by Don Reid
Nothing had changed at the store. H. V. still came in every day in his suit and tie and sat in the back with old Fritz for hours on end. He came in by the back door and left the same way, and Harlan was usually unaware of his going or coming. H. V.’s stroke had changed more than just his speech, and his family was forced to live in a constant state of simply waiting for him to die. Esther could see the effect all this was having on her son. His face was as bright and smiling as ever, but his eyes were aging, wavering from sad to dead, sometimes in just a matter of minutes. She knew he needed something more in his life. He needed someone he could share his life and even his sorrows with. Esther prayed that her boy would settle down and find that special someone who could put the light back in his tired, fading eyes.
The post office on Frederick Street closed its counter at 5:00 p.m. every weekday, but the front door was open all night for letter mailing and for those who rented the mailboxes that lined two walls. It was nearly six one night when Harlan parked by the curb and got out of his two-year-old Ford with a handful of stamped mail in his hand. As he pulled open the large wooden door and stepped inside, he heard a pounding and a shriek—“I can’t believe it!” He saw no one but heard the same person scream, “How stupid am I?”
He then stepped forward and around the column that was blocking his view and caught a glimpse of one of the prettiest, sweetest faces he had ever seen in his life. And this was saying a lot, because he had seen and kissed quite a few sweet faces. She was standing by the slot in the wall that said LETTERS and would intermittently slam her hand against the wall and scream another, sometimes unintelligible, sentence. After watching this happen a couple more times and being thoroughly entertained by it each time, he finally exposed the secret of his presence and said, “Excuse me. Is there anything I can do to help?”
The little beauty—and she was only five foot two, was his guess—jumped and glared at him.
“How long have you been standing there?”
“Nearly as long as you have, I think.”
“And you find this funny?”
“I find it pretty darn interesting.”
“Well, I find it very frustrating, and I don’t appreciate you laughing at me.”
“I’m not laughing. Here, look. Not anymore. Look how serious I am.”
“You really think you’re cute, don’t you?”
“No, but I will admit I’m curious. What exactly are you doing?”
Tears started to fill her eyes, but she tried hard to explain, in a calm voice, her situation.
“I came in here to mail a letter. Just a simple letter. I also had my car keys in my hand, and when I dropped the letter in, the keys went in, too. And then when I … are you laughing at me again?”
“Hey, you have to admit that’s pretty funny.”
“Well, maybe to you. My car is out front, and my keys are in this slot, and there’s no way I can … aw, what does it matter? You don’t care.”
“But I do care. And I can help. First, we’ll bang on the door that goes to the back and see if anyone is working back there.”
Harlan knocked several times and even called out for someone to open the door. His efforts got no reaction, so he turned to the pretty young woman and said, “Secondly, we’ll slide a note under the door. Go over there and get a piece of paper and a pencil, and leave your phone number for anyone who finds a set of car keys in the morning mail pouch.”
The girl did just as he suggested and came back and handed it to him. Harlan slid the note under the door and even knocked on it one more time to see if he could rouse anyone in the back. When his efforts were again awarded with silence, he turned to her and said, “And now, thirdly, I’ll take you home.”
“I don’t even know you.”
“Or you can walk.”
“You think you’re pretty slick, don’t you?”
“Mmmm. Let’s see. You’ve accused me of thinking I’m really cute, and now you accuse me of thinking I’m pretty slick. How else do you want to try to offend me before I do you a very nice and gentlemanly favor and offer you a ride home? And I’m only going to offer it one more time.”
“Do I have a choice?”
“Sure. You can walk.”
“I live in Harrison Springs.”
“That’s about seven miles. You don’t want to walk. And I don’t bite. So you’re better off taking your chances with me.”
“Yeah, I guess so. And I know who you are.”
“Do you now? Well, you’re one up on me because I don’t know who you are. So let’s make this an even playing field.”
“I’m Darcy Brennaman. I’ve been in your store.”
“Not when I was there, or I’d remember you.”
“I’ve been coming there since I was a little girl. You wouldn’t remember me. And I saw you play football a lot. I’ve seen your picture in the paper.”
“But I don’t know who you are, so let’s go get something to eat so you can tell me as much about you as you know about me.”
“I think we’ll skip all that and I’ll just let you take me home.”
The ride to the Brennaman farm in Harrison Springs, which was just outside of Mt. Jefferson, turned out to be a pleasant memory for both of them. They talked about their high school rivalries, some of the same people they knew in town, and her remaining year at the State Teachers College at Radford. When he had driven down the long, shaded gravel driveway that led to the large frame farmhouse encircled by a porch, he stopped and let his engine idle as she opened the door.
“Thanks. I really appreciate the ride home. Sorry I hollered at you back there,” Darcy said.
“That’s okay. You’re forgiven. You have a phone?”
“Yeah.”
“Are you going to give me your number so I can call you and we can do this again?”
“I’m not sure.”
“What do you mean you’re not sure? I told you I don’t bite, and I didn’t, did I?”
