A Hard Case Read online

  “So, this is where you live! All bound up in the safe confines of the U. S. Postal Service.”

  I walked over to a chair at the table, sat, and watched as she made a woman’s inspection of the room. She paused in front of the honey bucket and shook her head. Probably wondering how a man like Justus would want flowers painted on a five-gallon can.

  “I don’t know how safe it is, but it’s home,” I answered. I wasn’t sure whether she was being sarcastic or not. I waited.

  She looked over at me.

  “You’re lucky, is what I meant. You have a job. Not everyone here does. I have never understood why there has to be a white postmaster when one of us could do the job. It would mean more money for the village.”

  It was an old story, an old tradition, one I decided not to comment on. I had a hunch she knew the Postal Service’s reasoning, which, I had to admit, was not necessarily right. She moved on from the honey bucket, looked up and spied the bottle of “Old Jack” sitting on the shelf. She walked over and sat down in the other chair.

  “Sir, I could do with a drink.”

  I pulled my hands out of my pockets and smiled.

  “Thought you’d never ask.”

  I got up and moved toward the shelf in what I hoped was not too eager a fashion.

  “Do you drink very much, Leo?”

  “Some, maybe more than I would like. Would you like a Coke to go along with the whiskey?” I asked, wanting to change the subject.

  “Sure, a Coke would be fine. I really don’t drink too much. It’s hurt our people. This alcohol. You knew we were dry here in the village, right?”

  I turned to face her. Was that a wistful look I saw?

  “Yes, I knew.”

  I sat the bottle down with two glasses on the table, and then got the Coke out of the fridge. She immediately filled the water glasses a third full of whiskey. This surprised me. I expected a thimble full of whiskey with the rest being Coke. Apparently, she could hold her booze. Those blue eyes, cold now, slid to mine.

  “It was the Russians who taught us to drink. My great-grandfather on my mother’s side was Russian. I curse the day the Russians came. Them and their alcohol. But that was a long time ago! Right? Cheers!”

  She swallowed most of her drink and looked at me.

  “What? Aren’t you drinking, Mr. Bronski?”

  “Yeah, sure,” I said.

  I wasn’t sure how this meeting of ours was going. I was beginning to think it was going to be a bust. What she said about the Russians was true. What they and we Americans had done to the natives wasn’t very nice. Helen must have seen the sad look on my face.

  “Hey, Leo, sorry about being so gloomy. I get that way sometimes. Pay me no mind. Now, tell me about yourself.”

  I twirled my drink and took a good swallow.

  “Not much to tell. I graduated from high school, enlisted in the army and after training went to Vietnam. Served two tours there, came back to the states and got out. There was an ad in the newspaper about vets getting a special handicap score when they took the Postal Service test and here I am.”

  She shook her head.

  “Leo, my father is a shaman. He would deny it officially, but everybody here knows it. What I’m trying to say is, I have a few of his talents, especially when it comes to knowing when people aren’t telling all the truth.”

  She laid her hand on my arm.

  “There’s more to your story, isn’t there, Leo?”

  I finished the glass, set it down and covered her hand with mine.

  “Yeah, I guess you could say that. But I don’t feel like discussing it right now.”

  She nodded and finished off her glass. She extended it toward me.

  “More.”

  A red flag went up. The last thing I needed was to have headquarters find out I had a drunk native in my room. The whole story would be that I corrupted her. She must have read my face.

  “Don’t worry, Leo. I know my limits and where I’m going. I’ve never been seen drunk on the streets of this town and I’m not about to start.”

  She took a swig, her face grimacing.

  “The people here don’t like me.”

  I looked up from pouring my drink, eyebrows raised.

  “How’s that? I mean, why wouldn’t they like you?”

  She shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe it’s because I make more money.”

  I grinned. “Maybe it’s because you’re so damned good looking.”

  She reached forward and squeezed my hand.

  “Thanks, Leo, you’re awfully sweet.”

  She set her drink down, unfinished, and looked around.

