lay back in bed and studied the ceiling, as if that would help. Jeanette was probably doing the same thing, examining my words, just as I was examining hers. There was no doubt she felt trouble was coming my way. That much I could sense. Part of it had to do with this new supervisor, I suspected. The Boss had called her a Cracker Jack, someone who was on top of post office operations. Well, we would see.
* * *
I went to work early the next morning, anxious to see what the paper had to say about the interview. I was hoping it would turn out to be a humdrum piece on the second or third page, but it was not. The article was on the first page and it wasn’t about me. It was about Gloria Plinski and how she died. By the time the raven-haired kid was done with me, I was either lying or else the biggest jackass to hit the streets. To quote: “Mr. Bronski would neither deny nor confirm that Gloria Plinski was murdered. If she was murdered, as many suspect, why is the Postal Service or the law enforcement agencies covering it up? Did someone go “postal”? There have been rumors of low morale at the post office. Perhaps someone got even.”
I threw the paper down on the desk, took my glasses off, and leaned back in my chair. It promised to be a long day.
* * *
And a long day it was too. While I sat at my desk ruminating about the interview, the phone rang. I answered thinking it would be the Boss, as it was too early for the post office to be open.
“Yes, sir?”
“Mr. Bronski, good morning!”
I hesitated; it sure didn’t sound like the Boss.
“Uh . . . good-morning.”
“Yes, sir, this is radio station KWIS. We’d like to give you the opportunity to comment on the murder of Gloria Plinski. Do you think it’s likely that somebody at the post office did it?”
“Who told you that?” I asked.
“Well, it’s common knowledge in the community.”
“It may be common knowledge in the community,” I snapped, “but I’m just here to do my job as a postmaster. Good-bye!”
Within a minute, the demon phone rang again. This time it was an Alaska State Trooper wondering whose side I was on by being belligerent with the news agencies. I tried to reassure the man I was definitely on his side, but I’m not sure he believed me. By the time he was through with me, I was shaking with anger and I wished mightily for a drink of cheap whiskey. Two years ago that’s exactly what I would have done, but now I was on the wagon with a certain person counting on me, and I was not about to let her down.
After taking some aspirin to ward off a headache I felt coming on, I wandered out to the main floor to see how the troops were doing. Everybody appeared to be at their post, and seemed to be doing okay. I stopped by the box section to tell Abby we were getting a new supervisor on Monday and that she might want to pass that around. I’m not sure, but I think I saw relief in her eyes. I couldn’t blame her, having the job of supervisor at an associate office is a tough job, even more so if your postmaster is cranky.
Chapter 9
I stood in front of my bathroom mirror and checked my face. Could anyone tell I had had three drinks in a local pub Friday night? And that worst of all, I had told Jeanette a little white lie about things being okay? I was only going to have two drinks— really. But with the law enforcement call, plus the problems that occurred at any busy post office, I was frazzled by evening. The third drink felt really good, and that tipped me off that I was about to get into trouble. I escaped just in time. Another guy and I had been playing darts. We were doing well and I’m sure he didn’t understand why I bailed out so soon.
Well, Monday morning came all the same. I picked up my razor and drew it across my face trying to stave off those three-drink guilt feelings. Wasn’t it Garrison Keillor, who said, “Guilt, the gift that keeps on giving?”
I arrived at the parking lot to find a strange
* * *
I went to work early the next morning, anxious to see what the paper had to say about the interview. I was hoping it would turn out to be a humdrum piece on the second or third page, but it was not. The article was on the first page and it wasn’t about me. It was about Gloria Plinski and how she died. By the time the raven-haired kid was done with me, I was either lying or else the biggest jackass to hit the streets. To quote: “Mr. Bronski would neither deny nor confirm that Gloria Plinski was murdered. If she was murdered, as many suspect, why is the Postal Service or the law enforcement agencies covering it up? Did someone go “postal”? There have been rumors of low morale at the post office. Perhaps someone got even.”
I threw the paper down on the desk, took my glasses off, and leaned back in my chair. It promised to be a long day.
* * *
And a long day it was too. While I sat at my desk ruminating about the interview, the phone rang. I answered thinking it would be the Boss, as it was too early for the post office to be open.
“Yes, sir?”
“Mr. Bronski, good morning!”
I hesitated; it sure didn’t sound like the Boss.
“Uh . . . good-morning.”
“Yes, sir, this is radio station KWIS. We’d like to give you the opportunity to comment on the murder of Gloria Plinski. Do you think it’s likely that somebody at the post office did it?”
“Who told you that?” I asked.
“Well, it’s common knowledge in the community.”
“It may be common knowledge in the community,” I snapped, “but I’m just here to do my job as a postmaster. Good-bye!”
Within a minute, the demon phone rang again. This time it was an Alaska State Trooper wondering whose side I was on by being belligerent with the news agencies. I tried to reassure the man I was definitely on his side, but I’m not sure he believed me. By the time he was through with me, I was shaking with anger and I wished mightily for a drink of cheap whiskey. Two years ago that’s exactly what I would have done, but now I was on the wagon with a certain person counting on me, and I was not about to let her down.
After taking some aspirin to ward off a headache I felt coming on, I wandered out to the main floor to see how the troops were doing. Everybody appeared to be at their post, and seemed to be doing okay. I stopped by the box section to tell Abby we were getting a new supervisor on Monday and that she might want to pass that around. I’m not sure, but I think I saw relief in her eyes. I couldn’t blame her, having the job of supervisor at an associate office is a tough job, even more so if your postmaster is cranky.
Chapter 9
I stood in front of my bathroom mirror and checked my face. Could anyone tell I had had three drinks in a local pub Friday night? And that worst of all, I had told Jeanette a little white lie about things being okay? I was only going to have two drinks— really. But with the law enforcement call, plus the problems that occurred at any busy post office, I was frazzled by evening. The third drink felt really good, and that tipped me off that I was about to get into trouble. I escaped just in time. Another guy and I had been playing darts. We were doing well and I’m sure he didn’t understand why I bailed out so soon.
Well, Monday morning came all the same. I picked up my razor and drew it across my face trying to stave off those three-drink guilt feelings. Wasn’t it Garrison Keillor, who said, “Guilt, the gift that keeps on giving?”
I arrived at the parking lot to find a strange
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