by Chacon, Iris
Annabelle did enough talking for three women, making Miranda's daylong silence a non-issue. Only once did Miranda rouse herself to conversation, when there were no patrons near enough to hear.
"Annabelle, are you absolutely sure Shepard Krausse is a homosexual?" she whispered.
Annabelle could have been heard for blocks as she laughed out loud then responded, "Honey chile, not to brag or anything, but I can make a dead dude stand up and whistle Dixie, y'know what I mean? But that guy! Never even gave me a second look. I'm not sure he ever gave me a first look, actually. Sweetie, he is definitely playing for the other team. Take my word for it!"
"But," Miranda shuffled her thoughts and tried again, "I didn't realize... Did you know Mr. Krausse is blind? I mean, really and truly blind!"
Annabelle was unfazed. "Then he's a blind homo. And really, nothin' would surprise me. Queer in one way, queer in a lotta ways. Know what I mean?"
"Mmm," murmured Miranda and returned to her books.
....
That evening after work, Miranda had just taken a frozen dinner out of the microwave when the ancient screen door on her front porch rattled thunderously. When she emerged from the kitchen to approach the front door, she saw a tall, elegantly dressed lady waiting imperiously beyond the screen.
The lady commented, "There appears to be nobody home."
"I'm right here," Miranda responded from the opposite side of the screen door. Their faces were separated by mere inches, but Miranda had to look up to meet the blue eyes glaring from above a patrician nose and disapproving lips.
"Can I help you?" asked Miranda without opening the screen door.
"You can invite me inside, young woman. I do not conduct family business on the front porch for the amusement of the neighborhood gossips," the lady answered, in cultured, confident tones.
"Family business?"
The woman simply stared, refusing to say another word until her conditions were met. Miranda opened the screen door and gestured toward her (late) Aunt Phyllis' sagging couch. "Please, won't you come in and sit down? I'm Miranda Ogilvy. I don't believe we've met."
"We have not. Nor would we be likely to if we did not have a mutual—not 'connection,' no—a mutual acquaintance." The woman looked at the couch as if it must surely harbor fleas. "I'll stand, thank you. I am Hermione Montgomery-Krausse. My son, Shepard, lives in the property adjoining this one, to the rear."
Delight lit Miranda's face. Impulsively she grasped the lady's gloved hand in both of hers. "You're Shepard's mother! I am so happy to meet you, Mrs. Krausse!"
"It's 'Montgomery hyphen Krausse,' Miss Ogilvy, and I should like to reclaim my hand now, if you please."
Miranda released the hand and almost bowed before this silver-haired, strikingly handsome woman. What was that scent? Parfum de Paris? Old money? Probably both, she decided. And who wore gloves these days? Besides Queen Elizabeth.
"Would you care for coffee or tea, Mrs. Montgomery-Krausse?" Miranda gestured to the dining room table and chairs.
Mrs. Montgomery-Krausse evaluated the dining furniture. Scarred, scratched, old, but good solid oak and well polished. No fleas. She could sit there. "Tea would be very nice," she said, moving to the table.
At a noise from the porch, Miranda turned to see a man in chauffeur's livery standing outside the door. She was about to invite him to wait inside and perhaps have refreshment, but before Miranda could speak, Lady Gotbucks intervened.
"My man will wait in the car. I won't be long."
"Yes, ma'am," said Miranda, and whispered, "Sorry," to the man outside. "I'll get the tea." Miranda disappeared into the kitchen.
As soon as Miranda left, Hermione waved a gloved hand, and the chauffeur silently entered the house, disappearing into the hallway beyond the living room. An instant later the man left as quietly as he had come, and he was carrying something. By the time Miranda returned with a tea tray, the chauffeur and his burden were gone.
Miranda poured tea and offered cream, sweetener, and lemon, without saying a word. When they had been served, she sat and focused on her guest. "You said something about family business?"
"What do you know about Shepard's family?" asked Mrs. Montgomery-Krausse.
