by Ron Hess
I stood up from my desk, stretched and yawned. It was turning out to be a boring day. Jean was up front handling the counter. For some reason Jeanette had not come to work, so I put her on sick leave. Jean had little to say about my inquiries about her sister. I decided to let it go, knowing that eventually I would find out why. I lowered my arms and tucked my shirt back in my pants. Oddly enough, I wasn’t gaining weight, despite my regular eating habits. I put it down to good genes.
Before I sat down, I noted a slight hum in the distance, which grew into a loud roar as a plane buzzed Main Street. It was so low the windowpanes rattled.
“It’s here.” Jean yelled from up front.
“What’s here?” I yelled back.
I was too late. She was already out the front door. Realizing something was in the wind, I sauntered up front and peeked out the window. What I saw made me nod. Now I understood. A number of people, maybe twenty altogether, were walking slowly up Main Street toward the airport. Crazy Mary was back. I was of a mind to join the procession, but then I realized I would probably be seen as an intruder, the one who had disrupted village life by having the autopsy done. Never mind that it was the law. I was still responsible. Thinking that no one would be after their mail, I locked the front door and headed back to the desk; the post office’s paperwork must be done. I worked another fifteen minutes and then gave it up; my mind wasn’t with it. I sat there, thinking about the previous night and wondering if it was love, or lust that made me a captive of Helen. As my thoughts wandered, my pencil tapped a distinctive cadence on the table, like a chopper blade’s wop-wop sound. A sound so common in Nam, and so welcome, especially if you were part of a fire team in some lonely clearing in Vietnam. Did I need to be rescued?
A low sound came through the walls. Hard to make out at first, but then I realized it was singing or maybe chanting. I laid my pencil down and wandered up front again to peek out the window. It was the procession returning, Father Joseph leading in his black cassock, arms folded. Slowly they came, six men bearing the casket. The mourners looked neither left, or right, each apparently lost in his own world of thought and grief. I could feel for them. A wave of remorse came over me as I remembered my own family’s funeral. My wife and daughter on their way to the cold ground on that December day. I trembled. It was time for a shot, something to ward off the grieving thoughts.
I walked back to my room and took down a bottle. My hands shook so bad I could hardly pour the precious liquid into a water glass. I took a big gulp and closed my eyes as the whiskey eased its way down my throat. Ah . . . how good it tasted! I opened my eyes and without a moment’s thought, poured another half glass. Down it went. I was beginning to feel better and the shakes were gone. Hot damn! I hadn’t felt this good in a couple of days. Reality returned and I sadly put “Old Jack” back on the shelf. What was I going to do when the bottles were empty? Of course, I had no answer to that question, and I reluctantly walked away from the two sentinels on their perch. My thoughts were going nowhere in this mood and so I found myself standing at the front window looking out on a deserted street.
What the hell was I doing here in the middle of nowhere? I had never felt so alone as right then, even as a young soldier walking the back streets of Tokyo on R & R from Nam. My feeling sorry for myself was interrupted when I saw young Jimmy running down the street from the direction of the river path. Every few steps he would look back, as if someone were chasing him. Seeing me standing in the window, he stopped running and came to a halt. Decision made, he dashed up to the front door of the post office.
“Please, Postmaster, let me in!”
My first inclination was to say, “we’re closed,” but I could hear the fear in his voice.
“All right,” I answered, “hang on a second while I unlock the door.”
I had no more turned the lock than he was in the door, panting as if a bear was on his tail.
“Lock the door, Mr. Postmaster!”
“Why, what’s the hurry?”
He was near sobbing now.
“Because . . . ‘cause . . . Ivan’s after me! Look out the window! Please, Postmaster! Do you see him?”
I locked the door and walked back to the window. Might as well humor the boy. Besides, I felt some comradeship for anybody who was in trouble with Ivan. Sure enough, there he was, running down the river path onto Main Street. Even from this distance, I thought I could see fury on his face. I turned back to Jimmy.
