Rest In Pieces

by Rita Mae Brown

  Harry, long accustomed to BoomBoom’s endless array of physical ills, enough to fill many medical books, couldn’t resist. “But BoomBoom, I thought you’d conquered that by removing dairy products from your diet.”

  “No, that was for my mucus difficulty.”

  “Oh.” Harry thought to herself that if BoomBoom had even half of the vividly described maladies she complained of, she’d be dead. That would be okay with Harry.

  “We”—and by this BoomBoom meant herself and Harry’s ex-husband, Fair—“were at Mim’s last night. Little Marilyn and Fitz-Gilbert were there and we played Pictionary. You should see Mim go at it. She has to win, you know.”

  “Did she?”

  “We let her. Otherwise she wouldn’t invite us to her table at the Harvest Fair Ball this year. You know how she gets. But say, Little Marilyn and Fitz-Gilbert mentioned that they’d met this new man—‘divine looking’ was how Little Marilyn put it—and he’s your neighbor. A Yale man too. What would a Yale man do here? The South sends her sons to Princeton, so he must be a Yankee. I used to date a Yale man, Skull and Bones, which is ironic since I broke my ankle dancing with him.”

  Harry thought calling that an irony was stretching it. What BoomBoom really wanted Harry to appreciate was that not only did she know a Yale man, she knew a Skull and Bones man—not Wolf’s Head or any of the other “lesser” secret societies, but Skull and Bones. Harry thought admission to Yale was enough of an honor; if one was tapped for a secret society, too, well, wonderful, but best to keep quiet about it. Then again, BoomBoom couldn’t keep quiet about anything.

  Tucker yawned behind the counter. “Murph, jump in the mail cart.”

  “Okay.” Mrs. Murphy wiggled her haunches and took a flying leap from the counter where she was eavesdropping on the veiled combat between the humans. She hit the mail cart dead center and it rolled across the back room, a metallic rattle to its wheels. Tucker barked as she ran alongside.

  “Hey, you two.” Harry giggled.

  “Well, I’ll be late for my low-impact aerobics class. Have a good day.” BoomBoom lied about the good day part and left.

  BoomBoom attracted men. This only convinced Harry that the two sexes did not look at women in the same way. Maybe men and women came from different planets—at least that’s what Harry thought on her bad days. BoomBoom had attractive features and the celebrated big tits but Harry also saw that she was a hypochondriac of the first water, managing to acquire some dread malady whenever she was in danger of performing any useful labor.

  Susan Tucker used to growl that BoomBoom never fucked anyone poor. Well, she’d broken that pattern with Fair Haristeen, and Harry knew that sooner or later BoomBoom would weary of not getting earrings from Cartier’s, vacations out of the country, and a new car whenever the mood struck her. Of course she had plenty of her own money to burn but that wasn’t as much fun as burning a hole in someone else’s pocket. She’d wait until she had a rich fellow lined up in her sights and then she’d dump Fair with lightning speed. Harry wanted to be a good enough person not to gloat when that moment occurred. However, she knew she wasn’t.

  This reverie of delayed revenge was interrupted when Mim Sanburne strode into the post office. Sporting one of those boiled Austrian jackets and a jaunty hunter-green hat with a pheasant feather on her head, she might have come from the Tyrol. A pleasant thought if it meant she might blow back to the Tyrol.

  “Harry.” Mim’s greeting was imperious.

  “Mrs. Sanburne.”

  Mim had a box with a low number, another confirmation of her status, since it had been in the family since the time postal service was first offered to Crozet. Her arms full of mail and glossy magazines, she dumped them on the counter. “Hear you’ve got a handsome beau.”

  “I do?” came the surprised reply.

  Mrs. Murphy jumped around in the mail bin as Tucker snapped from underneath at the moving blob in the canvas.

  “My son-in-law, Fitz-Gilbert, said he recognized him, this Blair Bainbridge fellow. He’s a model. Seen him in Esquire, GQ, that sort of thing. Mind you, those models are a little funny, you know what I mean?”

  “No, Mrs. Sanburne, I really don’t.”

  “Well, I’m trying to protect you, Harry. Those pretty boys marry women but they prefer men, if I have to be blunt.”

  “First off, I’m not dating him.”