  “Leo, do you have a radio?”

  I began to see this was one restless lady. A restless lady I had to touch. I wanted to make her body croon and arch on those satin sheets. I also knew it was going to have to be when she wanted it. She was one of those women that had the power to make a man wait, but at the same time, there was the promise his wait would be worth it. The thought came to me of an old tomcat standing by, waiting his turn.

  “Sure, I have a radio. Why?”

  She flung her arms above her head and closed her eyes.

  “I want to dance. I haven’t danced for months. Do you dance . . . Leo?”

  Her eyes opened to slits as she lowered her arms to her side.

  “It’s . . . it’s been a long time.”

  “Then, Mr. Bronski,” she said, in her softest of voices, “drag out that radio and hope there’s some slow . . . music somewhere.”

  I found myself wanting to run to a shelf where an old radio sat. I had no idea if it would work. I prayed it would. My fingers fumbled turning it on. My prayers were answered, as the old 1950’s tube-style radio in its green plastic case moaned the words, “swaying to the music.” I don’t know what it said after that, because she was in my arms hanging on tight with me feeling the whole length of her glued to me.

  It had been years since I danced, but in the magic of this evening, I was Fred Astaire. The only thing not there was the big reflecting globe hanging down from the ceiling that all ballrooms seem to have. Yeah, maybe we banged into things now and then, but that happens when your eyes are closed. By the second song, I was nuzzling her neck and ear. By the third, I was planting full lip locks. Her tongue danced its own tune inside my mouth. Before the fourth waltz, we were standing still, hands moving all over one another. With me telling her how I’d wanted her since the first time I saw her. And her responding, “I knew . . . I knew . . .

  I became more demanding, wanting what she had right that moment.

  “Oh . . . slow . . . slow . . . Leo.” She moaned in that sultry voice. There was no doubt about it. I had one hell of a woman on my hands. Was I man enough? Damn right.

  “Time to stop, Leo.”

  “Wha . . .” I started to say.

  She put her fingers to her lips and moved away from me, gently disengaging from my arms. She gave me that sly, slit-eyed look and slowly began removing her blue silk blouse. I gulped. It was coming true. I could almost hear the satin sheets sliding against each other.

  She stood there with her bra held protectively over her breast by one hand.

  “Now it’s your turn, Leo.”

  “My turn?”

  Her long pointed tongue made its way around her lips.

  “Your pants?”

  She just stood there, a smile on her lips. While I worked with my zipper that seemed to be stuck. Like in the books you read when you come to the sex parts. Never have I had trouble like that before. But I did this night. Finally, it was done, and my pants were off. I’m sure I looked like a puppy dog at that point, all expectant with a tongue hanging out.

  “I think I’m getting ahead,” I said. “Isn’t it time to take yours off?”

  She giggled. “I was just looking at your bony, hairy legs.”

  “My God, lady, have mercy. Hurry up.”

  She smiled and removed her pants. Somehow her bra had fallen
off revealing beautiful breasts, not too big and not too small, with two pink areolas demanding to be suckled. I groaned and moved toward her. She pushed me away.

  “Not yet, Leo. I have to see what’s under those boxer shorts. Time for them to come off. Close your eyes.”

  “Helen, please,” I muttered and took a quick look at the bed. Maybe the sheets were just cotton, but right then they looked satin to me. Was the bed ready? Hot damn, it was. I closed my eyes. And felt my shorts slide down.

  “Oh my, look at him. I don’t know . . .”

  “You don’t know what?” I shouted, opening my eyes to see her reaching down. Before she could touch me, I reached forward with a quick motion and ripped her Rose pink bikini briefs off. She let out a small squeal.

  “Leo, you just ruined my favorite pair.”

  “I’ll buy you another pair next time I’m in Anchorage.”

  I picked her up. Enough was enough.

  “Leo Bronski, what are you doing?”