“What in the world did you do to Ivan?”
Jimmy wiped at his eyes.
“Nothing.”
“Oh, come on, Jimmy, why is he after you?”
He pulled a beautifully preserved mask from under his jacket.
“Oh, my God. C’mon Jimmy. Let’s move away from here to my room.”
Luckily, Ivan wasn’t close enough to the post office to see us so we were able to get back to my room undetected. I slammed my door shut and locked it. The window shades were already down. I went up to Jimmy, who was still sniffling and put my hand on his shoulder.
“Okay, what’s the deal?”
“I . . . I found the mask and . . . and he wants to take it away from me. It’s mine!”
I took the mask from him and held it up to the single light bulb. The edgings were fine and sharp. There were even traces of paint. Jimmy had truly made a find.
“It’s a fine specimen, Jimmy. But then, I’m not an expert either. You found this at the dig along the river?”
Jimmy nodded anxiously.
“I see. So what are you going to do with it?”
He regarded me for about a second. “You keep it for me, Postmaster.”
“Are you kidding?”
“Please, Mr. Postmaster, Ivan will never find it here. Maybe later you can sell it for me in Anchorage.”
I rolled my eyes.
“Dammit, kid, you’re putting me in a hell of a spot. It’s against the law for me to get involved in this monkey business! I don’t even know if what you people are doing is legal, for Christ’s sake!”
I handed the artifact back and paced the floor.
“Look, Jimmy, sooner or later Ivan will catch up to you whether you have the mask or not. Then what?”
Jimmy shrugged his shoulders.
I stopped my pacing.
“Yeah, that’s what I’m afraid of. Look, what about your parents? Can’t they help?”
“There’s just my mom and sister.”
Great, I thought, just great. I began pacing the floor again, trying to think away out of this mess. I must have paced fifteen minutes, stopping occasionally to pull back the blinds of my window to take a peek at the outside world. Finally, decision made, I turned to Jimmy, who by now was sitting on a chair swinging his legs as if it wasn’t his problem anymore.
“Okay, Jimmy, here’s what we’re going to do. You’re going to stay here while I go out and see how things are. I will probably see Charlie about this. I don’t see any other way. You can’t stay here forever, because eventually, Ivan will find out you’re here. So, before that happens, we have to take steps to see that you’re safe. Make sense?”
By his face I could see Jimmy wasn’t happy about my solution. But being a smart kid, he knew what I said was true. Whether Charlie was a good answer to our problem didn’t matter. He was probably the only way we could go..
“But Jimmy, there’s something I need to know. Who killed the postmaster?”
Jimmy’s face grimaced and his legs stopped swinging. I could imagine he was thinking he had just jumped into the fire out of the proverbial frying pan.
“I don’t know.”
“Oh, come on, Jimmy, there are no secrets here in this village. Who did it?”
His face brightened. “The village men.”
“Jimmy . . . now . . . who was behind it? Who told the village men to do it?”
“I don’t know.” His legs started swinging again, his face reflecting nothing but blandness.
I threw up my arms in disgus
t. Evidently, that was all I was going to get. All the same, I would liked to have rattled the kid’s teeth. I stood there a few moments, hands in my pockets to prevent me from doing that very thing.
“All right, Jimmy. You stay here. You can have the TV on, but keep it low, you understand?”
He nodded and his legs increased their swinging speed. A happy camper by any definition. I went over to the TV and turned it on, the sound barely audible. When I turned to face Jimmy again, his legs had stopped swinging and he was hunched over, like he was born with one eye on a television set. I said nothing more, he wouldn’t have heard me anyway. I turned off the lights, put on a jacket, and eased myself out the back door. Whether the villagers wanted a visitor or not at their funeral, was not an option; I was going.
I approached the front door of the church with some misgivings. Would Charlie be willing to hear me out in the midst of a funeral? Maybe not, but I had to try. And maybe, I reasoned, my showing up at a religious and spiritual function might show people I cared and was not simply another white man.
