Live Free or Die

by Jessie Crockett

  Twelve

  I surveyed the post office’s cleanly shoveled parking lot. I was grateful for a well-sanded walkway as I crunched across unsteadily in the borrowed boots. Diego was a man to be trusted. That reminded me to drop by his house later to pay him.

  I hung up my coat, started a pot of coffee, and checked the computer for email updates. I deleted most of the incoming messages and left the rest to be dealt with later. I heard the scrunch of snow under tires as Ernie, the rural deliveryman, pulled up to the back door to drop off the day’s mail. I unlocked the door again and held it open for him as he lugged in three large drawstring sacks.

  “What happened to you?” asked Ernie.

  “I had an allergic reaction to a cat,” I replied.

  “Allergy attacks suit you,” Ernie said, a gap-toothed grin parting his gray-stubbled chin from his sorry excuse for a mustache.

  “Thanks, I think,” I said. As soon as Ernie left I opened the service window and unlocked the front door. Before long customers were rattling the locks on their P.O. boxes and stomping snow off their feet.

  Yellow slips announcing the arrival of packages too large to fit into the boxes get sorted and stowed first, followed by first class mail. Third class and bulk mailings are low on the priority list. At this time of year there is a lot of bulk mailing of seed catalogues and catalogues selling home improvement gadgets. I was busy with the yellow slips when Clive appeared at the window.

  “What happened to you?” he asked.

  “A health problem,” I said. “Is there any postal business that I can assist you with, because I have a lot to do back here besides discussing my appearance?”

  “Don’t be so darned touchy. I just meant that you are more dressed up than I ever remember seeing you. You aren’t jealous of your sister, are you?”

  “Go away, Clive,” I turned my back to the window. I continued stuffing the boxes as people streamed in. Saturday morning is always busy, but today was even busier since people wanted to talk about Beulah. I decided to take advantage of all the traffic and try to find a new home for her cat.

  “Does anyone want to adopt Pinkerton? Augusta brought him home from Beulah’s, but I can’t keep him. Worst of all, he’s taken over my bed,” I said.

  “You should be grateful that any male creature would get into your bed, considering your taste in pajamas,” said Winston.

  “I bet it was because he thought that the sushi was real. You know how cats love fish,” added Clive.

  “Aren’t you allergic to cats?” asked Gloretta, the village librarian.

  “That’s just the problem.”

  “The only kind of cat I like is one that has been to the taxidermist,” Winston said.

  “No way. Brandy hates cats,” said Clive.

  “Brandy hates everyone except you,” I said. “Maybe he could live at the museum once it’s repaired.”

  “You could give him to the DaSilvas,” Clive suggested. “They’ll probably eat him for Sunday dinner.”

  I rolled my eyes and changed the subject. “What do you know about Millard Fillmore?” I asked Gloretta as I slid her mail over the counter.

  “He was the thirteenth president, taking office after the unexpected death of Zachary Taylor.”

  “Did you ever notice the plaque on the wall beside the front steps of the museum?”

  “I can’t say that I have.”

  “I hadn’t either until I spotted it in an old photo. It’s behind the giant yew. It says Millard Fillmore Slept Here. What was Millard Fillmore doing in Winslow Falls?”

  “I don’t know. You should ask Ethel.”

  “Is there anything special about the sculpture that was on the clock tower?”

  “Besides that it was kind of strange?”

  “Yeah, besides that it was a giant wooden fist with the index finger pointing skyward.”

  “We’re lucky it was the index finger. No, I guess I never really thought about it. When you’ve lived with something all your life, you don’t really notice it do you?”

  “I suppose you don’t. Do you think anyone might know if it was valuable? I’m wondering about a special insurance rider.”

  “I’d ask Ethel about that, too. I would have thought that she would be bragging about it though.” Gloretta waved and went back out to face the cold.

  By the time I closed the post office that afternoon, clouds had barreled into the village, and the weather channel posted a storm warning for the evening. Eighteen to thirty-six inches were predicted by a cheerful weatherman somewhere in sunny Florida. I sipped coffee as I sorted through the week’s mail. I hate to admit it, but I’m always in arrears with my own mail. I don’t even pick it up each day.

