November 17, 1915

“You’re finally leaving the position of Postmaster, Mr. Monson.”

“It only took three months of government bureaucratic red tape. Good heavens, Walter Kemmer was the only applicant and there were no protests,” he grumbled.

“When does he start?”

“He checked in today and is working in the back. It’ll be a smooth transition. We’ve been talking for months.”

“When is your last day?”

“Today, Julius. I’ll be full time at Hugus Mercantile tomorrow and replace my brother. He needs to get the ranch ready for winter. I’ve been helping him. We both have been doing overtime this fall.” The front door opened, and Clay Monson greeted his next customer. “Good Morning, Miss Marjorie.”

She nodded at me and said to him, “You’ve done an excellent job here at the post office. My father and I must commend you.”

“Thank you, I appreciate it.”

“My pleasure,” she replied and turned to me saying, “You and Anthony are invited to the book club meeting.”

“To the ladies book club meeting?”

“Absolutely, I’m hosting it at camp. An author friend, Miss Blanche Weitbrec from Denver is in town arranging a concert for the New York soprano, Madame Marie Bren-Kans.

“When is the concert?”

“In a few weeks, I’m inviting Blanche too. She will enjoy it.”

“Is that the reason you are inviting gentlemen to your ladies club?”

“Not really, the author we’re reading is Guy de Maupassant and his story Boule de Suif.”

I replied, “The father of the modern short story; I’ve read the translated version Ball of Fat.”

“You’ve read everything smarty, so you’ll be prepared. There are kinder translations of the title, such as Butterball. Also, the author is from Rouen, France.”

“He was a French Norman from the same town as du Bois.”

“Exactly, will you come tonight? I’ll give you a ride.”

“I’ll talk to Anthony. I’m sure he will want to attend.”

Miss Marjorie smiled and said, “I’ll pick ya up at six o’clock at the hotel.”

I smiled back, picked up my mail, shook Mr. Monson’s hand and said, “Congratulations, I’ll see you at the mercantile.”

He waved at me as I walked out the door.

***

Miss Marjorie arrived moments after six. Maggie and Angela were regulars of the book club. Corina could not attend. I opened the snowy stagecoach door. Anthony du Bois helped them step up and inside. We followed. Miss Blanche seated in the corner had her feet on one of the four charcoal blazers.

“Oh good, warm feet for the trip. Hello, I’m Angela.”

We greeted Miss Blanche in turn while gently brushing the snow off our shoulders and hats. Miss Marjorie shouted at the team from above, “Let’s go, boys!”

It was snowing hard. From my window, I saw the lights of the front lanterns illuminating the white road. The flurry of flakes swirled, in the steam, from the hardworking team that passed by. The sky was dark gray, and a curtain of snow shrouded the countryside.  I thought how our scene resembled the one in the short story. Fortunately, the Franco-Prussian War did not happen around us.

Du Bois grinned, “Miss Marjorie planned this.”

“She has a flair for the dramatic,” I answered.

“The story is about a prostitute,” Miss Blanche stated.

Du Bois replied, “A kindhearted one. Don’t forget the two nuns and the other seven people that represent a microcosm of French society packed tightly together.”

At the main lodge of the dance and equestrian camp several automobiles were parked in the snow. Inside the fireplace burned brightly. A tea kettle sang loudly on the stove. Treats and cookies were arranged on silver platters that glowed in the warm electric and lantern lights.

“Oh, I just love Fig Newtons,” Angela exclaimed.

“They were on sale at Steamboat Novelty for ten cents off. I couldn’t pass them up,” Marjorie responded, “Normally, they’re twenty-five cents a packet. I got a bunch of them for fifteen.”

“I figured you wouldn’t bake,” Maggie chimed in.

Marjorie gave her a supercilious, “Ha, ha, ha.”

Eventually ten women sat in chairs, du Bois and I joined them. The discussion was lively and at the end du Bois said, “Now you see, it’s the perfect short story. It’s unfortunate Guy de Maupassant died young.”

Miss Blanche asked, “What did he die from?”

“Syphilis.”

The room was very quiet. I broke it with, “W. Somerset Maugham is a terrific short story writer.”

“I met him,” du Bois answered.

“Where?”

“In Dunkirk, he drove ambulances like I did. He’s in his forties. Oddly, writers joined the British Red Cross and formed the Literary Drivers. They drove to the battle lines and returned every day. The photographers were primarily French and spent a week at the front. We rotated there and back on their days off. Maugham wrote a novel during the lulls, and I got to read some. I think he called it Of Human Bondage.”

“Really. His plays were a smash in London. I’ll never forget the cartoon in Punch with Shakespeare biting his fingernails while looking at Maugham playbill. I was a teenager then.”

“Oui. There was an American writer too, Ernest something. He spoke Italian and they shipped him off to Italy.”

Blanche interrupted saying, “This is very interesting. Marjorie, would it be all right if everyone tells me a little about their backgrounds?”

“Of course.”

Around the circle, each of the ladies said a bit about themselves. Angela was last and she hesitated. Finally, she spoke softly, “I was born in Janesville, Wisconsin. It’s near Milwaukee. My father was a machinist and out of work when I was two years old. That was a winter during the silver depression and my mother told me we were very poor. He heard there was work in Rock Springs, Wyoming, with the railroad. My parents scrapped together train fare. There wasn’t a job and my father became quite ill from the trip. He had a sister in Denver, and we managed to get there. She turned my father away because my mother was not his first wife. He died of pneumonia. I don’t remember him. My mother is a seamstress in West Denver. She sings and dances at night to make ends meet. I’m in Steamboat because my fiancé terminated our engagement.”

At that point, tears streamed down Angela’s face.

“Well, you certainly have a short story there,” Blanche comforted.

Miss Marjorie stood and said, “She sings and dances well, too. Why don’t we all sit on the floor by the fireplace for a while?  It’s so cheery.  I’ll tell the caretaker to hitch the team.”