Darcy laughed. “No, but I’ve heard a lot about you. You’ve got a lot of girlfriends.”
“Wrong. I don’t have a single girlfriend right now.”
“Right now. Yeah, right. I’ll think about it.”
“When? You know I know where you live. I could just come out here and sit till you come out of the house, and then you’d have to see me.”
“You wouldn’t do that.”
“Don’t bet on it.”
“My daddy would probably shoot you.”
“I’ve been shot at before. Phone number?”
“How about I’ll call you if I decide. I know how to find you. You’re at Stone’s.”
“Suit yourself.”
And as she got out and closed the door, she said through the open window, “Thanks again. You’re very nice, even though I’ve heard a lot of wild things about you.”
Harlan blew her a kiss; she blew him one back, and he pulled away as she walked up the front steps to her house.
Chapter Eleven
Buddy didn’t wait till Amanda arrived at the hospital. He left Darcy in Cal’s able hands and drove the three-quarters of a mile over to the Stone residence. It was a two-story brick house with floor-to-ceiling French windows and a paved driveway that wove around oak trees to the front door. It sat dead center on four acres of shaded ground and velvet grass. Harlan had not adhered to his father’s teachings on living below his means. His mother had encouraged him to build in the new Bel-Manor section of town, and he had given Darcy full reins on designing and decorating their dream house.
Two police cars were in the driveway, and one officer was standing in the backyard smoking. Buddy got out of his city-issued Chevrolet and looked at the youthful patrolman like an officer of the day would look at a private and said, “You know how to field strip
that thing, soldier?”
“Yes sir.”
“Then be sure you do it in case the chief should pull up.”
“He’s not coming, is he?”
“I seriously doubt it,” Buddy said as he smiled at the young policeman. “Anything look strange here?”
“Not to my eye. I never touched anything. It’s just like they left it. You’re the first person been here since they took the two of them to the hospital.”
Buddy looked around the backyard. He could see the pool and the grape arbor and the two-car garage from where he stood. He walked to the back porch and looked in before stepping inside. It was his police training, even though he knew there was no danger lying ahead. He opened the door, then walked through the screened porch area and into the kitchen and stopped. There was the chair from their dinette set lying on its side against the cabinets. It was the only thing out of place except for spilled salt and pepper shakers on the table. This must have happened when Harlan fell on the tabletop from the force of the bullet. Buddy walked back and jiggled the door handle and looked for any wood shavings that might have fallen when the door was pushed in.
“Have they dusted for prints in here?” he yelled out to the uniform in the yard.
“Yes sir.”
Buddy walked slowly back to the open door and looked at the young, grinning, apparently rookie officer. “I thought you said nobody had been here.”
“Oh, well, yeah. I meant nobody but those guys looking for evidence.”
“What did they find?”
“Don’t know. They were sweeping stuff up and brushing stuff on and taking pictures and I don’t know what all. I never worked a shooting before. You?”
“Yeah.”
“You ever shot anybody?”
“How long have you been a cop … what’s your name?”
“Snyder. Jesse Snyder.”
“How long you been a cop, Jesse?”
“’Bout two months. Why?”
Jesse’s question went unanswered as Buddy wandered deeper into the house, carefully checking all windows and doors. He went into each room and looked for nothing in particular and everything in general. Darcy had said the man had not gone anywhere but the kitchen, but he searched each room with the question in his mind about why the man was there at all. And what was here that was worth introducing a gun into the matter? He walked through the upstairs rooms where the kids slept. He looked out the windows of the master bedroom just to see what could be seen of the driveway and anyone who might approach the house from that direction. He walked back down the steps slowly and listened to the silence of the house. As he walked through the dining room, near the kitchen, he could still smell the lingering odor of gunpowder. He stood in the kitchen and replayed everything Darcy had told him in his mind until he could see, with his eyes closed, the scene as it happened. He could feel it and hear it, and his senses were on edge with the fear he knew they both had experienced.
After nearly twenty minutes, he closed the kitchen door behind him, then the back porch door, and walked toward his unmarked Chevy.
“Why?” Jesse Snyder asked again.
“What?”
“Why do you want to know how long I been a cop?”
“Oh, I was just thinking it was time I put you in for a promotion.”
“Really?” Jesse stood swollen with expectant glory as Buddy got in his car, shook his head at nobody in particular, and drove off.
Chapter Twelve
“Poppa, don’t you want me to bring you something to eat?”
“Nah. I’m not hungry.”
“You never eat lunch. And you should let me bring you something.”
“You’re sounding like your mother now. If I was hungry, I’d eat. But I’m not. And you’ll see, boy. The older you get the less you need to eat. You’ll see. Ain’t that right, Fritz?”
