Chapter 8

 

The reporter turned out to be a young twenty-something. She was a tall drink of water, maybe five feet-eight or so, in a dark dress suit. Her coal-black hair was cut in what I would call an old-fashioned 1920’s bob. Buckteeth and black-rimmed glasses completed the picture. What she had going for her though, was legs. Beautiful long legs, and one swung continuously back and forth as she sat in front of me. Whether this was nervousness or her scheme to distract me, I wasn’t sure, but I put myself on alert anyway. It was her dark eyes that gave me the jitters. They glittered like a raven’s, and they were constantly darting here and there.

I looked at her card and tried to smile. “Ms. Emily Jems. You work for the Fire Bay Journal?”

“Yeth,” she lisped.

“Well, Ms. Jems, what can I do for you?”

“We always interview new people in town who work in positions of leadership and power.” Her lisp and her quiet way of speaking reminded me of a six-year-old girl with missing teeth. Despite my antagonism toward news reporters, I felt drawn to her. 

I put the card down on the desk and sat in my easy chair. I smiled and folded my hands on the desk like someone who was really in control of his environment.

“I’m not sure I have all that much power, but thanks for the flattery,” I said.

She reached in her black handbag and dug out a spiral notebook. 

Good, I thought, at least I wasn’t going to be tape-recorded. If push came to shove, I could always deny a statement if I had to. But that was bordering on politics and I hated politicians who did that very thing. 

Without further ado, she started asking questions starting with “Where are you from?”

“I’m a Kansas farm boy,” I answered with what I hoped was a winsome smile. At that, one of her eyebrows made a perfect semi-circle. Exactly for what reason I was never to know. I went on to make what I thought were careful guarded answers to her questions and watched in fascination as she took them down in shorthand; seldom seen these days.

We went along like this for the next few minutes. Meanwhile, that leg was swinging and her dress was hitched up to almost “you know where.” I caught myself wondering how much further up it would go before she pulled it back down. I realized then that I was starting to drift.

“Would you repeat that last question?” I asked.

“‘I said, ‘There is a rumor that Gloria was killed out there on the bay.’”

“I don’t know where you heard that,” I answered, “but it is just a rumor, you know.”

“Then there is no truth to it? I mean you are the postmaster . . . ”

“Not that I know of,” I answered.

With that, she snapped her notebook shut, stood and shook my hand across the desk, said her goodbye, and walked out the door. Well, goodbye to you too, I thought, and sat back in my chair. I went back over my answers and concluded I had pretty well covered myself. But the next day’s paper would tell the story. And I hoped there were would be no surprises. 

Relieved the interview was over, I wandered out onto the main floor to see how things were going. The black-tiled floor absolutely glistened. What a change from this morning! Maybe my little “pep talk” had made a difference. I heard a buffer going somewhere, and I meandered toward the sound, all the while getting nods from the various workers. I even looked back from time to time to check for the middle finger going up behind my back. Seeing none, I put a little extra bounce to my walk. Maybe this outfit was going to fly after all. 

I rounded a case and found the source of the noise. It was the longhaired shifty-eyed guy smoothly working the buffer back and forth. Seeing me standing there, he stopped the machine and gave me a questioning look.

“Looks great,” I said, with what I hoped was an approving smile.

“Yeah, it does look better,” he answered, and cast a shifty glance at the floor. 

“You know, I still don’t have all the names down in this place,” I said. 

He held out his hand. “It’s Halls, Jim Halls.”

“Gotcha,” I said, returning his handshake. “I’ll try to remember from now on.”

After a few more pleasantries I moved on, conscious that I was being peered at from various places on the floor. I walked around, stopping at a case here and there to talk. Picture a big four-foot long suitcase with no back to it, sitting on a table vertically folded out with a grid work of slots with each slot open at both ends big enough for letters. One person stands in front of the case sorting mail from a big pile lying in a trough on another table. Later, mail carriers take the sorted mail out of each slot, stuff it into their respective trucks and deliver it to the street mailboxes.

I noticed the cases weren’t very well positioned on the floor. I made a mental note to discuss this with Abby and the new supervisor. Maybe we could gain a little efficiency and a few less hours of overtime. Anything to lift the morale and, in my mind, relief from overtime, was the top need here. 

* * *

After I got back to the B & B that evening, the hostess asked me if I would mind taking the old man for a spin up to the bluff in his wheelchair. 

“Sure,” I said, “I could use the exercise.”

So away we went, with me pushing the old man up the graveled trail to the edge of the bluff. I actually had to puff a little to get the job done. Wild roses lined the path. There must have been an acre of them. Very pretty. It felt good to sit on a bench and look out over the bay. The sea had always intrigued me. The waves just kept coming, crashing upon the shore—just like in the movies. Where did any particular drop of water come from? Was it from a drop of rain that fell in Russia somewhere? Or was it China? I smiled at myself, thinking such deep thoughts.

“Wue . . . Wue.”

Startled, I looked over to see the old man raise his arm and gesture out to sea, his mouth wet with slobber. 

What on earth was he trying to say? Then it hit me. He was trying to say the word, “blue.” Of course, it made sense. The sky was blue and the ocean was blue. 

“Yeah, it is a pretty blue, isn’t it?” I said.

He slapped his open palm on the armrest of the wheelchair and moved his head slightly from side to side. Again, he pointed. “Wue . . . wue.”

“Sorry, sir, but I don’t know what you’re trying to say, other than the sky and ocean are blue.”