"I know that his grandparents, Mr. and Mrs. Krausse, owned the house behind my Aunt Phyllis' house for many years." She gestured toward the house at the rear of the property.
"I am speaking of the Montgomery family."
"Oh." Miranda had nothing further to offer.
"Montgomery County, Montgomery Memorial Hospital, Montgomery Boulevard, Governor Montgomery? Is any of this ringing a bell?"
"Wow! Gosh." Miranda was trying to place all the references, but she was so new to the area that only one name was familiar. "Are you actually related to the governor of Florida?"
"Governor Reginald Montgomery is my brother," the older woman said. Then she made a very great point of adding, "And he is Shepard's uncle."
"Wow," Miranda whispered.
"Presumably Shepard has not told you, but he has a law degree from a prestigious Ivy League university. With his connections, he will be quite the rising star politically in this county, in this state, and hopefully on a national level. We are simply waiting for him to finish playing with his little radio program and his 'Old-Florida-living' phase—which is what this is." She gestured toward the house at the rear and then circled a hand to indicate Minokee in general.
Hermione Montgomery-Krausse pierced Miranda with her icy blue eyes and machine-gunned words at her. "Shepard is a direct descendant of a governor of Florida and a president of the United States. Shepard's uncle will in all likelihood become the next vice president of our nation.
"Shepard Montgomery Krausse is not just an eligible bachelor with money, Miss Ogilvy. He has been groomed from birth to be what passes for royalty in this country. Indeed, his physical disability only serves to make him even more charismatic and heroic than he would be normally."
Miranda said nothing as Hermione left her tea unfinished and rose to her impressive height. She looked down on Miranda as if from Olympus.
"That is who Shepard Montgomery Krausse is, Miss Ogilvy. Who, may I ask, are you?"
Miranda rose slowly to her feet and looked down, smoothing her skirt, before she looked up and returned Hermione's gaze.
"I'm nobody."
"Exactly," said Hermione. "In spite of your background, you seem to be of adequate intelligence to comprehend my message, are you not?"
"I understand you," said Miranda. "You completely misunderstand me, however. I am not pursuing your son, Mrs. Montgomery-Krausse. I hope someday to marry a man who sees me as no one else does and who loves me as no one else ever will. I haven't met that man yet, but I hope to. And when I do, I hope he and I will work together, play together, and raise a happy, healthy family together.
"I don't want to own the county, or control the state, or rule the world. And as long as I have the basic necessities of life, I am not interested in scads of money."
"Then you and I need have no further discussion. Thank you for the tea." Hermione strode toward the screen door. She was about to close the door behind her when Miranda asked a question.
"I'm curious, Mrs. Montgomery-Krausse. Did you marry Shepard's father for money? Or for love."
Hermione looked, at first, as if she would not answer. Finally, she said, "I already had money." Then she walked toward the car where her chauffeur waited. She never looked back. When she was seated in the rear seat and the car was in motion, she addressed the driver. "Did you get it?"
"Yes, madam," he answered. "And I saw no other weapons in the house."
12 THE LETTER
At dawn, Miranda sat in her front porch rocker and sipped her coffee as usual. She ignored the daily crossword puzzle. The other Magnolia Street ladies chatted together, but Miranda did not join in.
She stared at nothing, preoccupied with the confusing images in her mind: Shep and Pietro strolling arm-in-arm; Shep teasing her
as she hid under a plant; Annabelle bleating about homosexuals; Shep lifting Miranda off the ground for a kiss.
Shep carrying a pink-flowered purse.
Shep landing a second kiss.
Shep’s mother referring to his “disability,” but not to his sexual orientation.
A third kiss.
A muscular, shirtless man jogging away from her front gate.
Miranda shook her head to sling her thoughts in a new direction. Why was she fixated on this man who was obviously unavailable, unsuitable, unfathomable, and, well, late. Where was he? He should be turning the corner by now. She stood and began walking to the front gate for a better view of the road.
“Thar she blows!” shouted Martha, looking through her binoculars. The Magnolia Street ladies leaned forward and focused on the object of their mutual obsession. Shep and Dave jogged toward them.