I opened the door and slowly walked in. At first I don’t think anybody knew I was there since their eyes were focused on the unopened casket positioned in the middle of the floor. Had it been opened, people might not have liked what they saw. The Mary in the casket would not have been the Mary they remembered. Time waits for no man, not even dead ones.
I slowly looked around for Charlie, hoping I wouldn’t draw too much attention. Of course, Ivan spotted me looking, as a warrior he was always aware of what was going on in his environment. There was a scowl on his face, but he couldn’t do anything here in church so I chose to ignore him. Finally, I spotted Charlie standing behind Jean and Jeanette, whose tears were a waterfall running down her face. If she saw me, she gave no sign. Since they were standing on the other side of the circle of people, there was no way I could get to him. I resigned myself to waiting until the funeral was over.
A few faces turned my way, but I sensed most of the feelings toward me were neutral. At that minute, I was just another face in the crowd—except for Ivan, whose eyes burned on me. I resolved not to get into a staring contest. This was not the place for it. Unfortunately, I couldn’t understand a word Father Joseph was saying, as the language was Yupik. The wait became doubly long as I listened, wondering what the Reverend Father was actually talking about. At last, it was over and the worshipers began to file out.
While I waited on Charlie to draw even with me, Ivan gave me a distinct shoulder bump from the rear, which nearly jarred me off my feet. For that, he received a few hard looks from the village men. Their looks agreed with my thoughts about this not being the time or the place for hatred. Again, I chose to ignore his stares, even though I knew it would make him all the angrier. He wanted confrontation and I wasn’t going to give it to him. With all the stares, he had no choice but to go out the door ahead of me. This suited me just fine. Now I could concentrate on getting Charlie’s attention. But I should have realized this too was not the time. All I got from him as we walked out the door was a look and a raised eyebrow. Evidently, he didn’t think I should be there either. Well, to hell with him. I was there. And there I was going to stay.
The crowd was mostly quiet as we made our way by a path up the hill toward the graveyard. Occasionally, there would be a muffled sob. Jeanette walked ahead of me with a handkerchief held to her face. Many faces brimmed with tears. Mary had been well loved in the town and I was sure her death brought memories of other senseless deaths. Appropriately, a cold light rain began to fall, adding to the misery and memories of other funerals. I drew my jacket tighter about my neck, wishing the whole thing were over. In my heart of hearts, I knew this to be a selfish thought. Mary deserved all the respect we could give her.
After fifteen minutes or so, we arrived at the gravesite in the cemetery above the town. The rain began to fall harder now and we all stood huddled, waiting on the words of Father Joseph to usher Mary into the cold ground. It reminded me of the funeral of my wife and daughter. The tears flowed down my face. Several people near me noticed this and gave puzzled looks in my direction. They didn’t understand. Why would a white man cry over a woman-child like Mary? I wished I hadn’t come.
“You okay?” Charlie asked quietly.
I nodded and got out my handkerchief.
“Yeah.”
Father Joseph droned on while someone held an umbrella over his head. At last there was what I took to be a collective, “Amen.” It was over. Or nearly over. One of the pallbearers made the mistake of stepping on a nearby grave. From out of nowhere, a man who had obviously been drinking stepped forward and pointed at the offender.
“That’s momma’s grave! Don’t you step on momma’s grave!”
Charlie, ever the peacemaker, moved quickly toward the man.
“C’mon John. It was an accident. Your momma would understand.”
The man started to make a fuss, but was sober enough to see the look of determination in Charlie’s eyes. Charlie took his arm and led him down the hill a short distance, while the pallbearers lowered Mary into the ground. I realized Charlie was going to get away from me if I wasn’t careful, but I didn’t dare make a move until the funeral was really over. Wanted or not by Jeanette, I had to pay my respects to her. With an eye on Charlie who was standing in place on the path, his arm around the drunk, I slowly walked toward Jeanette. Ivan glared and started to step in my path, but thought better of it and moved back.
“Sorry, Jeanette.”
