by Melissa Rees
“Okay, I'll come get him now.” She said wearily, hanging the phone up with a soft click.
Miss Pettybone gave Lenny a last sympathetic glance, flipped her phone shut and shifted into drive.
She felt a trifle bad about leaving Lenny leaning against the streetlight, covered in dust and sweating like crazy from the heat but Nora would probably argue he deserved that and more. She had known Nora and Lenny Crabtree all her life and enjoyed both of them. And the fact that Lenny was messing around with Susie Wilson dumbfounded her. Lenny was a nice enough guy but in no way would he ever be considered handsome. He was short and round with a scrawny mustache that he had tried years to keep growing. She always thought he was lucky to marry Nora in the first place.
Nora was a dear woman. She was a slim, happy soul with a big heart. She had founded and maintained the town's local food pantry. The food pantry was God sent to some of the poorer folks around Beatty. She shook her head sadly for the woman. She knew Nora would be hurt and humiliated by her husband’s actions. And so would their son, she thought; then carefully put the worry away for the moment. She would make it a point to go visit Nora soon.
She leaned back into her seat and gazed out of the windshield at the passing scenery. She had always enjoyed this particular part of town. Most of the houses were older homes, built in the nineteen-thirties. Mature hard maples in full leaf, lined the streets in front of a collection of Cape Cod and two-story brick homes. Each house was meticulously maintained. Each yard landscaped with care, grass cut and flowers watered, all at regular intervals. She had taken the same route to work for seventeen years and could drive it blindfolded.
It normally only took her ten minutes to get to work. Now she figured she would be a good twenty minutes behind the other carriers.
Chapter 3
Miss Pettybone pulled her car into the post office parking lot, jumped out and headed towards the employee entrance. The small brick post office sat directly in the middle of the small town of Beatty. The parking lot consisted of a few spaces on the side of the building with more space in the back for the mail carriers.
She yanked the employee door open, and then veered off to the left into a hideous green break room. Feeding some coins into a Pepsi machine, she waited until the can plopped down into the chute. It usually took her at least two cans of soda before the caffeine kicked in.
She walked out of the break room and turned towards the rural mail section of the post office. Because rural postal workers sorted their own mail, she had to be at work earlier than the town carriers.
Miss Pettybone grabbed her trays and walked to the counter, nodding at the other fifteen co-workers.
“You're running late this morning.” Kathy Turley stated, looking up from sorting her own mail.
Kathy Turly was a tiny woman, with soft brown hair and a thin face. She had worked at the post office for twenty-eight years.
“I had to stop and drag Lenny Crabtree's behind off the street again.” Miss Pettybone explained.
“Nora still mad at him?” Kathy inquired.
“Yes, she's still mad. Although she’s probably more hurt than mad.” Miss Pettybone amended.
“Don't blame her a bit for being mad.” Kathy said, yawning.
“Me either.” Holly Sandoval agreed. Holly was the youngest member of the small group of women and men that were gathered around the tables sorting mail and packages. “Stupid men need to keep their privates inside their pants.” She added.
“Mary Alice thinks Nora should cut his private parts off.” Miss Pettybone informed the women, setting her can of soda down beside her station.
“Where did you see Mary Alice?” Kathy Turly wanted to know.
“She stopped to help me drag Lenny up on the sidewalk. She said she was out early dumpster diving.”
“I know she does that.” Kathy said. “I hear she finds some pretty good stuff that way.”
"She feels that Lenny and the United States Government would be better off if they were all castrated." Miss Pettybone recounted, glancing up from her work area.
"I heard her views on that when we ran into her at the VFW last week." Anne Walters piped up, gathering her trays. "Most men do think with what‘s below their belly."
Anne Walters felt this strongly. She had first hand experiences with cheating husbands. Her own husband was well known around town for chasing anything that could wear a dress.
“It's a wonder the Sheriff don't arrest his ass, lying around in the streets like that.” Kathy pointed out gathering her trays.
"He probably feels sorry for him." Anne replied stacking her trays onto a basket on wheels. "You know how men stick together."
"Hey, I object. Not all men run around on their wives." Toby Whitten pointed out, jumping into the conversation. Toby was a big man with corn colored hair that he kept long and tied in the back of his head with a rubber band. His face was moon shaped and his eyes a dusty brown. His postal uniform stretched tight over his chest and stomach.
The other men standing around him grimaced at his boldness and moved slightly away from his area.
The women stopped talking and stared at him.
Looking up, Toby froze at the sudden attention. Shifting uneasily, he muttered sorry before bending down to concentrate on his work.
Kathy raised her eyebrows at Miss Pettybone, and then shrugged, deciding to ignore Toby. "It's a good thing his son is running the hardware store. Otherwise he'd be up the creek without a paddle." She pointed put.
"I've never been married but it does seem all men are the same." Miss Pettybone said. "They don't want what they have at home till they lose it."
"Amen to that." Anne said, pushing her cart towards the door and out towards her mail truck.
Miss Pettybone quickly sorted her mail then stacked it into her basket and started outside. Turning back to the few remaining people, she smiled. "You all have a nice day."
