Chester Pickering hitched the leather mail bag higher on his left shoulder and picked up his pace. A man on a mission, he finally crossed the boundary of Broadway Street for the return delivery run. By doubling his speed for the past four blocks, he’d earned himself an extra five minutes from his carefully timed progress. He double-checked the time against his pride and joy, a Cassio CFX-400 Scientific Calculator watch. Five more minutes to spend in the shade of Ethyl Harrow’s front porch. He’d budgeted every second to properly describe the juicy news he was sure she’d eventually pry from him.

This small town postal worker simply delivered the mail like every other mailman in every other small town, but Pickering patted his own back for taking his duties the extra mile. He looked upon a handful of Hellenbach folks as more than mere residents. To him they were more like social clients. His daily visits were less a duty than a service. Yes, what I’m doing is far more a service of compassion.

There was old Mrs. Beaty on Kentucky Street who might never see another living soul all week if not for the few moments Chester spent passing the time of day with her. Goodness knows, her children never wrote and certainly never visited.

The Carlyle sisters on East Mill had him taste-test their jams every summer, their broths every winter. And hadn’t their entries won blue ribbons at the county fair every time they entered his recommendations?

He kept both the Quaker and the Methodist minister informed about their parishioners struggling with infirmity, over-extended finances, depression, bad luck. The Presbyterian preacher lived outside the township limits in Amo, and Father Martin at Mary Queen of Peace didn’t need Chester’s help when it came to ferreting out folk’s problems. Catholics stepped right up and confessed once a week, good sheep that they were. Perhaps, he wondered, tucking junk mail and a water bill into the McGiven’s mailbox, Catholic hell burns a bit hotter than Protestant hell.

Chester took pains in knowing nearly everyone in town. Well, everyone on his route, for certain. He kept his eyes and ears wide open, scanning for clues in his surroundings, which included their mail. He made mental notes when anything was out of place, altered or missing. He knew — things, things that other people never took the time to notice. After all, somebody had to watch out.

Stepping over the Johnson’s soaker hose now flooding the sidewalk, he splashed to the porch of #365 to deposit their usual stack of ads and a Marshall Fields mail order envelope. From that higher vantage point Chester easily saw down onto his final client’s residence,the Widow Harrow’s porch.

Ethyl Harrow, his last and most determined client of the day, had set out the tray. That meant lemonade and snicker doodles. That meant the Widow was laying in wait for him today, eager to pounce the moment she spotted him coming her direction. Oh, yes, more than eager. Hungry.

Chester would have preferred that the Widow was not on his client list. He had not added her there. She had elbowed herself onto it with her imposing manner, like she deserved, what? Knowledge? Obedience? Right of place?
He didn’t much like talking with the busybody. It always felt more like an inquisition than a chat. She had a way of making him say things, do things. Maybe it was her practiced stranglehold on the leadership of the Garden Club. Definitely her overblown need to control the comings and goings in the neighborhood. Oh, yes, Ethyl Harrow was a controller.

Chester didn’t enjoy feeling controlled. It put his back up, but not high enough up to avoid her. Early on in the job, he’d tried not speaking, but it only earned him reprimand letters when she complained to his manager. He’d been instructed to be more polite. Always speak when spoken to, yes siree. And the Widow made a point of speaking every day, and answering every response with yet another, and another remark or question. She never let him go until he offered up some tidbit, some tasty item to satisfy her need for news.

Chester criticized himself for caving in to her gossip addiction. He told himself that he only did it to get back on his route, but he felt like one of those racing ducks being shepherded over sties and through fences by a well-trained Kerry blue terrier. Then again, perhaps his acquiescence was a leftover obedience reflex from the days when Mrs. Harrow’d taught junior high school math.
Chester had done well enough in school until her class. Most subjects like history and English made sense, had useful purposes. Algebra, though, stumped him completely. Word problems, and parens, and finding the value of x. Given enough time, Chester could figure most things out, but Algebra eluded him like the butterfly outside the classroom window he’d rather be watching.

Mrs. Harrow had flunked him, out-right flunked him. It branded ‘failure’ on both his report card and his psyche. And he’d gotten a whipping from his father. No son of mine is going to be a dummy!

From that day on, Chester had tried and tried to impress Ethyl Harrow with all the abilities at his limited command, especially his vast and growing knowledge of the comings and goings of her neighbors. He might not be able to figure out which speeding train would collide with the oncoming train going 75 miles per hour over a distance of 3.78 miles, but he did know who was doing what in the little town of Hellenbach. He knew plenty of things that even an algebra teacher couldn’t fathom without his help.

The Widow opened her front porch door, gave the fingers of her left hand a tiddley wave in his direction. Her right arm was occupied by the weight of Barney, her molting African gray parrot. Nasty bird, Barney. Bit everyone but Ethyl. Spit seeds and shit everywhere. The Widow limped out onto the porch, leashed Barney to his ring-stand, and plunked her bony, white cotton-clad frame into a wicker rocker.

