“Ha!” the Archduke exploded.
“Come on, Mrs. Murphy, I think you’re wearing out your welcome.” Harry leaned over and scooped up the reluctant tiger cat who was relishing the archduke’s discomfort.
Oliver patted Harry on the back. “Glad you could attend the ceremony.”
“Well, I’m not. We didn’t see a single thing!” Harry’s little dog grumbled.
Mrs. Hogendobber slung her ponderous purse over her left forearm and was already out the door.
“A lot of goodwill come from Mim’s check.” Kimball smiled as Harry and Mrs. H. climbed into the older woman’s pristine Ford Falcon.
Kimball would have occasion to repent that remark.
2
One of the things that fascinated Harry about the four distinct seasons in central Virginia was the quality of the light. With the advent of spring the world glowed yet retained some of the softness of the extraordinary winter light. By the spring equinox the diffuse quality would disappear and brightness would take its place.
Harry often walked to the post office from her farm on Yellow Mountain Road. Her old Superman-blue pickup, nursed throughout the years, needed the rest. The early morning walk awakened her not just to the day but to the marvelous detail of everyday life, to what motorists only glimpse as they speed by, if they notice at all. The swelling of a maple bud, the dormant gray hornet’s nest as big as a football, the brazen cries of the ravens, the sweet smell of the earth as the sun warmed her; these precious assaults on the senses kept Harry sane. She never could understand how people could walk with pavement under their feet, smog in their eyes, horns blaring, boom boxes blasting, their daily encounters with other human beings fraught with rudeness if not outright danger.
Considered a failure by her classmates at Smith College, Harry felt no need to judge herself or them by external standards. She had reached a crisis at twenty-seven when she heard her peers murmur incessantly about career moves, leveraged debt, and, if they were married, producing the firstborn. Well, at that time she was married to her high school sweetheart, Pharamond Haristeen, D.V.M., and it was good for a while. She never did figure out if the temptations of those rich, beautiful women on those huge Albemarle County farms had weakened her big blond husband’s resolve, or if over time they would have grown apart anyway. They had divorced. The first year was painful, the second year less so, and now, moving into the third year of life without Fair, she felt they were becoming friends. Indeed, she confided to her best girlfriend, Susan Tucker, she liked him more now than when they were married.
Mrs. Hogendobber originally blew smoke rings around Harry’s head over the divorce. She finally calmed down and took up the task of matchmaking, trying to set up Harry with Blair Bainbridge, a divinely handsome man who had moved next door to Harry’s farm. Blair, however, was on a fashion shoot in Africa these days. As a model he was in hot demand. Blair’s absence drew Fair back into Harry’s orbit, not that he was ever far from it. Crozet, Virginia, provided her citizens with the never-ending spectacle of love found, love won, love lost, and love found again. Life was never dull.
Maybe that’s why Harry didn’t feel like a failure, no matter how many potentially embarrassing questions she was asked at those Smith College reunions. Lots of squealing around the daisy chain was how she thought of them. But she jumped out of bed every morning eager for another day, happy with her friends, and contented with her job at the post office. Small though the P.O. was, everybody dropped in to pick up their mail and have a chat, and she enjoyed being at the center of activity.
Mrs. Murphy and Tee Tucker worked there too. Harry couldn’t imagine spending eight to ten hours each day away from her animals. They were too much fun.
As she walked down Railroad Avenue, she noticed that Reverend Herb Jones’s truck was squatting in front of the Lutheran church with a flat. She walked over.
“No spare,” she said to herself.
“They don’t pay him enough money,” Mrs. Murphy stated with authority.
“How do you know that, smarty-pants?” Tucker replied.
“I’ve got my ways.”
“Your ways? You’ve been gossiping with Lucy Fur, and all she does is eat communion wafers.” Tucker said this gleefully, thrilled to prove that Herbie’s new second cat desecrated the sacrament.
“She does not. That’s Cazenovia over at St. Paul’s. You think every church cat eats communion wafers. Cats don’t like bread.”
“Oh, yeah? What about Pewter? I’ve seen her eat a doughnut. ’Course, I’ve also seen her eat asparagus.” Tucker marveled at the gargantuan appetite of Market Shiflett’s cat. Since she worked in the grocery store next to the post office, the gray animal was constantly indulged. Pewter resembled a furry cannonball with legs.
Mrs. Murphy leapt on the running board of the old stepside truck as Harry continued to examine the flat. “Doesn’t count. That cat will eat anything.”
“Bet you she’s munching away in the window when we pass the store.”
“You think I’m stupid?” Mrs. Murphy refused the bet. “But I will bet you that I can climb that tree faster than you can run to it.” With that she was off and Tucker hesitated for a second, then tore toward the tree as Mrs. Murphy was already halfway up it. “Told you I’d win.”
“You have to back down.” Tucker waited underneath with her jaws open for full effect, her white fangs gleaming.
“Oh.” Mrs. Murphy’s eyes widened. Her whiskers swept forward and back. She looked afraid, and the dog puffed up with victory. That fast Mrs. Murphy somersaulted off the tree over the back of the dog and raced to the truck, leaving a furious Tucker barking her head off.
“Tucker, enough.” Harry reprimanded her as she continued toward the P.O. while making a mental note to call Herb at home.
“Get me in trouble! You started it.” The dog blamed the cat. “Don’t yell at me,” Tucker whined to Harry.
“Dogs are dumb. Dumb. Dumb. Dumb,” the cat sang out, tail hoisted to the vertical, then ran in front of Tucker, who, of course, chased her.
Murphy flipped in the air to land behind Tucker. Harry laughed so hard, she had to stop walking. “You two are crazy.”
“She’s crazy. I am perfectly sane.” Tucker, put out, sat down.
“Ha.” Mrs. Murphy again sailed into the air. She was filled with spring, with the hope that always attends that season.
Harry wiped her feet off at the front door of the post office, took the brass keys out of her pocket, and unlocked the door just as Mrs. Hogendobber was performing the same ritual at the back door.
“Well, hello.” They both called to each other as they heard the doors close in opposite ends of the small frame building.
“Seven-thirty on the dot,” Miranda called out, pleased with her punctuality. Miranda’s husband had run the Crozet post office for decades. Upon his death, Harry had won the job.
Never a government employee, Miranda nonetheless had helped George since his first day on the job, August 7, 1952. At first she mourned him, which was natural. Then she said she liked retirement. Finally she admitted she was bored stiff, so Harry politely invited her to drop in from time to time. Harry had no idea that Miranda would relentlessly drop in at seven-thirty each morning. The two discovered over time and a few grumbles that it was quite pleasant to have company.
The mail truck beeped outside. Rob Collier tipped his Orioles baseball cap and tossed the bags through the front door. He delivered mail from the main post office on Seminole Trail in Charlottesville. “Late” was all he said.