A Hard Case

by Ron Hess

  “And you, Jeanette?” I asked softly.

  “I have good job. I don’t need money. So I don’t dig. This dig is not good for the village. People argue, fight. I don’t know the end, but right now it’s bad.”

  She shook her head. “Be careful down here. Some people may not want to see you. You understand?”

  I nodded. Indeed I did. Who wanted the postmaster seeing what might be the prelude to an established crime? I began wondering if I should go, but the fat was in the fire and Jeanette was pulling me by the hand. A small hand, but one made of iron. I had to go. We walked another hundred feet and we were there.

  What I saw surprised me. I had expected to see a cut in the river’s bank no longer than maybe thirty feet. Instead, I saw at least twenty people working the length of a football field up the river from the path. I looked at Jeanette, my mouth open in amazement.

  “How long have you known about this place?”

  “We have always known. It has been an old village site for hundreds of years.”

  “Yes, but what made you start to dig?” I asked.

  “Like I said—money.” She answered.

  “Right. But who came up with the idea?”

  She shook her head. “I’m not sure. Now there is a market.”

  I persisted. “Who’s buying the relics?”

  “You ask many questions, Mr. Postmaster.”

  Oh, back to formality. But, I was curious. A good-sized man speaking in Yupik to Jeanette interrupted my thoughts. All the while, his dark eyes were on me. He looked like a warrior type out of the movies. Finely chiseled face, shiny black hair down to his shoulders, with a red plaid shirt and Levi’s completing the picture. I got the idea if she didn’t do a good job of explaining my presence here, he might just grab the nearby hunting rifle and shoot me. Some of the people probably wouldn’t even stop digging. My body would soon disappear in the river and that would be that. Finis. End of a meddlesome postmaster. There would be another investigation, but nobody would know anything.

  Their talking became more heated, but I couldn’t tell who was winning, only that small Jeanette was giving as good as she got. I stood there, helpless as a kindergarten child whose first crayon drawing was the worst of the class. Just when I thought the guy was going for the rifle, who should show up but the old man John hobbling down the path. One loud word in Yupik from him was all it took. Jeanette and the man shut up, but kept eyeing one another, each unwilling to back down. A few seconds more and the old man stood between them huffing and puffing. After catching his breath, he switched to English with his eye on me.

  “What the hell is going on here?” he asked.

  Little Jeanette jumped in first. “Ivan does not want postmaster here. He says postmaster will tell everything.”

  The old man looked at me. “Is that true or can you keep a secret?”

  Ivan gave me a face full of fury. “He’ll tell! He has to! He’s a white government worker.”

  The old man John held his hand up.

  “Ivan. Shut up! Now tell me, Mr. Postmaster, and don’t lie. I will know. Are you going to tell anyone what you saw here?”

  His eyes locked on me. There was no doubt about it. He would know if I were lying. There was no sidestepping the question. I took a deep breath and looked directly back into his eyes. There would be no looking at noses or foreheads this time.

  “Only if I am asked a direct question by the proper authorities.” I said.

  Ivan sneered and spit out a word I had never heard before.

  “Gussik!”

  He’ll talk,” he went on. “Maybe not today. But someday. He’ll talk, they always do.” He again spit out the word, “Gussik!”

  Ivan turned back to the old man and continued talking in Yupik. The old man listened, nodding his head, and I sensed it was to give Ivan time to make his case. Meanwhile, Jeanette just stood there biting her lip, realizing it was up to the men now to decide what to do with me. She was, after all, only a woman.

  The hairs on the back of my neck were beginning to stand. I was on trial and the prosecuting attorney was having his say to the judge and maybe the jury. By now there were more people standing around us. Watching and waiting. Wondering what the old man would do. Finally, the old man held up his hand—he had heard enough. He turned to me.

  “Why are you here?”

