He was sitting in Remembrance Parlor I, his only company in the coffin at the front of the room. Gertrude Evans, eighty- seven (or maybe eighty-eight), had died of congestive heart failure two days before. Andy had sent a condolence note, although God knew who'd eventually receive it; Gert's husband had died a decade ago. It didn't matter. He always sent condolences when one of his constituents died, handwritten on a sheet of cream stationery reading; FROM THE DESK OF THE FIRST SELECTMAN. He felt it was part of his duty.
Big Jim couldn't be bothered with such things. Big Jim was too busy running what he called 'our business,' by which he meant Chester's Mill. Ran it like his own private railroad, in point of fact, but Andy had never resented this; he understood that Big Jim was smart. Andy understood something else, as well: without Andrew DeLois Sanders, Big Jim probably couldn't have been elected dogcatcher. Big Jim could sell used cars by promising eye- watering deals, low-low financing, and premiums like cheap Korear vacuum cleaners, but when he'd tried to get the Toyota dealership:hat time, the company had settled on Will Freeman instead. Given his sales figures and location out on 119, Big Jim hadn't been able to understand how Toyota could be so stupid.
Andy could. He maybe wasn't the brightest bear in tre woods, but he knew Big Jim had no warmth. He was a hard man (some - those who'd come a cropper on all that low-low financing, for instance - would have said hardhearted), and he was persuasive, but he was also chilly. Andy, on the other hand, had warmth to spare. When he went around town at election time, Andy told folks that ht and Big Jim were like the Doublemint Twins, or Click and Clack, or peanut butter and jelly, and Chester's Mill wouldn't be the same without both of them in harness (along with whichever third happened to be currently along for the ride - right now Rose Twitchell's sister, Andrea Grinnell). Andy had always enjoyed his partnership with Big Jim. Financially, yes, especially during the last two or three vears, but also in his heart. Big Jim knew how to get things done, and why they should be done. We're in this for the long haul, he'd say. We're doing it for the town. For the people. For their own good. And that was good. Doing good was good.
But now... tonight...
'I hated those flying lessons from the first,' he said, and began to cry again. Soon he was sobbing noisily, but that was all right, because Brenda Perkins had left in silent tears after viewing the remains of her husband, and the Bowie brothers were downstairs. They had a lot of work to do (Andy understood, in a vague way, that something very bad had happened). Fern Bowie had gone out for a bite at Sweetbriar Rose, and when he came back, Andy was sure Fern would kick him out, but Fern passed down the hall without even looking in at where Andy sat with his hands between his knees and his tie loosened and his hair in disarray.
Fern had descended to what he and his brother Stewart called 'the workroom.' (Horrible; horrible!) Duke Perkins was down there. Also that damned old Chuck Thompson, who maybe hadn't talked his wife into those flying lessons but sure hadn't talked her out of them, either. Maybe others were down there, too.
Claudette for sure.
Andy voiced a watery groan and clasped his hands together more tightly. He couldn't live without her; no way could he live without her. And not just because he'd loved her more than his own life. It was Claudette (along with regular, unreported, and ever larger cash infusions from Jim Rennie) who kept the drugstore going; on his own, Andy would have run it into bankruptcy before the turn of the century. His specialty was people, not accounts and ledgers. His wife was the numbers specialist. Or had been.
As! the past perfect clanged in his mind, Andy groaned again.
Claudette and Big Jim had even collaborated on fixing up the town's books that time when the state audited them. It was supposed to be a surprise audit, but Big Jim had gotten advance word. Not much;just enough for them to go to work with the computer program Claudette called MR CLEAN. They called it that because it always produced clean numbers. They'd come out of that audit shiny side up instead of going to jail (which wouldn't have been fair, since most of what they were doing - almost all, in fact - was for the town's own good).
The truth about Claudette Sanders was this: she'd been a prettier Jim Rennie, a kinder Jim Rennie, one he could sleep with and tell his secrets to, and life without her was unthinkable.
Andy started to tear up again, and that was when Big Jim himself put a hand on his shoulder and squeezed. Andy hadn't heard him come in, but he didn't jump. He had almost expected the hand, because its owner always seemed to turn up when Andy needed him the most.
'I thought I'd find you here,' Big Jim said. 'Andy - pal - I'm just so, so sorry.'
Andy lurched to his feet, groped his arms around Big Jim's bulk, and began to sob against Big Jim's jacket. 'I told her those lessons were dangerous! I told her Chuck Thompson was a jackass, just like his father!'
Big Jim rubbed his back with a soothing palm. 'I know. But she's in a better place now, Andy - she had dinner with Jems Christ tonight - roast beef, fresh peas, mashed with gravy! How's that for an awesome thought? You hang onto that. Think we should pray?'