She had, over the course of thirty-six-years, developed a live and let live philosophy to life. She had always been told and firmly believed that what goes around, comes around. She believed being courteous took less effort and created a better environment for the planet than acting hateful. She believed patience was a learned skill and she practiced it with most of the people she met and those she spent her days with.
She heaved the bundles of mail into her truck, hopped in and headed towards her route.
***
Mary Alice McKidding pulled into her driveway and shifted her wagon into park.
Turning off the engine, she sat quietly and listened to the sounds of the engine as it cooled. She glanced at the backseat and smiled. She had a good morning.
Dumpster diving had netted her some nice pieces. The antique mirror was a good find. She twisted around and pulled it towards her, then ran her hand down the side, feeling the plaster that had come loose. She could fix it. Dabble some paint on it and no one would ever suspect that it had ever been damaged. Some people were just lazy or plain stupid throwing away something like the mirror, she decided. She could never waste anything. Her mama was the same way. She could remember her mama using the same ham bone all week long before grinding it up and using it to fertilize her garden.
She leaned back in her seat and frowned in concentration. Who had been foolish enough to throw away an antique mirror? Where had she picked it up? Had it been before or after running into Loraine Pettybone? It had definitely been before.
She had been so mad at that gutless wonder, Lenny Crabtree that she had driven four blocks before she remembered what she was doing. Poor Nora. What had she done to deserve such disrespect from her husband? Shaking her head, she figured Nora had made the fatal mistake of growing old. Mary Alice knew Nora from way back. Nora had always been such a nice person.
Which is probably why Lenny was screwing around on her? Bitches like herself were unpredictable. Her own man, God Rest His Soul, knew better than to whore around on her. She would have chopped off which ever parts he was using
and pitched them in the garbage.
Well, it wasn't any of her business, she decided. Scrambling out of the seat, she reached over and patted the black and white bulldog grinning at her from the front seat. Pudden was her constant friend and companion and she adored him.
"Come on Pudden; let's go have a spot of breakfast before we unload this stuff."
Body wriggling happily, Pudden jumped down on the driveway and waited for his mistress to lead the way.
Mary Alice bent down and gave his sleek body a stroke. "You're such a gentleman, Pudden. Lenny Crabtree could learn a thing or two from you."
She straightened and glanced around her neighborhood, then sighed. It was good to be alive, even if the temperature had climbed to a hundred degrees and it wasn't even seven o'clock. She had a lot to be thankful for. She had a nice house, a job she enjoyed, her beloved Pudden and no candy-ass ed, skirt chasing man she was obligated to contend with.
Poor Nora. If she would only see that most men were nothing but a nuisance. She would be better off with Lenny gone. Maybe Mary Alice should go see her and tell her so. She decided she would do just that after breakfast. She gave her dog a gentle pat, and then trotted towards the back door with Pudden bouncing along behind her.
Chapter 4
The scorching August heat that had simmered over much of the Mississippi valley for the last eight weeks followed Miss Pettybone through the dark quiet town and out into the country. With little rain for more than two months, Beatty, Mississippi farmers had been forced to drag huge irrigation systems field to field in hopes of salvaging thirsty crops. It was the twenty-third day of one hundred-degree temperatures and the longest heat wave that anyone could ever remember. The long dry drought had prodded worried officials into issuing pleas for Mississippians to conserve and reuse water as much as possible.
Miss Pettybone had heard through a reliable source that vigilante retirees were roaming the area, searching haphazardly for green yards, going so far as to call the governors office after finding a lush green lawn in the back of Kurt and Wendy Allison's house.
Upon discovering that the yard was green, courtesy of a leak in the Allison's septic tank, they delivered a reluctant apology, jumped back in their dusty Cadillac s and continued their quest.
Because postal-carriers delivered mail through an open window, the United States Postal Service had never thought it practical to install air conditioning in delivery trucks. So the last two months inside the small mail truck had been scorching hot.
I'm not getting old, the heat takes the bounce out of anyone's step, she reasoned, steering her truck out towards her mail route.
When she first started working at the post office during her senior year of high school, she had considered it temporary. A way to pay her way through college.
But when she learned she could support herself, she had stayed. A woman supporting herself in the year 1975 was considered unconventional, and Miss Pettybone rather enjoyed being thought of as unconventional.
She gazed out the windshield of her truck and noted that lights were still off in many of the houses she passed. Most people were still in their beds. Miss Pettybone had always been an early riser. She was born an only child to middle-aged farmers and it had been her job to feed chickens in the early morning hours. She could still remember standing alone with a pail just as the sun came up, scattering chicken feed. The chickens scratching and pecking contently in the dirt at her feet.
Because she had no siblings growing up, books had been her only constant companions. She had loved Nancy Drew. When she was young and after her morning chores were finished, she would slip around the farm and spy on the workers her father had employed. She even grew bold enough to sneak into their rooms and riffle their belongings. She was always on the lookout for some sign of criminal activity.
She had thought one of the farm workers, Vern Simmons, a vile man. After witnessing him punch one of the farm horses in the face with his fist, she had kept him under surveillance as much as possible.