A change had occurred in the jogging procedure since the Day of the Snake, as it was called in Magnolia Street annals. Since that day, Shep and Dave ran along the right-hand road shoulder, no longer the left. It was a trade-off: chance another left-side rattler or give up the safety of facing oncoming traffic. Yet a third consideration clinched the left-right decision: Miranda’s front gate was on the right-hand side of the road.
In fact, Miranda’s house was the first house on Magnolia Street, for Shep and Dave. The other Magnolia Street ladies had come to expect that the muscle man and wonder dog would pause to exchange greetings with Miranda before resuming their run with shouts of greeting for each subsequent front porch they would pass.
The Magnolia Street ladies might have been surprised, amazed, delighted, or jealous if they had known how different Miranda’s daily salutation was from their own.
“Good morning, Miz Martha! Good morning, Miz Bernice! Good morning, Miz Wyneen! Good morning, Miz Charlotte!” Shep always boomed, and waved toward each lady in turn.
Those venerable ladies did not hear the soft words Shep spoke to Miranda every morning, because Miranda left her porch and waited for the duo at her front gate.
The first time he said it, the morning after the Day of the Snake, Miranda was stunned to silence. Every day thereafter he said it.
“Good morning, Bean. Will you marry me?”
And every day, Miranda would answer, “Good morning, Mr. Krausse. No, but thank you for asking.” Then she would add, “Good morning, Dave.”
Dave would “whuff” and lick her fingers where they rested atop her low iron gate.
….
One morning, Miranda put aside her confusion, anxiety, misgivings, and daydreams, and waited faithfully at the gate while dawn eased upward from the unseen horizon to the moss-hung treetops.
Shep and Dave stopped at her gate.
She had come to realize Dave stopped them there. Shep might have guessed approximately where she stood, but he navigated by sound and scent. Dave could see exactly where she was. Dave’s cues were so subtle, and Shepard’s response so automatic, it was no wonder she at first had not discerned that Shep was blind.
Shep’s fingers ran lightly across the curled iron of the gate, found Miranda’s hand resting there, and took it in his own. He smiled. She could see in his reflective sunglasses that she was smiling, too.
“Good morning, Bean,” he said.
“Good morning, Mr. Krausse.”
“‘Mister Krausse’ was my late father. Could you not call me Shepard, or even Shep?”
“I could call you Shepard, if that is your wish,” she answered, with Librarian Formality.
“It is my dearest wish,” he replied. “And by the way, will you marry me?”
“No ... Shepard ... but thank you very much for asking. May I ask you something?”
“Bean, you can ask me anything your beautiful heart desires.”
She spun the question a dozen ways in her mind, trying to make it less awkward than it was doomed to be. To his credit, he waited with serene patience, stroking her hand with his thumb all the while.
Miranda took the plunge, spewing the words in a rush: “Are you—? Do you—? ... Annabelle-said-you’re-gay.”
She waited.
He waited.
Dave looked from one to the other. Dave waited.
Shep finally asked, “Is that a question?”
Miranda sighed. “Uh-huh.”
He thought. Then he asked, “What exactly is the question?”
“Should I believe Annabelle?”
“Almost never, I think.”
“About you. Or, about you and your … friend who comes with you to the library. Should I believe Annabelle about ... that?”
“Ah, Pietro,” he said. “As to ‘that,’ it only matters that Annabelle believes it and that she, therefore, has given up the chase where Pietro and I are concerned.”
“I knew it!” Miranda exulted. “But, you know she tells everyone. She could ruin your reputation.”
“My brave little Castor Bean,” he crooned, “with you as my defending champion, I fear neither the Annabelle dragon nor lurking serpents nor any other evil foe.”
“Whuff!” said Dave.
“We gotta go,” Shep said as if taking a cue from the dog—which, of course, he was. “Sure you won’t marry me?”
“Not today. Thanks.”
“Be seeing ya, then,” he said.