  This genuinely disappointed Mim. “Oh.”

  “Secondly, I have no idea as to his sexual preference but he seems nice enough and for now I will take him at face value. Thirdly, I’m taking a vacation from men.”

  Mim airily circled her hand over her head, a dramatic gesture for her. “That’s what every woman says until she meets the next man, and there is a next man. They’re like streetcars—there’s always one coming around the corner.”

  “That’s an interesting thought.” Harry smiled.

  Mim’s voice hit the “important information” register. “You know, dear, BoomBoom will tire of Fair. When he comes to his senses, take him back.”

  As everyone had her nose in everyone else’s business, this unsolicited, intimate advice from the mayor’s wife didn’t offend Harry. “I couldn’t possibly do that.”

  A knowing smile spread across the carefully made-up face. “Better the devil you know than the devil you don’t.” With that sage advice Mim started for the door, stopped, turned, grabbed her mail and magazines off the counter, and left for good.

  Harry folded her arms across her chest, a respectable chest, too, and looked at her animals. “Girls, people say the damnedest things.”

  Mrs. Murphy called out from the mail bin, “Mim’s a twit. Who cares? Gimme a push.”

  “You look pretty comfortable in there.” Harry grabbed the corner of the mail bin and merrily rolled Mrs. Murphy across the post office as Tucker yapped with excitement.

  Susan dashed through the back door, beheld the fun, and put Tucker in another mail bin. “Race you!”

  * * *

  * * *

  By the time they’d exhausted themselves they heard a scratching at the back door, opened it, and in strolled Pewter. So, with a grunt, Harry picked up the gray cat, placed her in Mrs. Murphy’s cart, and rolled the two cats at the same time. She crashed into Susan and Tucker.

  Pewter, miffed, reached up and grabbed the edge of the mail bin with her paws. She was going to leap out when Mrs. Murphy yelled, “Stay in, wimp.”

  Pewter complied by jumping onto the tiger cat, and the two rolled all over each other, meowing with delight as the mail bin races resumed.

  “Wheee!” Susan added sound effects.

  “Hey, let’s go out the back door and race up the alley,” Harry challenged.

  “Yeah, yeah!” came the animals’ thrilled replies.

  Harry opened the back door, she and Susan carefully lifted the mail bins over the steps, and soon they were ripping and tearing up and down the little alleyway. Market Shiflett saw them when he was taking out the garbage and encouraged them to run faster. Mrs. Hogendobber, shading her eyes, looked up from her pumpkins. Smiling, she shook her head and resumed her labors.

  Finally, the humans pooped out. They slowly rolled the bins back to the post office.

  “How come people forget stuff like this when they get older?” Susan asked.

  “Who knows?” Harry laughed as she watched Mrs. Murphy and Pewter sitting together in the bin.

  “Wonder why we still play?” Susan thought out loud.

  “Because we discovered that the secret of youth is arrested development.” Harry punched Susan in the shoulder. “Ha.”

  The entire day unfolded with laughter, sunshine, and high spirits. That afternoon, as Harry revved up the ancient tractor Blair Bainbridge drove up the driveway in his dually. Would she come over to his place and look at the old iron cemetery fence?

  So Harry chugged down the road, Mrs. Murphy in her lap, and Tucker riding with Blair. Harry pulled up the fallen-down fence while Blair put concrete
blocks around it to hold it until he could secure post corners. Working alongside Blair was fun. Harry felt closest to people when working with them or playing games. Blair wasn’t afraid to get dirty, which she found surprising for a city boy. Guess she surprised him too. She advised him on how to rehabilitate his stable, how to pack the stalls, and how to hang subzero fluorescent lights.

  “Why not use incandescent lights?” Blair asked. “It’s prettier.”

  “And a whole lot more expensive. Why spend money when you don’t have to?” She pushed her blue Giants cap back on her head.

  “Well, I like things to look just so.”

  “Hang the subzeros high up in the spine of your roof and then put regular lighting along the shed row, with metal guards over it. Otherwise you’ll be picking glass out of your horses’ heads. That’s if you have to have, just have to have, incandescent lights.”

  Blair wiped his hands on his jeans. “Guess I look pretty stupid.”