He gave a sigh and dropped his arm, resigned, I suspected, to my stupidity. We sat there a while longer, but the enjoyment had left. A nippy fresh breeze sprung up, which made me decide to get the old man back to the house. He made one more try as I turned him away from the bluff. 

“Wue, wue,” he slobbered. 

When I looked down at his face, I saw a tear forming. Damn, it must be important, at least to him. On the way back, he let out another burst of guttural sounds in what I was sure was an effort to make me understand. 

I lifted one hand off the wheelchair and patted his shoulder. “Sorry, I can’t make out what you’re trying to say, sir.”

He mumbled some more as I pushed him down the path to the house. I was sure that by this time he was saying something like, “What a dumb-ass!”

Back in the house, I mentioned the incident to his daughter, who said he’d done the same thing when she’d pushed him up to the bluff. “If only he could write, but he can’t do that either. I find this very frustrating, and I know it is for him,” she said.

She thanked me for taking him and pushed him off to his room while I went up the stairs to mine. It was time to check in with Jeanette. She had a way of putting things in order. I might handle the job okay, but when it came to handling my life, I needed Jeanette to let me really know how things were. 

She answered the phone on the first ring. I loved that about her. She was always there, Johnny-on-the-spot. She began by telling me her problems at the Howes Bluff Post Office. Mostly paperwork stuff. I joked with her about losing my job security now that she knew all the secrets of making the Postal Service think everything was okay. 

Her comeback was a quiet, “I’ll never know all your secrets, my husband.”

Right then, I hated the Postal Service. I belonged back in Howes Bluff in her arms, murmuring sweet nothings in her ears. I was quiet for a moment, trying not to break down. I took a deep breath. “The Boss tells me I’m getting a new supervisor on Monday. Her name is Ashley Norsbe. Ever heard of her?”

There was a quick sound of air being inhaled, as if Jeanette had just seen a grizzly coming at her. Her answer came slowly, as if she was afraid for what the future held.

“Yes.”

“And . . . ” I prodded.

Again, that moment of silence and I knew she was going to choose her words carefully. “She is very aggressive.”

“You mean pushy?” I asked.

“Yes.”

I took another deep breath. “Who did you hear this from?” I asked.

“The Boss’s assistant told me soon after she overheard the Boss tell you.” Jeanette went on to tell me that she rarely got to speak to the Boss as I did, that usually her questions were routed to him through the assistant. “You get to talk to him because he likes you. You are lucky man.”

I couldn’t see whether Jeanette had a smile on her face, but I was willing to bet she was teasing me.

“Yeah, thanks a lot, half-pint.” I retorted. I called her that only when she half-annoyed me. 

That was her cue to jump on me and give me what I deserved, or at least what I craved.

“Leo Bronski, if I were there, you know what I’d be doing!”

“Yes, love, I certainly do know,” I said, my face breaking into a grin.

We were quiet for a moment, savoring this close time and the friendship that went with it.

“Leo. You okay?”

“Honey, the only thing that could make me more okay would be having you here with me.”

With that we said our good-byes and rang off. I lay back in bed and studied the ceiling, as if that would help. Jeanette was probably doing the same thing, examining my words, just as I was examining hers. There was no doubt she felt trouble was coming my way. That much I could sense. Part of it had to do with this new supervisor, I suspected. The Boss had called her a Cracker Jack, someone who was on top of post office operations. Well, we would see.

* * *

I went to work early the next morning, anxious to see what the paper had to say about the interview. I was hoping it would turn out to be a humdrum piece on the second or third page, but it was not. The article was on the first page and it wasn’t about me. It was about Gloria Plinski and how she died. By the time the raven-haired kid was done with me, I was either lying or else the biggest jackass to hit the streets. To quote: “Mr. Bronski would neither deny nor confirm that Gloria Plinski was murdered. If she was murdered, as many suspect, why is the Postal Service or the law enforcement agencies covering it up? Did someone go “postal”? There have been rumors of low morale at the post office. Perhaps someone got even.”

I threw the paper down on the desk, took my glasses off, and leaned back in my chair. It promised to be a long day.

* * *

And a long day it was too. While I sat at my desk ruminating about the interview, the phone rang. I answered thinking it would be the Boss, as it was too early for the post office to be open.

“Yes, sir?” 

“Mr. Bronski, good morning!”

I hesitated; it sure didn’t sound like the Boss.

“Uh . . . good-morning.”

“Yes, sir, this is radio station KWIS. We’d like to give you the opportunity to comment on the murder of Gloria Plinski. Do you think it’s likely that somebody at the post office did it?”

“Who told you that?” I asked.

“Well, it’s common knowledge in the community.”

“It may be common knowledge in the community,” I snapped, “but I’m just here to do my job as a postmaster. Good-bye!”

Within a minute, the demon phone rang again. This time it was an Alaska State Trooper wondering whose side I was on by being belligerent with the news agencies. I tried to reassure the man I was definitely on his side, but I’m not sure he believed me. By the time he was through with me, I was shaking with anger and I wished mightily for a drink of cheap whiskey. Two years ago that’s exactly what I would have done, but now I was on the wagon with a certain person counting on me, and I was not about to let her down.

After taking some aspirin to ward off a headache I felt coming on, I wandered out to the main floor to see how the troops were doing. Everybody appeared to be at their post, and seemed to be doing okay. I stopped by the box section to tell Abby we were getting a new supervisor on Monday and that she might want to pass that around. I’m not sure, but I think I saw relief in her eyes. I couldn’t blame her, having the job of supervisor at an associate office is a tough job, even more so if your postmaster is cranky.