  “I came with Jeanette looking for Crazy . . . uh, Mary.” I said, wishing I had enough sense to forget the word “Crazy.” The old man said nothing, just kept looking into my eyes. Ivan, unable to contain himself, spoke again in Yupik. This time, Jeanette and several others gasped. I had the feeling that at right that moment, I was in as much danger as I had been in Nam when the bullets came from the chopper. I took another deep breath and put that thought back where it belonged—behind the brick wall.

  “That will not happen,” the old man said in a flat voice. “Not here, not in the village. You understand, Ivan?”

  Ivan said not a word, but turned away. I couldn’t decide if the matter was settled or not. Perhaps someday, I would end up in the river, but it wouldn’t be today. The old man looked from me to Jeanette. His thumb jerked over his shoulder.

  “Get him out of here,” he said.

  She nodded and turned to me, a sober look on her face.

  “C’mon Leo, let’s leave.”

  I looked around and noticed Ivan watching me out of the corner of his eye as he worked. I got the same feeling a deer must get when it’s stalked by a mountain lion. I nodded my head. “Yeah, I think you’re right. It is time to leave. What about Mary?”

  Jeanette’s mouth was a straight line. “She is not here. Now, c’mon Leo.”

  As we left I couldn’t help noticing the sneer, or was it a challenge, on Ivan’s face? If I stayed around very long, he definitely would become a problem, a problem not easily solved. Ivan was not someone to joke with and then befriended. Not with a white man. To him, I’m sure we white people were everything bad that had ever happened to the Yupik People.

  With Jeanette in the lead, we were soon back to the main path. Behind us, I heard the old man trying to out yell the other voices now rising in pitch. Probably, he didn’t want them digging, but there was no way the villagers would stop. There was money, and more than likely if the government got in on the affair, all the villagers would see was red tape being strung across the dig.

  As we climbed the steep hill, Jeanette’s rear end rose to my eye level and I really noticed for the first time something my subconscious had known all along. She was attractive, even if she was pint-sized. I smiled when this revelation came to me while viewing her rear end. I spoke before I realized what was coming out of my mouth.

  “Jeanette, are you married?”

  We were back on the main trail, so she turned and gave me a funny look, probably trying to decide what my angle was. Was the postmaster shifting into a pre-courtship phase?

  “No. Mary’s father died a long time ago. Alcohol.”

  “I was just wondering,” I stammered. “Wondering . . . if her father was searching elsewhere.”

  “No,” she said sadly, “he’s gone, a long time now.”

  “Sorry.”

  She nodded. Without another word, we continued up the main path by the river for another half-hour. It was noon. Suddenly, Jeanette stopped while my attention was elsewhere, and I had to put my hands out as before on the river path, to keep from running into her. Was that sparks I felt? Hopefully not. I had no desire to have an affair with one of my employees. Office romances usually end up going nowhere with the involved parties hurt on both sides. Nope, it was best to stay platonic. If she noticed the sparks, she gave no sign and for that, I was grateful. When I left this place, though, there would be a soft spot in my heart for this small woman.

  “We’ll go back now,” she said. “I don’t think she would come this far.”

  Her face brightened. “Maybe she’s back in the village already.”

  “Yeah, maybe so,” I re
plied. But I had a feeling it was not to be, and I felt doubly sad. Sad for Mary and sad for Jeanette.

  “By the way, Jeanette, what does the word “Gussik,” mean?”

  Her bright face dimmed. “It’s slang from the old days when the Russians first came into our country. It comes from the word, “Cossack.” Gussik is not a nice word.”

  I nodded. “So I gathered.”

  We didn’t say much to each other on the way back to the village. In any other situation it would have been called a good time. The birds sang, squirrels chattered and occasionally snowshoes in their brown summer outfits flitted away into the brush. From time to time the path was wide enough for us to walk side by side, again not talking. Once, out of the corner of my eye, I saw a tear snake its way down the side of Jeanette’s face. I resisted putting an arm around her shoulders, as there was already enough emotion for that moment. It wouldn’t be fair to Jeanette. Nope, this was something she would have to deal with on her own. She didn’t need me putting more clouds in her sky. As we reached the village’s main street, she turned to me, taking my hand in both of hers.