  Augusta swept into the kitchen just as I’d opened my fourth credit card offer. She was dressed for the funeral, if a black knit dress that hugged each of her curves and cherry red lipstick can be considered mourning. To be honest, most people attending the funeral would be there more for the social aspects of the event than because they were grieving. Most people would miss Beulah, but death at age ninety-one doesn’t shock many people.

  “We need to leave here a little early since I said I’d help set up the church hall for after the funeral.”

  “You go on ahead. I’m going to ride over with Gene. He offered to help sort stuff at Beulah’s. We’ll go straight over after the service.”

  “Don’t be late.”

  “I won’t. Save us seats.”

  I nodded and hurried off. With my heavy coat and a scarf tucked up under my chin, the brisk air was refreshing. On Mill Street I passed Tilly McElroy’s house and noticed chickadees and blue jays jockeying for position at her bird feeder. As eager as they were for food at this time of day, a big storm must be on the way.

  The walk took only five minutes, and the service wasn’t due to start for at least half an hour, but cars already lined both sides of Church Street. I entered the Hartwell Church through the back entrance to the church kitchen and fellowship room. The peculiar church smell of old wood, burned coffee and apple juice filled my nostrils.

  Women bustled around peeling foil off platters and Pyrex dishes. Children in Sunday best played tag around the tables. Old men chatted about the cost of heating oil. A satin banner emblazoned with the words Let Us Worship the Prince of Peace hung on the wall above Trina’s kids, Kyle and Krystal, who were pulling each other’s hair.

  Ethel stepped in and took things in hand. Just the sight of her froze the tag players in their tracks. The men made themselves useful by untangling folding chairs and setting them into place. Even Trina’s children ran for the shelter of their mother’s arms. I was the only woman caught without a job.

  “Nice that you could join us Gwen. I was expecting you earlier.”

  “I am early. I can’t help it if everyone else is even earlier,” I replied.

  “At your age you should have learned to be more responsible. Which reminds me, have you finished the research for the fundraiser?”

  “You do realize,” I said, “that it’s only three days until Christmas?”

  “Which means the fundraiser is just over a week away. I can count on you, can’t I?”

  “Between Christmas rush and the fire investigation,” I said, “I’m swamped.”

  “Not too busy to get yourself tarted up, I notice. I’ll expect the research tomorrow.” Ethel turned her back and slapped Kyle’s hand as it reached toward a cookie plate. I escaped upstairs along with anyone else with any wits about them.

  The church is mostly used for weddings, funerals and special services throughout the year. The Baptist church down the street holds services every week, and most of the religious activity in town revolves around that building. Like most tiny New England towns, there were more churches built than the community could support in a thriving fashion. Ten years ago the congregations combined and hammered out a custody arrangement that offered visitation to each building.

  I saw Hugh had taken a seat as close to
the back as possible. I’ve heard in some parts of the country seats in the front of any sort of public forum are the first to fill up. This cannot be said in New England. It doesn’t do to put one’s self forward, especially in church. Besides, it makes things that much more painful to persons arriving late to have to slink past the entire group on their way to the front than to slip quietly into a seat at the rear. In this way, the offenders have been taught a lesson by those more virtuous than themselves. Very few families are late two weeks in a row.

  Hugh waved me over and patted the pew next to him. He looked even more oversized than usual. I felt eyes following me from every corner of the sanctuary.

  “I wasn’t expecting you to be here,” I said, surprising myself by noticing how well his navy suit set off his blue eyes.

  “I always attend funerals of victims when I work a case.” Hugh clanked his knees against the seat in front of him as he stood to help me remove my coat. My face flushed as Pastor Norling stared over the top of his bulletin.

  “Quite a turnout.” Hugh seated himself close enough for me to feel the warmth radiating from his body.