Mrs. Harrow always looked down her nose at Chester, even when seated. He read disdain in her face; that little sigh, that slight head waggle, that “finally here comes that boy” narrowing of the eyes.

“Morning, Missus Harrow,” Chester shouted as he approached her yard. “Hot enough for you?”

He took care picking his way back across the flooded sidewalk and onto dry concrete. Not careful enough though. Water soaked through a crack in sole of his right shoe. He dipped into his pack and pulled out the presorted bundle for #367 combining it with the prepaid junk packet. Fiddling with the latch of the picket fence gate, Chester stormed the porch.

Other people eased into rocking chairs; Ethyl Harrow sat ramrod straight. She slowly fanned herself with a memento from the Hall-Baker Funeral Home, like some wicked queen perched upon a chintz-padded throne.

A tea table stood between her rocker and a similarly-cushioned but lower love-seat. Upon the table rested the family heirloom — a silver-plated and engraved tea tray from her great grandmother’s trousseaux. Ethyl only dragged it out for special occasions: weddings, funerals, state fair entries. And when she obviously wanted more than casual overview of news that everyone else got from the weekly Republican. The bi-weekly block meetings for the Neighborhood Watch only rated the everyday Formica tray. So hungry.

To not damage the heirloom’s already re-plated finish, a starched linen cloth absorbed condensation from two tall frosted glasses and a pseudo crystal pitcher of lemonade. A veritable hillock of slightly warm snicker-doodles and macaroons cooled on a Wedgwood china plate. So, so very eager.

Now came the fun. How long could Chester drag out the reveal? How much humdrum pleasantry and redirection could he inject into the conversation before the Widow’s curiosity bulldozed over the road of good manners? How many of her cookies could he consume or pocket to make sure she paid full price for his information? And could he accomplish it all in the allotted five spare minutes to remain on his route’s schedule? It was an art, really, a complicated dance. Timing was all. He’d make her wait. He’d make her work for it. This slow ritual paid, bit by bit, for that F in algebra.

She’d likely limped a groove in front of her entry hall window anticipating his arrival, scrutinizing the comings and goings across the street through a screen of Battenburg lace window panels. He knew she kept a pair of military-issue binoculars from the Indy Army/Navy store by the front door. For bird-watching, or so she said. Bird-watching, my Aunt Fanny Lou. Old biddy probably has night-vision goggles, too.

“Good day, Chester. You’re a bit earlier than usual. Do come up on the porch and set a spell. You’re absolutely rose red in the face.”

“Yes’m. A glass of lemonade would suit me just fine, thanks,” he said. “Gonna to be another scorcher. Not much for you today,though,” he said handing over her mail. “A gardening catalog from Coxes, “Victorian Homes” and the coupon mailer. And how are we today?”

Ethyl harrumphed. Barney screeched.

“That rattle-trap van woke us at the crack of dawn,” she said. “Crack of dawn. And once we’re awake there’s no going back to sleep. So we pottered about, did a little cleaning, a little baking, you know — just to pass the morning. Didn’t we, Barney?”

Barney fanned the air with his ratty white wings and bobbed his balding head, dancing from one horny claw to the other. Good trick.

“We baked these this morning,” she said, breaking off a bit of macaroon and tossing it to the bird.

No doubt, Chester thought. Probably broke out the family cookbook the moment the moving van pulled up. The Widow Harrow used gifts of food as tactical weapons. Advance strikes. Softening up the target. Foot in the door. Her cooking was passable, but she was no Carlyle sister.

Chester dropped his satchel by the love seat, pulled out the postal blue kerchief that dangled from his back pocket, removed his cap and mopped his balding pate and the red gray fringe of hair over his leathery neck. He saw her eyes light up. She was about to launch her first volley.

Time for a diversion.

“I tell you what, that fancy new pole clock the JayCees installed on the square is already running thirteen minutes late. Can you believe it? Thirteen whole minutes. The thing is barely three months old, and already running slow.”

“Really?” She handed him the sweating glass of lemonade. “That’s just shoddy workmanship.” She moved to flank, redirecting. “It’s like those movers across the way. They are making a hash of that job, I tell you. It’s taking them all day long to finish what could have been done in an hour or two at most.”

“I know exactly what you mean,” Chester checked. He took a long slurp and came up puckering. “You got any sugar, Missus Harrow? It’s just like the sorting station at the main office. If they’d just reconsider my plans for a decent numbering system, we carriers would have the mail sorted thirty minutes faster. But will they listen to me? No-siree.” He launched into his plans for reorganizing the Hellenbach post office, but Ethyl would have none of it.

“Macaroon? Those movers over there are the same way,” she countered, handing him the cookie plate, knowing full well that he wouldn’t talk and chew at the same time. “Anyone gives them direction, they nod and then do the same thing they started out. Immigrants, probably. Mexicans who can’t, or won’t, even speak a word of English. Movers, roofers, and gardeners, all Mexicans.”

Good try, but no. This was going to take the full budgeted five minutes. “Speaking of gardens, are you planning to enter these lovely hydrangeas in the Flower and Patio Show? If you are, I don’t stand a chance.”