  “Thank you, Leo. Thanks for coming with me. I hope Ivan does not make things bad for you. My mind was on Mary, not him. I didn’t know he was there.”

  And then she was off—head down—and I heard what I thought was a small sob. I looked around. It was quiet. There was no Mary here, crazy or otherwise.

  “Jeanette.” I called quietly, but she kept walking, either she was too far away to hear or too involved with her grief. The thought occurred to me that if she had stopped, I wouldn’t have known what to say. I returned to my room feeling some of what Jeanette must feel in her heart. After all, didn’t I too have a lost child? One that would never return. Go ahead, Bronski, get it out! Say it! She was lost because you killed her! Digging feverishly in a drawer, I found a half-empty bottle of Jack Daniels. Thank goodness, he was here! I chugalugged the near half-pint remaining and threw it against the wall, where it shattered into a million pieces.

  “Oh God. Help me,” I moaned without thinking. This surprised me, because I don’t pray. I couldn’t see that it did me any good. I believed he existed, but that was about it. But now, for some reason I wanted him to listen.

  If God heard my calls, He did not answer. I raged around the room, nearly breaking my toes on the stove. It seemed everywhere I went, death followed. Why was He taking Crazy Mary’s departure out on me? I asked Him, over and over. Why? Why? I wanted Him to come down out of his heaven and fight, but He would not. He wanted me to suffer some more, to pay for my sins while I was here on earth. With the bitterness of bile in my throat, I collapsed face down on the bed; embarrassing tears that couldn’t be stopped cascaded down my cheeks. They finally ceased as I faded out into a deep sleep.

  Chapter 7

  Dawn came hard the next day. It was like Sunday morning coming down, only it was Monday. After a breakfast of coffee and aspirin, I puttered around the mailroom, trying to find something to do. Jean and Jeanette had already been in, asking for the day off to look for Crazy Mary. Without hesitation I gave it to them. As Jeanette said, “It’s summer, she could still be alive.”

  I had nodded and turned my head, not wanting to see the tears in her eyes. It was plain she didn’t think there was much chance Mary was still alive. Instead, gutless wonder that I am, I merely patted her on the shoulder and staring off above her head, told her to take all the time she needed.

  The two women left and I was glad to see them go. More time for me to get my act together. Finished with my puttering, I sat down at my desk to start on the admin work. For sure I didn’t want to, but it was due today. With a little luck I would have it on the boss’s desk tomorrow morning. I was saved when I heard the front door open to the lobby. With a welcome relief, I hustled up front to wait on a customer. I was wrong, it wasn’t a customer, only the old man come to take his place by the stove. I lingered, my elbows resting on the counter.

  “I want to thank you for saving my skin yesterday.”

  At first, I didn’t think he was going to speak. He sat there for a few moments, letting me figuratively hop from one foot to the other. Finally, after lighting his pipe, he spoke.

  “I didn’t do it for you.”

  He took a puff on his pipe, staring straight ahead. Thinking he had finished speaking, I opened my mouth to speak, but he waved me off and exhaled a long line of blue.

  “I did it for the village. If you were to die, there would be more questions asked. We have enough problems. We don’t need more from the government. We will solve our own problems. You have come here to find out about the old postmaster, but you won’t find out anything. He is dead. That is all there is to know. He was bad and his badness killed him. He killed himself.”

  I nodded. It would make things so simple. One half of me wanted to believe, but the other half, the professional half, thought it knew better. The postmaster, a John somebody, funny, I couldn’t remember his name, had been murdered. The feeling persisted and I knew I’d have a devil of a time shaking it. Why he had been murdered, I had no idea.

  There was a noise at the front door and I turned from the old man to see who it was. It was her, gold earrings flashing, dressed fit to kill as usual with a red jacket over a blue sweater and matching pants. The outfit reminded me of a Realtor about to close on a house.

