day.

  “Let’s see, where was I?”

  “The time when I . . .” I intoned helpfully. I wanted to see how he would get himself out of his foot-in-the-mouth situation. He came back loud and strong.

  “Like I said, I was talking to John the other day and he was wondering if you could sort of keep your eyes open.”

  “Keep my eyes open?”

  That was a good one. What postmaster wasn’t supposed to keep his eyes open?

  “Yes, it seems Justus’s relatives don’t think he would commit suicide. They say he was too together for something like that.”

  I nodded. Now I understood—or at least partially understood. The other day indeed. Sending me out here was no accident and had possibly been decided weeks ago. They couldn’t send an up-front kind of guy. Nope, they had to send a misfit, a drinker, somebody whose problems would meld in with the community. Yeah, I understood, all right.

  “And you want me to keep my eyes open?”

  “Right, nothing official, you understand, just nose around.”

  I was angry. “What if my nose gets lopped off!”

  “Now, Bronski, don’t get in a dither! Just keep your eyes open, that’s all.”

  “Sure, boss. Sure. I’ll do that.”

  If he heard the sarcasm, he gave no sign of it and switched the conversation to other admin stuff. Eventually, he rang off, leaving me with a phone in my hand and what amounted to a real disgust with my asshole of a boss. Nose around. Ha! Yeah, I would nose around all right. I’d find who kept the hooch in this town.

  With the phone back in place, I decided a walk was in order and walked toward the front lobby where the girls obediently stood. There were no customers, just the old man sitting there calmly smoking his pipe. Totally illegal, of course, but how do you tell an Eskimo elder that smoking was a no-no.

  “Ladies, I’m going for a walk. While I’m gone I want you to clean up the lobby and find an ashtray, maybe a bucket with sand, for the old man. If there are any phone calls, take a message, all right?”

  They nodded in unison and jerked their heads as I slapped the counter in frustration thinking about the boss and his order to nose around. I walked through the door into sunlight, hands in my pocket. I had not the slightest idea where I was headed. I simply had to get away. Immediately, I regretted my haste, wishing I had taken time to have a stiff jolt out of that first bottle of vodka, already a third empty. God, what was I going to do when I ran out? DT’s, like on my first dry out did not appeal to me. Eyes to the ground, I almost ran into the old pickup. I needed a cigarette and moved quickly around to get one of Charlie’s out of the glove compartment.

  That first puff was wonderful and I moved up the street, puffing and blowing smoke, making up for lost time away from that wonderful onerous weed. Slowing down, I took time to look around and saw people watching me. Great. I’m on exhibition, smoking like a steam engine. Hell with them. Let’em watch.

  Calmer now, more aware of my surroundings, I saw a path that ran up the side of the hill back of the houses on my right. I made for it, still wanting to get away from people so I could think. Above all, I needed to think how I was going to “nose around” without the whole village knowing. I doubted there was an answer, but maybe I could fool them for a while.

  The path passed between a couple of houses and climbed the hill. I trudged, hands behind my back until I was halfway to the top. From there, I looked out over the village and the river below. It was another beautiful cloudless day, everything so green in its late summer prime it hurt your eyes. But now, it was hard to appreciate what I saw and I became still angrier with the boss. “Nose around,” he said. Damned if I will. I’ll tell old Crouch I didn’t hear a damned thing. Nope, not a damned thing.

  Shaking my head, I continued my climb. I was near the top of the hill and my cigarette was down almost to the filter. Regretfully, I threw it down on the dusty path and mashed it. No need to start a fire. Now that would be something to call home about. I could see the look on the boss’s face.

&nb
sp; “Yup, boss, I burned the village down. You got anything in petty cash?”

  I almost laughed at the thought.

  Looking up, I noticed a small shed off in a grove of stunted trees. Maybe it was a place to keep furs in the winter? With curiosity getting the better of me, I wandered toward it. It appeared to be nothing but an old weather-beaten wooden building about thirty feet long and maybe half as wide. I stopped just before I got to the open door and looked back toward the path. Nobody around, I decided to go in and see what was there. After stepping inside I stood still to let my eyes get accustomed to the interior. It was not an airtight shed. Beams of light poked through here and there onto a hard packed dirt floor. Over in the corner I could see a pile of what looked to be old skins. My nose wrinkled at the musty smell. The door slammed behind me.

