determined to try—playing the doctor’s wife straight up.
“Do you need anything?” Iris asked Marnie Niles who shook her head. Iris nodded and retreated to the back room where the pile of unsorted morning mail lay thick upon the table. Most of the town did not venture in until after eleven or so, when suddenly she’d look up from the sorting table in the back and find the lobby nearly full, as though someone had called a meeting. The women in the lobby kept on a running patter, to which Iris only half-listened.
“It’s unfathomable.”
“Unfathomable and unforgivable.”
“That’s a bit harsh, Marnie.”
“No, dear, it is unforgivable for a man to marry a weak woman!”
“But I imagine he likes taking care of her. Perhaps that makes him feel stronger?”
“A man takes better care of a woman when she doesn’t depend upon him,” Marnie sniffed. “Will Fitch’ll have his hands full, now that he’s gone and chosen a tiny slip of a city girl—and from away.”
Marnie’s voice trailed off as Iris returned to the front window with letters in need of canceling.
“Of course she’s from away,” Florence retorted. “Who would have married Will after what his father did?”
Iris glanced up. What had his father done?
“Do you remember after it all, how he’d stand at the end of the garden dressed head to toe in khaki looking like the summer people’s help, his neck and shoulders bowed, staring into the bank of roses?”
“What was he going to do?”
“He ought to have left town,” Mrs. Cripps replied crisply. “Anybody with any shame would have, instead of sticking around. Think of the Aldens and the Dales. They lost everything. Everything. And there he was still with his roses.”
“Still,” Marnie reflected, thrusting her hand into her mailbox and sliding out with a single envelope. “It was hard on Mary.”
“Always is hardest on the wives.” Mrs. Cripps nodded darkly. “We all might as well be Indian brides.”
“For pity’s sake, Florence!” Marnie burst out laughing. “You ought to stop taking National Geographic !” And her laughter fluttered behind like ribbons long after the door closed.
Seeing Mrs. Cripps intended to stay put, Iris went right on feeding the mail into the canceling machine. The envelopes skimmed under the lip of the machine, November 18, 12 pm. Franklin. November 18, 12 pm. Franklin, November 18, November 18, November 18. The letters sped out the other side, Iris giving the crank a good shove. The last envelope had stuck and she had to give it a yank to pull it out the finishing end of the machine.
“I suppose it’s the power,” Mrs. Cripps commented quietly to Iris, evidently finishing some discussion with herself, “that one loves about a job like this.”
Iris gave Mrs. Cripps the briefest of glances.
“After all, just look at what passes through your hands.”
Iris could feel herself going red. This woman! And something was off with the machine. The next envelope was sticking in exactly the same place. Yanking it out, she saw with annoyance that the date had smudged. 18? November 19? Iris held it closer. No, it really was off. It could easily be saying that today was the nineteenth.
“What’s the trouble?” Mrs. Cripps asked solicitously.
“The date.” Iris put down the envelope. She’d have to write a note to Midge Barnes, the postal inspector down in Nauset. Damn.
“Does it matter, really?” said Mrs. Cripps, sticking like a burr. She had never seen the postmaster bothered before. “One day or the next, the mail will get there all the same, isn’t that right?”
Iris had made the mistake of hoping the glitch had ended, but now a third envelope had gone through and hovered somewhere between November 18 and November 19. “Yes, it does matter, Mrs. Cripps,” burst out Iris. “It matters very much.”
The machine looked the same as always. She stared at it, irritated. Its blue body lay there dully, as if she had done
“Do you need anything?” Iris asked Marnie Niles who shook her head. Iris nodded and retreated to the back room where the pile of unsorted morning mail lay thick upon the table. Most of the town did not venture in until after eleven or so, when suddenly she’d look up from the sorting table in the back and find the lobby nearly full, as though someone had called a meeting. The women in the lobby kept on a running patter, to which Iris only half-listened.
“It’s unfathomable.”
“Unfathomable and unforgivable.”
“That’s a bit harsh, Marnie.”
“No, dear, it is unforgivable for a man to marry a weak woman!”
“But I imagine he likes taking care of her. Perhaps that makes him feel stronger?”
“A man takes better care of a woman when she doesn’t depend upon him,” Marnie sniffed. “Will Fitch’ll have his hands full, now that he’s gone and chosen a tiny slip of a city girl—and from away.”
Marnie’s voice trailed off as Iris returned to the front window with letters in need of canceling.
“Of course she’s from away,” Florence retorted. “Who would have married Will after what his father did?”
Iris glanced up. What had his father done?
“Do you remember after it all, how he’d stand at the end of the garden dressed head to toe in khaki looking like the summer people’s help, his neck and shoulders bowed, staring into the bank of roses?”
“What was he going to do?”
“He ought to have left town,” Mrs. Cripps replied crisply. “Anybody with any shame would have, instead of sticking around. Think of the Aldens and the Dales. They lost everything. Everything. And there he was still with his roses.”
“Still,” Marnie reflected, thrusting her hand into her mailbox and sliding out with a single envelope. “It was hard on Mary.”
“Always is hardest on the wives.” Mrs. Cripps nodded darkly. “We all might as well be Indian brides.”
“For pity’s sake, Florence!” Marnie burst out laughing. “You ought to stop taking National Geographic !” And her laughter fluttered behind like ribbons long after the door closed.
Seeing Mrs. Cripps intended to stay put, Iris went right on feeding the mail into the canceling machine. The envelopes skimmed under the lip of the machine, November 18, 12 pm. Franklin. November 18, 12 pm. Franklin, November 18, November 18, November 18. The letters sped out the other side, Iris giving the crank a good shove. The last envelope had stuck and she had to give it a yank to pull it out the finishing end of the machine.
“I suppose it’s the power,” Mrs. Cripps commented quietly to Iris, evidently finishing some discussion with herself, “that one loves about a job like this.”
Iris gave Mrs. Cripps the briefest of glances.
“After all, just look at what passes through your hands.”
Iris could feel herself going red. This woman! And something was off with the machine. The next envelope was sticking in exactly the same place. Yanking it out, she saw with annoyance that the date had smudged. 18? November 19? Iris held it closer. No, it really was off. It could easily be saying that today was the nineteenth.
“What’s the trouble?” Mrs. Cripps asked solicitously.
“The date.” Iris put down the envelope. She’d have to write a note to Midge Barnes, the postal inspector down in Nauset. Damn.
“Does it matter, really?” said Mrs. Cripps, sticking like a burr. She had never seen the postmaster bothered before. “One day or the next, the mail will get there all the same, isn’t that right?”
Iris had made the mistake of hoping the glitch had ended, but now a third envelope had gone through and hovered somewhere between November 18 and November 19. “Yes, it does matter, Mrs. Cripps,” burst out Iris. “It matters very much.”
The machine looked the same as always. She stared at it, irritated. Its blue body lay there dully, as if she had done
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