Before they resumed their run, Dave licked Miranda’s fingers as always. And then Shepard pressed a warm, three-second kiss on her lips. It was the first time he had kissed her since Snake Day. He kissed even better than she remembered.
Minutes later, when Miranda had returned to her kitchen to refill her coffee cup, she realized that she had never told him of his mother’s visit.
It was Saturday, and Miranda had planned to use her free day to clean out at least one of Aunt Phyllis’ closets. She replayed that morning’s surprise kiss in her mind while washing the breakfast dishes. Then she dug out the trash bags, tied a scarf over her hair (spider precaution), and pulled out the first cardboard file box inside the hall closet door.
The box was labeled “Audubon Society.” Documents crammed into the box testified that Phyllis Ogilvy had been active in the birding group for many, many years.
Miranda sifted quickly through the papers so as not to discard any documents that should be retained for legal reasons. Her neighbor, Martha Cleary, was an Audubon member. Miranda could give Martha any papers that should be preserved by the organization in its own files.
For half the morning, papers migrated from the box to one of three piles: “trash,” “keep,” and “give to Martha.” Really, there were only two piles. Nothing ended up in the “keep” spot. Annual bird counts and monthly newsletter archives went to Martha. Phyllis’ notes to herself went to trash. Likewise the dozens of newspaper clippings covering three decades.
Miranda was stuffing the discardables into garbage bags when a handful of papers escaped and scattered across the floor. As she crawled over the papers, a familiar name leapt out at her. She picked up the document. Thin, translucent onionskin paper. Black letters in old-fashioned pica type. A manual typewriter. A date only a few weeks ago. A personal letter from Aunt Phyllis. To “Hermione Montgomery Krausse.”
“She must’ve been ticked,” murmured Miranda to herself. “Phyllis left out the hyphen.”
Miranda began reading the letter. Within five seconds the Audubon Society files were forgotten. Miranda slipped into her by-the-door flip-flops, took the letter, and went out the back door. For the first time since moving in, Miranda was going to breach the dividing hedge and knock on the Krausse kitchen door.
Shepard turned off the shower and stepped out onto the plush bathroom rug. Dave stayed in the shower stall and enthusiastically shook himself dry. Shepard flicked a fluffy thick bath sheet from a wall hook. Pounding sounded in the distance. Dave stood and whined. Shepard waited, towel poised.
More pounding. The sound of the door opening. A soprano calling, “Shepard? Dave?”
“Whoopf!” sa
id Dave and bounded happily toward the voice.
Miranda was standing in the half-open kitchen door when she was suddenly surrounded by excited, wet, gigantic dog.
“Hey, Dave,” she said, and giggled as she tried to pet the rapidly circling canine.
“Bean?” said Shepard from the hallway.
Miranda looked up just as he stepped into the kitchen wearing only a towel. “Oh, my stars and garters!” Miranda cried. She spun 180 degrees and covered her eyes with one hand. “Oh, gee whiz gosh golly holy moley!”
“Hey, lady, watch your language! Dave’s only seven!”
“I’m so sorry! I didn’t—I just barged in—the door was unlocked and I never thought—I’m so sorry!” She was trying to be polite, but in truth she did not regret seeing the blond giant au naturel, or nearly so. That sublime golden image was permanently burned into her retinas. Without his sunglasses, his eyes were the ancient blue of glacier ice – which paradoxically warmed her down to her toes.
“Is there an emergency? What’s happening?” asked Shepard.
“Whuff?” asked Dave.
“No. No, no emergency. I wanted to show you something,” she said, still facing away from him.
He laughed. “Okay, but in the interest of not showing you something, I’m gonna go put some clothes on. You just have a seat, make yourself at home, visit with Dave. Won’t be a minute. Okay?”
Miranda nodded. Then, when Shep didn’t respond, she remembered. “Okay,” she said. She heard him move off down the hallway. The bedroom door snicked closed.
She shut the half-open kitchen door and turned to face the room. Dave sat directly in front of her, watching her and —yeah, he was definitely—smiling.
“Oh, get your mind out of the gutter,” she said.
“Whuff,” said Dave.