“Of course not,” she waved him off. “You can relax and enter your flowers, Chester. I’m judging the contest again this year.”

He did a mental fist pump and smiled. She smiled back, flashing dentures that were too white, too pointy. This was it. She was zeroing in on her target. She cleared her throat and deliberately looked away from the street scene.

“So, tell me,” she said feigning boredom, “is Fairchild’s young fella moving out over there?” She pointed at the Victorian across the road and took a drink herself. Damn. He would have to answer. Three minutes to go.

Chester took another long pull of lemonade to stall for time. Still needed more sugar. He puckered and shook his head.

“Mr. Luddon? No, no, no, no. I’m surprised you didn’t hear, Missus Harrow. That young man, he’s long-gone, long, long long gone. Processed his change of address myself a couple of days ago. Nah, he’s scampered off down Bloomington way now.”

“Bloomington?” She blinked. “You don’t say.”

Chester peered across the street. “I’m surprised that you haven’t noticed his red Miata’s not been in and out lately, the way that Japanese engine pops. Now, you can’t see it so good from your particular angle here, what with the way the van’s backed into the side driveway, but them movers is bringing stuff in, not taking stuff out.”

“Those movers,” she corrected. “In? Really?”

He watched the Widow’s eyes narrow, her plumage puffing up like her bird’s, as she craned her bony neck to examine the moving van. Ooh, she’s miffed nobody asked her permission to exit. She rose from her chair, straightened her white trousers, and limped over to Barney’s ring stand. Under the guise of feeding Barney a piece of carrot, she took a different vantage point of the proceedings across the street.

“So…so, who is this then? Not a new friend,” she said, finger-quote-marking the word, “replacing the old beau already?” Ethyl tisked. Barney mimicked the sound. It must be one he’d heard frequently because he nailed it.

“Friend? Hardly,” said Chester laughing quietly. “It’s Fairchild’s younger sister. Their family used to live on the other side of Broadway Street. You’ll remember her, little Janey all growed up now, and with a couple of kids to boot.”

“Really? Jane Fairchild? The ‘I can’t wait to get out of this podunk town’ gallivant?” The Widow returned to plunk herself back in the rocker.

“The very same. But she’s Jane Dickinson now.”

“Yes, right, Dick…en…son.” Chester envisioned the Widow chiseling that name in mental granite. “Mrs. Dickinson hasn’t be back around these parts in over a decade. Off flouncing all over the world,she was, last I heard tell. And where’s her husband now? Some kind of military man, wasn’t he?”

“Navy guy, and I couldn’t say his whereabouts,” Chester said. Yet. “Didn’t see no husband though. Didn’t see nothing going into the house that even remotely looked like a husband.”

“So, divorced?”

“Could be. But could be he’s off doing his patriotic duty and she’s come home to roost ‘til he gets back. Could be.”
“Could be. Hm.” The Widow drummed her fingers on the rocker arm. “And children, you say?”

Chester nodded. “Yep. Two bikes: one purple, one black.”

“A girl and a boy then?”

“Good guess. Elementary school age, I’d say, from the size of them.”

Ethyl tisked again. Barney tisked again, too, heaved a birdy sighed, and shook his feathered wattles. “And it was such a peaceful street, too,” squawked the African gray. Barney blinked his beady eyes expecting another treat for such a stellar performance, then screamed and beat the air, scattering molt everywhere, when none was forthcoming.

“Shut up, Barney!” The Widow’s dark little eyes narrowed.
The tempo of her rocking increased noticeably. If he listened hard, Chester could almost hear the cogs in Ethyl’s brain tick, tick, ticking away.

Young Mrs. Dickinson would surely receive a visit from the Neighborhood Watch in the very near future. The Widow Harrow was renown for laying down the Neighborhood rules while delivering one of her barely edible tuna noodle casseroles. She’d registered more than her share of noise complaints with the local authorities, written tomes of letters to the editor about common decency and morals. Dogs, basketball, hopscotch defacing sidewalks, anything even remotely childlike — to be seriously discouraged, seriously discouraged. Detrimental to the character of an historical neighborhood such as ours.

Chester checked his Cassio CFX-400 Scientific Calculator watch. Four minutes, twenty-nine seconds. He picked up a couple of snicker doodles from the heirloom, re-hefted his bag, replaced his cap over the still damp fringe of reddish-gray scruff and nodded, first at the bobbing bird and then at the Widow.

“Well, that’s all I know for the time being,” he said. “Must get back on my route. No rest for the righteous or those employed by the U.S. government.”

“Good day, Chester,” Ethyl said, her lips drawn tightly together. “Promise me you’ll keep a lookout for anything I might need to know as Neighborhood Watch Block Captain.”
“Oh, of course, Missus Harrow,” he said as he backed toward the porch steps. A smart man didn’t turn his back on the Widow. “Thanks for the refreshments.”

And he shoved off.

Five minutes. Exactly five minutes.