  “I told you Beulah was well liked.” I noticed the DaSilvas sitting by themselves at the front of the church. Luisa was holding the littlest one in her lap, and the others were sitting quietly, hair plastered to their heads, neatly pressed shirts on their backs. Before the pastor even started to speak, I saw Luisa wiping away tears. By the time he started to pray, she had a steady stream flowing down her face.

  Just as the pastor was winding his way toward an amen, I felt the pew bow beneath me, and Augusta and Gene slid in.

  “Where have you been?” I whispered as we all turned to hymn number one thirty-five.

  “We got distracted,” Augusta answered as Gene winked at her.

  “Just remember that my house is not a rent-by-the-hour motel,” I said a little louder than I’d intended. Ethel shot me a look.

  “We were checking the weather report.”

  “Uh huh,” I said, staring at a lipstick smear on Gene’s cheek.

  Exactly twenty minutes after the service began, Pastor Norling gave the benediction, and Viola Labrie sent us on our way toward the refreshment table with a recessional hymn. Over Styrofoam cups of scorched coffee people discussed everything from the citizens most likely to run for office in March to the programs they had watched on television the night before. Some people were talking about Beulah but mostly in terms of how she died or whether the Museum was likely to reopen.

  Winston and Clive headed toward Augusta and me. Clive balanced a mound of rice pudding and three finger sandwiches on a flimsy paper plate. Winston sipped coffee and sported a tomato sauce stain on his dress shirt.

  “I thought for sure you’d be wearing black pajamas to this event,” joked Winston.

  “I don’t even own any black pajamas.” I excused myself as Luisa entered the room.

  “Your boys were very well behaved,” I said, hoping to make up for the unpleasantness at her house earlier in the week.

  “Thank you.” Luisa’s eyes were red and puffy.

  “Are you okay?” I dug around in my purse for a tissue but gave up and handed her a napkin from the refreshment table.

  “Beulah was good lady. She helped me much.” Luisa honked her nose lightly.

  “We’re all going to miss her. Did you work for her at her house as well as at the museum?”

  “Sometimes I clean her house, but not for money. She helped me so much. I not take money. She give me baby things. She was helping me speaking English.”

  “I’m sure you took as much from her as you could get your grubby hands on.” Ethel spoke loudly enough for her voice to carry across the room. I felt the whole room staring. Luisa took a step backward. Diego clenched his hand into a fist.

  “I’m sure Beulah wanted to help. She loved babies. And big kids, too,” I added, remembering the older boys were listening. “She mentioned several times the lovely job you did at the Museum. She would be touched that you thought so much of her.” Luisa spoke to the boys in Portuguese, and they hurried toward the exit.

  “Disgusting. Can you believe they have the nerve to show up here after what they’ve done?” Ethel shook her fat little hand at the door. “That’s it. I’m calling Immigration.” Diego glared at Ethel before slamming the door behind them.

  Thirteen

  I was embarrassed. Embarrassed for Luisa and her boys and embarrassed for Winslow Falls, that we had someone so ignorant living amongst us. I wish I felt like Ethel was the only one, but in all honesty, I didn’t notice anyone leaping to Luisa’s defense.

  I took stock of the room. The outburst seemed to bother some people, but I wasn’t sure if it was because no one liked witnessing a scene or because they, too, felt Luisa had been mistreated. Winston and Clara were gathering up their coats and avoiding looking at anyone. Clive had gone back to the refreshment table for seconds. Hugh came up behind me and placed a giant hand on the small of my back.

  “You forgot your coat upstairs. I thought you might be ready to get out of here.” He held my coat open, stooped a little to help me slip it on, then took my arm and steered me out the door.

  “Can you see now why I said Ethel might have been the intended victim in the fire?” I asked, feeling a few flakes of snow spatter my cheeks as I craned my neck to look him in the face.

  “She makes a strong impression.”

  “Like a skunk makes a strong impression. Did you see Diego’s face?”

  “I did. Angry isn’t in his best interest.”

  “What do you mean? Of course he was angry.”