  “Hi Mr. Postman!”

  I stood, petrified. Scared out of my wits. Footsteps moved around to my front and then slowly moved into a circle of light in front of me. First there was a shag of black hair, then the pretty face and then the rest of her, standing there in jeans and a sweatshirt cut off at the midriff. It was Crazy Mary.

  “Hi Mr. Postman! Scared ya, huh?”

  I swallowed hard, trying not to show my anger. I wanted to yell and ask her what in hell she was trying to pull, but I had a feeling she wasn’t doing anything but being Crazy Mary.

  “Yes, you sure did. Was it fun?”

  She put her hand over her mouth and giggled.

  “Sometimes. Sometimes people get mad when I scare them.”

  “I bet they do,” I answered. “Do you come here often?”

  She shook her head. “Sometimes.”

  Abruptly she turned and pointed up toward the center of the room.

  “That’s where he die.”

  I stared upward and saw a piece of rope dangling from a rafter. A chill came over me and I knew, but I asked anyway.

  “Who died?”

  “John. He let me call him, John.”

  “John, who?” I prodded, just to make sure.

  “Justus. John Justus.”

  A long breath escaped my lips. She began moving again. This time she was moving in a circle around me and the rope hanging down above me. I let my eyes follow her as she skipped around a circular path worn into the dirt. She began to whisper as she skipped. What was she singing?With each turn of the circle she became louder as if hypnotized with her own words, and I shook my head in sorrow as she repeated them in time to her skipping.

  “Song, song. Hung, hung. Song, song. Hung, hung.”

  “He’s done . . . done, done. He’s done . . . done and gone.”

  “Gone, gone. Gone, gone.”

  Song, song. Hung, hung. He’s dead and gone.”

  “Mean old man is dead and gone.”

  I couldn’t take it anymore. “Mary! Stop it!”

  She stopped, as if shaking off a trance, then started to giggle, which then turned into what I knew to be an insane laughter. A laughter I last heard in Nam when a woman died.

  That thought thankfully disappeared as she ran toward me and embraced me in a full-length hug—quivering. Against my better judgment, I put my arms around her. This was not right. I shouldn’t be here. Before I could disengage my arms, she became the old Crazy Mary, leaning back to stare straight into my eyes.

  “Hey, Mr. Postman, wanna see my breasts?”

  With those words, I dropped my arms and shook my head. Now I really regretted walking into this place.

  “No, Mary,” I said gently, “no.”

  She pouted and stepped back.

  “Why?”

  “Because it’s not polite to show your breasts to strangers.” I said in a strong and what I hoped was a fatherly voice.

  “Well, Mr. Justus did. He said they were pretty. He even felt them. Sometimes I showed him my ass. He really liked that!”

  I closed my eyes and swayed for a moment in the darkness of the old shack. If I hadn’t opened them when I did, I would have been physically sick. Sick at heart and sick to my stomach. Finally, I found my voice.

  “Better run along, Mary.”

  “Okay,” she said cheerfully, “but if you ever want to see my breasts, I show them to you.”

  And out the door into the bright sunlight she went, skipping as gaily as a young schoolgirl on her way to class. I stopped at the doorway and put my hand out to brace myself, wishing I had a ticket back to Anchorage. I had my own troubles and sure as hell didn’t need the village’s problems. Her words came floating up the path.

  “He wouldn’t let me show my breasts to him.”

  I groaned and looked up to see whom she was talking with. Of course, it was Charlie, who else? He would be wondering what I was doing in the old shed. Charlie was no dummy. If I suddenly began walking all over the village, poking my nose here and there, he would probably guess I was being more than just friendly. If I were going to find out anything, it would be without Charlie dogging my trail. Hadn’t I resolved to myself I was not going to get entangled in the village problems? I sighed and moved out of the doorway into the bright sun. Mary moved on down the slope, leaving Charlie to watch me walk down the path toward him. I was not looking forward to the upcoming conversation. As I drew near, I could see Charlie had a resigned look to his face. I tried to be cheerful.

  “Good morning, Charlie.”

