hursday, October 15

12 days until it all ends

There was no way I would take Harry’s stew if he wouldn’t take my bread. I’d wrapped a loaf, fresh out of the freezer, in paper toweling, and carried it under my arm as I made my way up his overgrown drive.

His crooked little house sat alone in its carved-out clearing ringed by golden maples. The rose bush at the front door, which I’d helped him plant in the summer, had one last red blossom on it, drooping and bobbing in the afternoon wind.

Harry answered at my first knock, held the door wide, and invited me in. His suit coat was off. His way-off-white shirt was neat except that the collar gaped around his skinny neck. His wide black tie was perfectly knotted. He waved me to a wooden chair in his tiny living room, a room I’d never sat in before, always being directed to the kitchen since he would have something simmering on the stove and that something always needed watching.

I handed Harry my loaf of bread. He took it from me gingerly, holding it between his two hands. “Thank you, Emily,” he said, nodding formally. “If I don’t get to it, my dogs will be pleased.” He set the bread on a table and took a chair across the room. There we sat, backs straight, smiling at each other over a braided rug and under the watchful eye of a badly mounted eight-point buck. We nodded from time to time but otherwise said nothing. I figured he’d open up sooner or later and waited him out.

“I asked you over here, Emily.” He cleared his throat and leaned forward, hands between his bony knees. “To get some advice on …
on matters of the heart.”

I gave him a look. “Are you sure you want to talk to me? You know I’m not exactly an expert where things like that are involved.”

“Well, good enough. You’re the only one I trust to talk to. Don’t know where else to turn.”

“Then I’ll do my best, Harry. What’s going on?”

“As you know, I’ve been dating Delia Swanson ‘round a week now and I think I’m ready to propose.”

I sat back, not sure where this was going and hoping against hope he wasn’t asking for the sex talk.

“A little quick, isn’t it?”

He shook his head. “Not if what that preacher says is true. Could be all over sooner than we think and here I’d be, dying a single man.”

“I’m going out a single woman.”

“That’s ok, Emily. You was married already. I never been. You believe what that preacher says? I’m kind of leery about it, myself. Seems like too many of that kind I seen come through here during my lifetime.” He shook his head. “Still, you don’t want to be on the wrong side of things. Just in case.”

“Why don’t you propose?”

He thought awhile. “I get the feeling that Delia’s mother don’t like me all that much.”

I shook my head at him, hoping this was going to be a short conversation. “You know how she is. She’s very old and …”

“More than that. She told Delia she doesn’t want to see me around their house anymore. I take that as kind of being against me.”

I thought awhile then admitted I wouldn’t look on it as a welcome either.

“What’s Delia say?”

He shrugged, “What any good daughter would say, I guess. She says she’s got to listen to her mother.”

“Delia’s in her seventies, Harry.”

“Yeah, well …” He seemed sad. I had the feeling he’d had big plans for him and Delia. At least a week of wild passion before they packed it in for good.

“Did you mention marriage?”

“Yup, but Delia said it didn’t appear to be good, not with her mother acting up the way she is.”

“What do you want from me?”

“I was thinking. What do you think if I ask Delia to elope with me?”

I would have let my mouth fall open but I didn’t want to startle Harry. “Hmm,” I hedged. “Again, I think you’ve got to ask Delia. You don’t mean with a ladder, anything like that?”

“Nope. Just drive over and bring her back here.”

I nodded slowly. “I still think you have to ask Delia what she thinks of the plan. You don’t want to throw her over your shoulder. She’s got a say in this, you know.”

“That’s what I figured, with this woman’s lib stuff and all. I’ll put a note on her door; ask if I can come talk to her.” He seemed happy with my advice. Before he could think it over and realize it wasn’t much as lovelorn stuff went, I quickly asked him about the tractor salesman I was looking for.

“Tractor salesman? What do you want with a tractor salesman? You don’t need no tractor for that small garden of yours.”

“No, I don’t. You heard about Marjory Otis being murdered out at Deward?”

He nodded. “Simon told me.”

Simon, our mailman and boyfriend to Gloria at EATS, delivered a lot more than the mail. I’d gotten Sorrow through Simon and he carried the news from house to house. Simon was an important man back in our woods—for some he was the only touch with the outside world.

I reminded Harry of the time, maybe thirty years or more ago, when Marjory’s mother ran off with a man said to be a tractor salesman.

“Yeah, I heard. Never believed a word of it. Woman was unhappy as it was. They even locked her up in a state hospital for a while, just for being unhappy. Back then, they did whatever they wanted. That was no woman looking for a husband to run away with, not Winnie Otis. That was a woman who only wanted to be left alone. But that’s what everybody said; she ran off and left her kids.”

“She never came back. I’d like to look up that tractor salesman. Do you remember anybody who would fit that description? I mean, a tractor salesman she could have met in Leetsville? Maybe in a gas station?”

He thought that over for a while then shook his head. “I’d try the Feed and Seed in town, if that was me. Old farmers always going in there. They’d know.”

He stood. I supposed our afternoon tête-à-tête was finished.

“One more thing.” I held up a finger as I stood. “Marjory Otis lived with her aunt and uncle while she was a teenager, along with her brothers.”

He nodded. “I remember the boys. Arnold was kind of a blowhard. Paul was a quiet enough kid. You hear, Arnold’s running for Michigan state senator? Supposed to be coming to town soon.” He frowned. “But I guess that’s about Marjory being dead. A brother would have to see to …”

I nodded. “What I wanted to know was about that aunt and uncle.”

“Their Aunt Cecily and Uncle Ralph Otis, you mean. Knew ’em some.”

“Do they still live around here?”

He shook his head. “Ralph died, oh, maybe twenty years ago. Cecily’s up to Bellaire, in a nursing home. Guess you could go give her a visit. Probably doesn’t get much company. No kids, you know. And she didn’t treat Winnie’s kids much good when they was with her. I’d say Cecily might look forward to a visit from just about anybody. Even you, looking for a tractor salesman.”

Harry went out to his kitchen, bumbled around for a few minutes, and came back. He had one of his infamous jars of stew in his hands, wiping the lid with the dish towel he carried.

“You don’t have to …” I demurred, then took the jar thrust at me. I held it up so I could look in, but it was as dense as ever with carrots and potatoes.

With a sinking feeling, I asked Harry what kind of stew it was this time. “You don’t use dead skunk, do you?”

His look was pure disgust. “Can’t be choosy, Emily. All the same to the stew pot.”