  “No, you need to learn about the country. I wouldn’t know what to do in New York City.” She paused. “Fitz-Gilbert Hamilton says you’re a model. Are you?”

  “From time to time.”

  “Out of work?”

  Harry’s innocence about his field amused him and somehow made her endearing to him. “Not exactly. I can fly to a shoot. I just don’t want to live in New York anymore and, well, I don’t want to do that kind of work forever. The money is great but it’s not . . . fitting.”

  Harry shrugged. “If a guy’s as handsome as you are he might as well make money off of it.”

  Blair roared. He wasn’t used to women being so direct with him. They were too busy flirting and wanting to be his date at the latest social event. “Harry, are you always so, uh, forthright?”

  “I guess.” Harry smiled. “But, hey, if you don’t like that kind of work I hope you find something you do like.”

  “I’d like to breed horses.”

  “Mr. Bainbridge, three words of advice. Don’t do it.” His face just fell. She hastened to add, “It’s a money suck. You’d do better buying yearlings or older horses and making them. Truly. Sometime we can sit down and talk this over. I’ve got to get back home before the light goes. I’ve got to run the manure spreader and pull out a fence post.”

  “You helped me—I’ll help you.” Blair didn’t know that “making a horse” meant breaking and training the animal. He had asked so many questions he decided he’d give Harry a break. He’d ask someone else what the phrase meant.

  They rode back to Harry’s. This time Mrs. Murphy rode with Blair and Tucker rode with Harry.

  As Mrs. Murphy sat quietly in the passenger seat she focused on Blair. An engaging odor from his body curled around her nostrils, a mixture of natural scent, a hint of cologne, and sweat. He smiled as he drove along. She could feel his happiness. What was even better, he spoke to her as though she were an intelligent creature. He told her she was a very pretty kitty. She purred. He said he knew she was a champion mouser, he could just tell, and that once he settled in he would ask her about finding a cat or two for him. Nothing sadder on this earth than a human being without a cat. She added trills to her purrs.

  By the time they turned into Harry’s driveway Mrs. Murphy felt certain that she had totally charmed Blair, although it was the other way around.

  The fence post proved stubborn but they finally got it out. The manure spreading would wait until tomorrow because the sun had set and there was no moon to work by. Harry invited Blair into her kitchen and made a pot of Jamaican Blue coffee.

  “Harry,” he teased her, “I thought you were frugal. This stuff costs a fortune.”

  “I save my money for my pleasures,” Harry replied.

  As they drank the coffee and ate the few biscuits Harry had, she told him about the MacGregors and the Joneses, the history of Foxden as she knew it, and the history of Crozet, named for Claudius Crozet, also as she knew it.

  “Tell me something else.” He leaned forward, his warm hazel eyes lighting up. “Why does everyone’s farm have fox in its name? Fox Covert, Foxden, Fox Hollow, Red Fox, Gray Fox, Wily Fox, Fox Haven, Fox Ridge, Fox Run”—he inhaled—“Foxcroft, Fox Hills, Foxfield, Fox—”

  “How about Dead Fox Farm?” Harry filled in.

  “No way. You’re making that up.”

  “Yeah.” Harry burst out laughing and Blair laughed along with her.

  He left for home at nine-thirty, whistling as he drove. Harry washed up the dishes and tried to remember when she’d enjoyed a new person quite so much.

  The cat and dog curled up together and wished humans could grasp the obvious. Harry and Blair were meant for each other. They wondered how long it would take them to figure it out and who, if anybody, would get in the way. People made such a mess of things.

  * * *

  6

  The balmy weather held for another three days, much to the delight of everyone in Crozet. Mim lost no time in leaning on Little Marilyn to invite Blair Bainbridge to her house, during which time Mim just happened to stop by. She deeply regretted that Blair was too young for her and said so quite loudly, but this was a tack Mim usually took with handsome men. Her husband, Jim, laughed at her routine.

  Fitz-Gilbert Hamilton’s den struck Blair as a hymn to Princeton. How much orange and black could anyone stand? Fitz-Gilbert made a point of showing Blair his crew picture. He even showed him his squash picture from Andover Academy. Blair asked him what had happened to his hair, which Fitz-Gilbert took as a reference to his receding hairline. Blair hastily assured him that was not what he’d meant; he’d noticed that the young Fitz-Gilbert was blond. Little Marilyn giggled and said that in school her husband dyed his hair. Fitz-Gilbert blustered and said that all the guys did it—it didn’t mean anything.