  He nodded and gave me a questioning look.

  “Good morning. You were out taking a walk?”

  “Yes, only I didn’t realize where I was walking to.”

  Charlie nodded, and I thought I saw belief on his face.

  “You saw the rope?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m gonna have to get a ladder and cut it down. It’s become too big a thing for Mary. She goes up there too often.”

  I nodded and said nothing for a few seconds, but then I had to ask the question.

  “Mary show herself to most everybody?”

  “Not everybody, just to those men she considers worthy. I’ve talked to her about it a lot, but it doesn’t do any good.”

  There was a sad look to his face and I felt sorry for him. I also had a hunch whom the “kind of a boy friend” might be.

  “It sounds like Postmaster Justus overstepped his bounds.”

  Charlie gave me a guarded look.

  “Yeah, he thought she was a piece of candy and he used her. I’m glad he’s gone. He was a dirt-bag asshole, in more ways than one.”

  “Sometimes the post office doesn’t always do the best job when it comes to assigning temporary postmasters,” I answered, and immediately wished I hadn’t. Now Charlie would be wondering about me. What were my problems, and what would I do to screw up his village? But, he didn’t say anything, just sighed and moved back down the hill, mumbling something about a ladder. I watched him for a minute and then I followed, thinking how good that jolt of vodka was going to feel. I became concerned again about how I would replenish my supply of liquor.

  As I moved off the path back onto the main street, I noticed how shabby everything looked. Junk was piled everywhere, especially snow machine parts. The village could certainly use some sprucing up. Maybe a coat of paint wouldn’t hurt either. It came to me that I was judging according to my white urban ways. The people here were not necessarily rich and therefore made do the best they could. So different from what I was used to. I wondered if I would be accepted as part of the village and decided I probably would not. After all, I was only another white man passing through—a necessary evil.

  The church’s door opened and a man in a black cassock stepped out—a white man. He came toward me, a wise looking man with a head of white hair with a beard to match and black rim glasses. When he drew up to me he smiled and extended his hand.

  “Good morning, I’m Joseph Martavich and you are Leo Bronski. I heard about your arrival yesterday. How are things going?”

  “Okay,” I answered and then shook his hand.

  He invited me in for a spot of tea. At first
I wasn’t too hot about the idea, I’ve been around priests before, some good and some bad. Some of the chaplains in Nam liked the idea of being back in Saigon before nightfall, leaving us ground-pounders to face the night and the meaning of life. But he insisted, “After all, the mail plane isn’t due until this afternoon.”

  We entered the church and I was struck by the fact that there were no chairs or pews. Later I would learn that church might last three hours with the people standing all the while, a long time for a Protestant boy. Quietly, we made our way down the middle of the church, around the altar to a small room in back.

  “Coffee or tea?” He asked.

  “Coffee,” I replied. Much to my surprise he asked if I could do with a drop of whiskey. To which I almost said, “Praise the Lord!” Somehow, I held my breath and uttered a quiet and formal, “Thank you, I would.”

  After heating the cold coffee in a microwave and throwing in what I thought was a handsome dollop of Jack Daniels, I grew weak with anticipation. How I stopped from swallowing the whole mixture down in one gulp was, I thought, a show of character on my part. Finished with his preparation of tea, he sat down in a chair at his desk while I sat in the lone lounge chair.

  “Well, what do you think of our town?”

  “It’s . . . it’s different than I thought it would be.” I answered, taking my second gulp. My stomach began to warm, and I felt the hint of a fuzzy glow. I was going to like this man.

  Then, with “Jack” to show me the way, I related my experiences with Charlie and Crazy Mary. I didn’t tell him about my own mentally retarded sister, alone in this world, in a home. That was another brick in my wall that was better left alone.

  “Tell me,” I went on, “does she get taken advantage of very often?”

  He sat his cup down.

  “I’m not sure, remember I’m usually only here on Sunday’s. My being here now is a special occasion I’m attending. I really don’t think she gets hit on as often as you might think.” He smiled. “I’m sure you’ve heard how it takes a village to raise a child?” He frowned. “Although I’m very surprised to hear about Justus. I suppose I should have known better. Every man or woman has a darker side, and apparently Justus had his.”