  “I give you one guess,” I said, my voiced all slurred from want. I walked over to the bed and dumped her on it. Without further ado, I literally jumped on top of her and we came together like two bucking horses. I was sure the whole world could hear our moans and groans, but I didn’t give a damn. I had her on those satin sheets and I wasn’t going to let her go. Tears were streaming out of her eyes. There were shivers and shakes, and small nips. I was so lost to the moment all I could see was her. I’m not one for talk, but she did get out one or two sentences about how I was driving her crazy. Then we were back at it again. Slower this time, and maybe even better. There was something in her eyes I hadn’t seen before. Like maybe a realization. Of what I couldn’t say. The night passed and I lost count of the number of times we made love. I was there for her and she was there for me. I never made so much love in one night in my life. For a while the brick wall was gone, and . . . my . . . heart . . . sang.

  Chapter 11

  I gave the glass I was drying an extra wipe while I stared at the rumpled bed. The sheets were clearly made of cotton; I could see that now. There was still a hint of satin here and there. It had been a glorious night. Ended too soon. Helen was gone by 4:00 a.m.. or thereabouts with no hint when she was coming back—except to say that she would.

  My eyes strayed to a nearby shelf where a half bottle of whiskey resided. What was I going to do about getting more? There was no answer from my other self, usually pretty cunning when it came to getting more booze. I would need it, no doubt there. I put the glass in its place in the cabinet, put the dishtowel on its hanger and surveyed the room. The bed. The bed needed clean sheets. Not that they didn’t smell good. Matter of fact they smelled great and I stood for a few seconds, holding the memory of last night in my nostrils.

  It was as near a perfect night as I could remember. One you hear about, but think it could never happen to you, especially when you’re on the other side of forty and drink like a fish. The only other thing I could remember other than the love-making, was the sound of a plane as it flew low over the village. I smiled now at the husky voice of Helen. “Don’t worry love, just some fool, mad because he has to be up while everyone else sleeps.” And then she drew me to her again. I became aroused just thinking about the memory. A door slammed in the mailroom. I took a deep breath. Ah, well, time to go to work.

  A quick look in the mirror to make sure I looked like a postmaster and away I went through the doorway into the mailroom.

  “Good morning, ladies!”

  There was no reply, but I was not going to let my good morning cheer be ruined.

  “Hi, Jeanette, how are you?”

  “I’m doing forwards.” She answered without looking up.

  “Yeah, I guess people are always moving around, aren’t they?”

  She gave no answer in return.

  Yep, there was a definite frost in the air. It must be because of last night; probably the whole village knew about Helen and me. Okay, if that’s what they wanted, I would be a cold impersonal postmaster.

  “Jean, what are you doing?”

  “Going through box rents,” came the retort from the other side of the desk.

  I folded my arms as I looked down at the top of her head.

  “Good, make sure you don’t miss any, the Postal Service needs the money.”

  Without waiting for another chilly voice, I stalked out to the front desk. It was as good a place to hide as any. The cold in the back room was enough to give a person pneumonia. Besides, I needed to think about how the former postmaster came to be hanging from a rope. As I opened the door to the front room, a smell of pipe smoke came to my nostrils. Sure enough, the old man sat at his usual place, eyes closed. The only way a person knew he was alive was by the occasional puff coming from his pipe. Knowing I would never get a chance to think standing there, I decided to slide on past the old boy and take a walk. My hand had just touched the doorknob of the outer door, when he chuckled.

  “How was last night?”

  I played the innocent—straight face and all.

  “Last night was fine, I guess. Why?”

  “She is not . . .”

  By the time he got to “real,” I was out the door. I was going to go crazy if I heard the word “real” one more time. Helen was “real.” Maybe she didn’t fit his idea of real, but she was a living breathing reality, a reality I wanted to know better. Besides all that, she was topnotch in bed and old selfish me wanted more. I strode off down the street, anxious to get away from the place.

  “Good morning, Leo!”

  “Good morning, Father.”

  I almost walked past him before I realized who it was. I stopped dead in my tracks and turned to face him.

  “What are you doing here in the middle of the week?”