I didn’t know what else to say. She nodded and tried to smile. To my surprise she reached up and gave me a hug.
“Thank you,” she whispered. “Thank you for finding her.”
Tears flowed down my face. I knew what she was feeling. I moved back from her and nodded.
“Sometime soon, we’ll talk, okay?”
I turned and walked away. My brick wall was in danger. I needed to get away from all the emotional tumult. Down the hill, Charlie still stood in place, waiting, I guessed, to offer his official condolences to Jeanette. To keep everything looking normal, I mingled with the villagers as they made their way down the hill. As I drew even with Charlie, I stopped, as if to chat. I stood there a minute, blowing on my handkerchief, until most of the people were down the hill. “Charlie,” I murmured in low tones, “I need to see you right away at my room at the post office. Come in the back way.”
I didn’t wait for a reply. I didn’t want to give him a chance to say no. He did nod his head, as if he understood. I sincerely hoped he did, otherwise, Jimmy was going to be in real hot water. Hoping he understood, I meandered my way down the slope to Main Street and then to the post office. I unlocked the front door and walked in. Everything was quiet. Good, at least Jimmy hadn’t turned the TV audio up.
I walked around the front counter, through the door into the big room. Everything in order, and in its place. Still no noise. Jimmy must have taken my instructions to heart about the TV. I came to the door to my room and opened it.
“Jimmy! I’m back!”
But there was no Jimmy there. He was gone. Dammit!
“Jimmy, now is not the time for games! Come on out.”
I waited a few seconds, expecting to see him come crawling out from under the bed. That was about the only place he could hide. It was then I noticed the TV was turned off. Dammit! He was really gone!
That little fart. Of all the damn times to do something dumb. The mask. Where was the mask? After a quick look, I decided it too was gone. Jimmy must have taken it with him. But why? Why couldn’t he have stayed put? Well . . . hell.
There was a low knock at the back door. I moved to it and opened it a crack. It was Charlie with an impatient look on his face. I opened the door and grabbed his arm, pulling him in.
“Hey, Mr. Postmaster, what’s up?”
“Plenty,” I answered, and slammed the door shut.
I then went on to explain the situation about Jimmy stopping by because he was afraid of Ivan. Charl
ie lifted an eyebrow.
“A mask, huh?”
“Yeah,” I retorted, “you ought to have seen it. It was in prime shape. I assume it came from the site up river.”
At first, Charlie looked like he was going to deny knowing any thing about the place. Maybe he saw the look on my face and decided not to.
“I knew that place was going to be trouble. I just knew it. I tried to tell people we had to do it the legal way, but they wouldn’t listen. They just keep on digging.”
I nodded. I could see the frustration on his face. He had the worst job in the world. He was prosecutor, judge and defender of the native way of life. I didn’t envy him one bit. I decided to change the subject.
“Charlie, did you get a copy of Mary’s autopsy report?”
He stuck his hands in his pockets and looked away, like he was trying to look through the wall.
“Yeah, I did.”
“And . . .” I prodded.
He faced me full on, eyes burning.
“And what!”
I took a deep breath.
“Had she been drinking or on drugs?”
He looked away again. This was not easy for him.
“The alcohol in her blood read almost .2 percent.”
He said this in a sad low voice. I had the feeling he wished he had been the one to drown. Point two percent was way above Alaska limits. I pushed some more.
“Who gave it to her, Charlie?”
“I don’t know,” he said softly.
“Do you think they gave it to her for a reason? To keep her quiet?”
Charlie’s eyes and voice hardened.
“To keep her quiet about what?”
“I don’t know,” I replied. I started to pace the room.
“But because she was a gad-about, she had to know how the postmaster died. And maybe she knew who the main bootlegger is in this town!”
I stopped and turned, facing Charlie.
“Am I not right?”
Charlie’s face turned red. Now I was accusing him of not doing his job. He stepped toward me.
“The postmaster killed himself!”
“That’s not what Jimmy says!”