  “Some people already believe the DaSilvas are responsible for Beulah’s death. Giving Ethel a killer look only strengthened that impression.”

  I turned down Hugh’s offer of a ride home. Unreasonable as it was, I was irritated at him for pointing out what everyone was thinking. I felt uncomfortable with my hometown’s dirty laundry flapping in front of a stranger, especially one who was so perceptive. I wanted to check on the DaSilvas, and I didn’t want an audience. I decided to hand-deliver payment for Diego’s shoveling work and take the kids a bag of mittens, hats and scarves I’d knitted. I tucked a couple of adult-sized things in the bag for Luisa as well.

  Luisa opened the trailer door, and once again I was struck by how out of season she was dressed in tight jeans, open-toed shoes, and a silky, fluttery top. I know I never looked like that with a toddler balanced on my hip.

  “What are you wanting now? We do nothing wrong.” She clutched her toddler tighter, her eyes snapping at me.

  “I wanted to pay Diego for his work at the post office. He did a great job, and he shouldn’t have to wait for his money. And I brought these for you and the kids.” I stretched my arm toward her and handed her the bag. “It’s stuff for the cold, hats, mittens. I like to make them, but I don’t always have someone to wear them since my kids have both grown up.” Luisa took the bag and peeked inside. She looked at me and stepped back to let me come in.

  I followed her to the kitchen where she spread the contents of the bag out on the counter. I’d found a knitted giraffe that I stuck in among the clothing. Luisa handed it to her child and put him on the floor to play.

  “Will you drink coffee?” she asked.

  “I’d love some. It’s freezing out there.”

  “I’m not believing I can be so cold. Every day I am missing Brazil.”

  “You might want to start wearing heavy socks and sweaters.” I peeked down at her shoes.

  “I like to be cold more than to wear those things.” Luisa pulled a boiling teakettle off the stove and slowly poured water from it into a filter that looked like a jelly bag. Dark coffee strained through into a glass carafe.

  “I guess if you want to be beautiful you have to suffer.”

  “Is true. The boys don’t like to be cold. Thank you for the things.”

  “It’s my pleasure. How old is the baby?” I watched him twisting the neck of the gir
affe.

  “Two.” Luisa handed me a cup of coffee and slid over a sugar bowl. She passed me a Thermos bottle filled with steaming milk. I stirred some into my coffee and wondered how to ask politely about her motivation for coming to Winslow Falls.

  “Does he have grandparents nearby who get to see him, or are you here on your own?” Luisa eyed me over the rim of her coffee cup, taking her time with her answer.

  “My family is in Brazil. I come to New Hampshire with sons only.”

  “New Hampshire seems like a strange choice. I know there are a lot of Portuguese-speaking people in Massachusetts, but I don’t know of others here.”

  “That is reason I coming here. No Brazilians. No Portuguese.”

  “I thought immigrants usually liked to live near to each other to help each other in a new country.”

  “Yes, in a group I find help, but my sons get no English, only Portuguese. They not mix in America, just stay Brazilians in a small Brazil in America.”

  “I’d never thought of that.”

  “Is true. Help at school, Brazilian food at store. People talking Portuguese. Even on television is Portuguese. Diego, Ronaldo and Tulio have more English two months here than two years in Massachusetts. I want to be Americans with Brazilian family, not Brazilian family in America.”

  “I noticed that Diego speaks English surprisingly well.”

  “He is intelligent. He is much help.”

  “Do you get any help from their father? Is he Brazilian too?” I wondered if I’d overstepped my bounds, but she didn’t seem offended.

  “He is Brazilian. He not help. He has other woman, and he wants to be with her and talk Portuguese and have Brazilian friends. I say we should go to a place with no Latinos.”

  “Winslow Falls was a good choice then. No Latinos here. We all still think tacos are exotic.”

  “We don’t eat tacos. Or tortillas. Or chili.” Luisa sighed deeply.

  “Isn’t Brazil in South America?”

  “One day you come for dinner. I show you. We are not Spanish peoples. In the south, where is my family, we not eat spicy foods.”