  “Good morning, Mr. Postmaster. How are you?”

  She stood there, two feet away, looking directly into my eyes. I was, as usual, speechless in her presence. I swallowed, lost in those eyes. Was there a hint of an invitation there?

  “Fine,” I answered. I could think of nothing else to say. I wanted to say, “I’m doing fine, when can we meet?” I lacked the words, or was it smarts? Maybe with the old man there, “fine,” was the only word to use. By the time I had come to my senses, she had moved on with a bemused smile to her personal mailbox. I already had it memorized, number 530. I already knew there was a computer catalog waiting there. I watched as she jangled her keys and bent over to retrieve her mail. Nice view. Maybe it was going to be a good day after all. She straightened up, closed her box and came back by me with her hand extended.

  “By the way, I don’t think we’ve been introduced, properly anyway. My name is Helen Ermoff.”

  I gave her what I know had to be a red-faced smile. “Yes, I know,” I answered. I mumbled something about keeping track of all the pretty women in town.

  “Why, Leo, I think that was a compliment. Thank you.”

  By the time I came to my senses she had opened the door, and with a brief turn of her head and a smile, was gone. With that smile, I felt like a high school second-string football player spoken to by a favorite cheerleader. Had I made points? I sure hoped so.

  The old man watched her go and then turned to the more important business of re-lighting his pipe. I stood there leaning against the counter for support, trying to conquer a wave of hangover just then making its way through my head.

  The old man cleared his throat. “She is not real.”

  “What?” I said, trying to master the dizziness.

  “She is not real.”

  “She sure as hell looks real to me,” I answered.

  “She is not real,” he repeated.

  Oh boy, here it came again, a lesson in Psyche or Morals 101. To hell with him. I was not going to ask why she wasn’t real. Sure, maybe she was a little overdressed for this town, but still, it was nice to see a little of the civilization that was back in the real world. The dizziness passed and I felt a little more clearheaded.

  “Look, she may not be real to you, but in my world, where I come from, she . . . is . . . real.”

  The old man took another puff and shook his head.

  “She is not real.”

  “To hell with it.” I answered, and I stormed back into the back room, angry enough to do paperwork. Occasionally, I caught a whiff of his pipe smoke, and I had a notion to tell him to either leave or put it out. But if I did that, I wo
uld become the bad guy in the village. And, hadn’t he more or less saved me yesterday? With a clear head holding its own, I put my thoughts into the paperwork. A couple of hours later, I was almost done when the phone rang. I hesitated to pick it up, knowing who it might be.

  “Bronski!”

  My worst fears were confirmed. It was the Boss and even though I was hundreds of miles away, I could envision him sitting there at his desk, leather chair creaking, with a cigar in his mouth. There was this sucking noise from time to time, grating in my ear and on my nerves. I stood at attention out of pure reflex.

  “Bronski, where’s the paperwork?”

  “Working on it, Boss.”

  “Whatyamean? Working on it? It’s supposed to be done! Justus would have it done by now.”

  I decided to hit back.

  “Well, maybe I would have if I wasn’t playing detective at the same time I’m supposed to be a postmaster!”

  “Now, now, Leo, don’t get edgy. I know you’ll get it done. So, have you found out anything about Justus’s death?”

  “Not yet, and I may never. People here tend to clam up when they’re dealing with a government white man. I have a hunch it’s going to turn out to be a complicated case. Justus may have killed himself. I can tell you his employees sure as hell didn’t like him. Apparently, he was autocratic, almost to the extreme. But you probably already know that.”

  I knew I didn’t have to say that last sentence, but I was feeling reckless. There was a moment’s silence. The Boss was deciding whether to put up with this last bit of impertinence. If I had been in Anchorage, he would have jumped on my case something fierce, reminding me all the while I could lose my job. But, I wasn’t in Anchorage, I was in Western Alaska, in an expensive place. Yanking me out and replacing me with someone else would wreak havoc on his budget. God, I loved it when I had control. He finally spoke.