The worst trouble she had ever gotten into from her parents was when she was caught in his room. She had received a spanking, and dire warning of future punishment, should she ever invade someone's privacy again. The spanking and the warning hadn't discouraged her. She figured, in her childish reasoning, that he had told on her because he had something to hide.
She had always been more careful after that. She would sneak into his room and search for incriminating evidence; sure that he was a Russian spy or a diabolic murderer. The murder theory had been her favorite. She thought that he had probably gone berserk, killed his wife and children and was a fugitive from justice. She took meticulous notes and spent many hours trying to piece together a composite of the man. She dutifully filed each report in a secret box in the attic. The box was probably still up there, stuck in between the eaves, and covered with dust.
As she got older Agatha Christie’s Miss Marple and Sherlock Holmes were her detectives of choice.
Miss Pettybone had always believed she herself would have a. more interesting life.
For the past ten years Miss Pettybone had been so restless she had thought of looking for another more fulfilling job, but so far she had restrained herself. She was earning her pension from the post office and had no intention of losing it. If she stayed until she was sixty-five she would get more money a month with better benefits. So she always took her duty to heart and never missed a day.
Although, after turning thirty-six years old two weeks ago she caught herself rethinking her life and how mundane and unexciting it was. What had happened to her, she wondered? She had always wanted to be involved in something important. She never imagined she would be spending most of her life working as a carrier everyday for the Post Office.
Of course, if she had married Lester Schwantz her life would have been different, she reflected. They were to be wed July fourteenth, 1987. But two months before the wedding, he came to her and explained that although she was a striking-looking woman and some people even considered she bore a slight resemblance to Katherine Hepburn, she was a bit too strong-minded and independent for him. He needed a woman whose only concern would be for his comfort and enjoyment.
When she found out he married Estelle Short, she laughed till she cried, then said good riddance to him and carried on with her life. Miss Pettybone had heard, just recently, that Estelle had made Lester miserable every day of their married life. That tiny piece of information she stored away in a small compartment of her heart. There were days she enjoyed the company of men, when they weren't being demanding or annoying but she decidedly never wanted to own one.
Miss Pettybone heaved a sigh, then grabbed her Diet Pepsi from the cup-holder and took a drink. She sat her soda back in its holder and thought about her eighth mail drop of the day. She was considerably displeased with Mr. Warren Jones. She had tried over the last three days to deliver a notice about a registered letter to Mr. Jones and, so far, had not gotten him to answer the door.
Mr. Jones was new. Not young new. He was probably in his thirties. But he was new to her route. He had previously resided out at Motel Six. Four months ago he rented Zeb Malkowitz's old farmhouse and thus became one of her many families.
Because he was a stranger in town, she had made a courtesy call after he moved into the farmhouse. She had offered to deliver his mail to his new address. When he had come to the door, he had been impatient and rude, demanding that his mail stay at the post office until he picked it up. Drunk and unsteady on his feet, he had glared at her and slammed the door in her face. She hadn't told her boss, Lynn, about the encounter. She thought him obnoxious but harmless.
Most of the time Miss Pettybone enjoyed strangers moving in on her route; she thought they stirred things up a bit. But she did not enjoy the kind that wouldn't answer the door. The notice that Lynn had asked her to deliver had sat forlornly on the top of her mail basket the last three days, a reminder that she hadn't completed her job.
When she
had knocked at the back door the day before, he had peeked out of the kitchen window, his face thin and pale against the dirty panes of glass. But although she had knocked for a good five minutes, he had refused to answer the door. The only acceptable reason for him to not answer the door, as far as Miss Pettybone was concerned, was if he had some horrid, contagious disease.
She didn't think he had ventured out of his house lately. His late model dark red Honda sedan was parked in the same space it had occupied for the last three days, dust covering the hood and top.
Today, she decided, would be the day he received his mail. She understood why some people might not want registered letters. Registered letters didn't always bring good news. But after twenty-seven years on the job, she prided herself on delivering her mail.
She turned the small blue truck into the lane that led to the small one-story house and gripped the steering wheel, prepared to be bounced and jolted the next few minutes. The lane was in poor shape, as was the house. She questioned the reasoning in renting the isolated farmhouse in the middle of a cotton patch anyway. With only a few oak trees scattered around the yard, the house stayed blistering hot.
There had been some talk around town about the man being mysterious but Zeb Malkowitz insisted he be left alone. His tenant paid cash for his rent, and that was enough for Zeb to like him.
She pulled up next to the carport and picked up the notice before scrambling out the side door. She walked to the back door and knocked firmly, resolved that he would answer the door this morning and receives his mail.
Miss Pettybone waited impatiently. Not a sound came from the house. Miss Pettybone wasn't given to flights of the imagination, but she did pride herself on her instincts. She felt the house had a peculiar air about it. There was something definitely wrong inside the small farmhouse, she felt it.
Hot and impatient, she marched over to the kitchen window and peered between the ragged curtains, hanging limp from the humidity. Cupping her hand over her eyes, she gazed into the kitchen. She saw no signs of life other than a few hungry black flies circling a dirty sink.