  The upshot of this conversation was that the following morning Fitz-Gilbert appeared in the post office with blond hair. Harry stared at the thatch of gold above his homely face and decided the best course would be to mention it.

  “Determined to live life as a blond, Fitz? Big Marilyn must be wearing off on you.”

  Mim flew to New York City once every six weeks to have her hair done and God knows what else.

  “Last night my wife decided, after looking through my yearbooks, that I look better as a blond. What do you think? Do blonds have more fun?”

  Harry studied the effect. “You look very preppy. I think you’d have fun whatever your hair color.”

  “I could never have done this in Richmond. That law firm.” He put his hands around his neck in a choking manner. “Now that I’ve opened my own firm I can do what I want. Feels great. I know I do better work now too.”

  “I don’t know what I’d do if I had to dress up for work.”

  “Worse than that, you couldn’t take the cat and dog to work with you,” Fitz-Gilbert observed. “You know, I don’t think people were meant to work in big corporations. Look at Cabell Hall, leaving Chase Manhattan for Allied National years ago. After a while the blandness of a huge corporation will diminish even the brightest ones. That’s what I like so much about Crozet. It’s small; the businesses are small; people are friendly. At first I didn’t know how I’d take the move from Richmond. I thought it might be dull.” He smiled. “Hard for life to be dull around the Sanburnes.”

  Harry smiled back but wisely kept her mouth shut. He left, squeezing his large frame into his Mercedes 560SL, and roared off. Fitz and Little Marilyn owned the pearlized black SL, a white Range Rover, a silver Mercedes 420SEL, and a shiny Chevy half-ton truck with four-wheel drive.

  As the day unfurled the temperature dropped a good fifteen to twenty degrees. Roiling black clouds massed at the tips of the Blue Ridge Mountains. The rain started before Harry left work. Mrs. Hogendobber kindly ran Harry back home although she complained about having Mrs. Murphy and Tucker in her car, an ancient Ford Falcon. She also complained about the car. This familiar theme—Mrs. Hogendobber had been complaining about her car since George bought it new in 1963�
��lulled Harry into a sleepy trance.

  “. . . soon time for four more tires and I ask myself, Miranda, is it worth it? I think, trade this thing in, and then I go over to the Brady-Bushey Ford car lot and peruse those prices and, well, Harry, I tell you, my heart fairly races. Who can afford a new car? So it’s patch, patch, patch. Well, would you look at that!” she exclaimed. “Harry, are you awake? Have I been talking to myself? Look there, will you.”

  “Huh.” Harry’s eyes traveled in the direction of Mrs. Hogendobber’s pointing finger.

  A large sign swung on a new post. The background was hunter-green, the sign itself was edged in gold, and the lettering was gold. A fox peered out from its den. Above this realistic painting it read FOXDEN.

  “That must have cost a pretty penny.” Mrs. Hogendobber sounded disapproving.

  “Wasn’t there this morning.”

  “This Bainbridge fellow must have money to burn if he can put up a sign like that. Next thing you know he’ll put up stone fences, and the cheapest, I mean the cheapest, you can get for that work is thirty dollars a cubic foot.”

  “Don’t spend his money for him yet. A pretty sign doesn’t mean he’s going to go crazy and put all his goods in the front window, so to speak.”

  As they pulled into the long driveway leading to Harry’s clapboard house, she asked Miranda Hogendobber in for a cup of tea. Mrs. Hogendobber refused. She had a church club meeting to attend and furthermore she knew Harry had chores. Given the continuing drop in the temperature and the pitch clouds sliding down the mountain as though on an inky toboggan ride, Harry was grateful. Mrs. H. peeled down the driveway and Harry hurried into the barn, Mrs. Murphy and Tucker way in front of her.

  Her heavy barn jacket hung on a tack hook. Harry threw it on, tugged off her sneakers and slipped on duck boots, and slapped her Giants cap on her head. Grabbing the halters and lead shanks, she walked out into the west pasture just in time to get hit in the face with slashing rain. Mrs. Murphy stayed in the barn but Tucker went along.