  He smiled. “Slumming. Time for a cup?”

  What the hell, I thought, why not? Maybe there might be some whiskey to go with it.

  “All right, I could do that,” I answered, and followed him into the front door of the church and then into his room at the rear. He poured the coffee and without asking added a fair amount of something brown. I took it to be whiskey. My prayers were answered—it was. He raised his cup. “Well, how do you like village life?”

  “It’s okay, a little slower. . . .”

  “Uh, huh. He smiled. “A regular little Peyton Place, isn’t it.”

  I took another sip and stared into my cup.

  “Yeah, you can say that again. Everybody knows everybody’s business. And they remind you every chance they get, especially the old man. Tell me, is he really a shaman?”

  Now it was the Father’s turn to stare off into nothing.

  “I don’t know. He comes to church, sometimes. But I have the feeling I’m in competition with him. Maybe he only comes to church to see if he has any reason to fear me. I don’t know. Why?”

  “He’s always telling me that we aren’t real anymore. He seems to have something against Helen Ermoff . . . says she isn’t real.”

  The Father picked up his cup. “And you know better?”

  “She sure as hell seems real to me.”

  “I’m sure she does,” he said.

  I sat back in my chair. “Does the whole town know?”

  “If you’re referring to your ah . . . friendship with Helen, then yes, I would guess the whole town knows.”

  I switched the conversation to another subject because I found the subject we were on to be slightly embarrassing.

  “Have you heard any rumors about Crazy Mary? As to what happened to her?”

  He shook his head.

  “The only way I hear gossip is through confession. Usually, I can put two and two together. Confessions are something I can’t talk about.”

  My cup was empty so I set it down.

  “More coffee?” He asked

  “No, I don’t think so. I need to go think someplace besides my room. Right now, the back room at the post office is pretty chilly.”

  He nodded.
r />   “I’m not surprised. Everybody says it was you who made Charlie send Mary off to Anchorage. Some people see that as meddling in local affairs, but if it’s any comfort to you, I think you did the right thing.”

  I stood up.

  “Thanks, you don’t know how much better that makes me feel.”

  The Father stood up and walked me to the back door, giving me a clap on the back.

  “Sail on, Leo Bronski. I have a hunch all will be opened to you in due time. God’s Blessing!”

  And with that I was out the door and into bright sunlight. There had been few answers. I had the feeling the good Father knew more than he could say. I also had the feeling he knew who or what killed John Justus. Had he heard it in confession? What a great way to prevent someone from telling what he had heard. Could a member of the clergy be forced to tell what he knew? It was something I would have to find out. Satisfied for the moment, I walked around the church back onto Main Street. Seeing the Post Office still stood, flag flying bravely, I decided to walk toward the hill. I needed the privacy, with the hope all sorts of wisdom would come my way.

  I started climbing the hill, taking time to look at the scenery below. The village looked peaceful, but I knew that in every one of those houses, there was some pain due to alcohol or drugs. There was a war going on, the type of war that only alcohol or drugs can bring. Enmity between families of those who made a living selling those drugs, to those who were the users. I shook my head at the uselessness of it all.

  The shed drew my attention as I neared the top. Had Charlie taken the rope down? I walked over and peered in the doorway. The tattered remains of the rope were gone with just a few fibers lying on the floor. Had Charlie saved the rope, or had it been destroyed? My thoughts turned to a new deposit of broken bottles in a corner. Evidently, the old shed still had its uses.

  Over it all, came Mary’s sweet voice.

  “The mean old man is dead and gone.”

  Her voice echoed off the walls. A shiver ran down my spine, as if someone had taken a cattle prod and run it top to bottom down my back. I looked around to see if anyone was talking. It was that plain. Try as I might, I could see no one in the shadows. I backed slowly out of the shed, wanting to run. Reason told me she wasn’t here, she couldn’t be. Hadn’t I been the one to find her in the willows? Hadn’t I carried her all the way back to the village? C’mon, Bronski, get a grip on yourself!