Fritz just smiled his yellow smile and shook his head. He was a small, one-hundred-and-forty-pound man who stood, at best, five feet six inches tall in his bedroom shoes. And that’s all anyone who knew him had ever seen him wear: leather, backless bedroom shoes with dress socks and gabardine pants. He wore white but yellowing and frayed dress shirts and one of an assortment of three ties. On most days, he wore a vest, but on all days he wore his glasses with the attached jewelers’ glass and a green visor. He looked like a mob bookkeeper from a Warner Brothers gangster movie. And he smelled of cigarette smoke and chicken broth regardless of the time of day. He spoke, when he spoke, with an indistinguishable accent. Harlan never liked him and communicated with him as infrequently as possible. He passed notes to him for the work he needed done, and few if any words were exchanged between them in a day’s time. The only person who ever talked to Fritz was H. V., and since his illness, he would sit for hours with Fritz every day.
Harlan had asked his father about Fritz many times. Even as a boy he had questions that were never answered clearly.
“Poppa. Who is Fritz?”
“What do you mean who is he? He’s my employee and the best jeweler on the East Coast.”
“Where did he come from?”
“Came from the old country.”
“What old country?”
“Don’t be disrespectful, boy. He’s your elder. Don’t let me catch you making fun of him.”
“I’m not making fun of him, Poppa. He just kinda scares me. He never says much—just grunts. And he smells funny.”
“Don’t you worry about old Fritz. He’s all right. Loyal to a T.”
“Where does he live?”
“’Cross town. Why are you so curious about old Fritz?”
“I don’t know. I don’t think he likes me.”
“He likes you, son. Just don’t bother him. He’s busy.”
And that was all Harlan or any of the family or townspeople knew about the little man who had occupied the back room of Stone’s for the past twenty years.
But Fritz’s identity and value had been the last things on Harlan’s mind these past three weeks. The mystery that was haunting him most nights and practically all of the days was, “Who is Darcy Brennaman?” She had not given him her phone number, and even though he had looked it up in the telephone directory, assuming her daddy was Howard Brennaman on Route 3 in Harrison Springs, he hadn’t called for all the right reasons. If she had truly wanted him to call, she would have given it to him when he asked for it. He wasn’t used to this sort of behavior. Most girls gave him their phone numbers and addresses and places of work without him even asking. This one was playing hard to get. Or maybe she just wasn’t interested. He wasn’t used to that, either.
He had originally thought she would call him at the store within the next day or so, but when that didn’t happen, he was bewildered. He tried to relive their conversation in the car to see if he had offended her, but he could think of nothing that would have left her this cold. And then there was the kiss she blew him just before he pulled off. She wouldn’t have done that if she didn’t have some interest in seeing him again. He spent his days between customers and bookkeeping trying to come up with the right approach to instigate their next meeting. So far he had no ideas. Maybe he’d just drive out there and knock on the door. But that would leave him vulnerable to her rejecting him completely. He had never faced such a situation with a girl before. He couldn’t get the memory of her out of his mind nor her face out of his dreams.
It was a late Sunday afternoon, and the sunshine and heat of a perfect summer day was beginning to turn black. Harlan and his date had been at the lake most of the day. He dropped her off at her house and promised to call the next day, but in his mind he was fairly sure he wouldn’t. She was pretty in a small-town sort of way and looked inviting in her swimsuit, but after an hour with her on the manmade beach of Lake Shenandoah, he was lost for any conversation.
He tried to show interest but finally just gave up and soaked up the sun, took a few dips, and then took her home. He wasn’t even sure she believed that he would call the next day. And maybe she didn’t even want him to. He really didn’t care. His mind and his heart weren’t it. And if it hadn’t been for that first powerful clap of thunder that brought him out of his reverie, he might have ridden right by the girl and dog. But somewhere in the seconds between the thunder burst and the next flash of lightning, the rain poured as suddenly as if there were a giant hole in the cloud overhead. That’s when he saw the girl and the golden retriever walking on the right-hand side of the road. They were drenched before he could hit his brakes. They began running, but there was no shelter in sight. He blew his car horn, pulled up beside them, rolled down the window, and said, “Get in quick, or you both are going to drown.”
They didn’t resist. The dog jumped in first, and his mistress followed as if he had her on a leash instead of the other way around. It wasn’t until she closed the door and wiped her hair from her eyes that he saw it was the girl from his dreams. They recognized each other at the same moment and broke into a laughing fit. The old dog started barking, and Harlan and Darcy laughed even harder.
“What are you doing out here in the rain?”
“Well, it wasn’t raining when we started walking. I could see it coming, but we were too far away from the house to get there. So here we are.”
“Where are you going?”
“We were just walking. This is Sam. He’s my aunt’s dog. We’re visiting her this afternoon, and I thought I’d take him for a walk.”
Sam barked again at the mention of his name, and Harlan rubbed his smelly wet head.
“Sam, this is the second time in three weeks that I’ve rescued this girl, and she won’t give me the time of day. What do you suggest I do to get her attention?”
Sam barked again and tried to lick his face.
Pulling her hair back, Darcy said, “If I didn’t know better, I would think you were following me.”