Miss Comportment | Marjorie Hughes

Sitting on my recliner, mired in a gray area, unwinding from my day.

Reliving today’s goings on in Middle Valley, with capable assistance of a vodka and tonic. It was actually a rather slow news day. Six inches of copy for tomorrow’s paper seems a mile away.

Now, dear reader, as you know … I am always on the hunt for nuggets of news (a.k.a., gossip), whatever I can unearth to show what’s happening on the banks of our beautiful Chickotee – and just how interesting we, as a people, really are.

But, friends, that is not to say I am without filter … my sources remain anonymous (how else can one get information around here?) and I am always vigilant and protective.

Which is why I sit in this gray area. It appears, as I replay my conversation with Wanda in my head and freshen the “v” in the “v and t,” I may have hit an icy patch.

As we deployed Middle Valley’s holiday decorations several days ago, I overheard what I’d best characterize as a strong exchange between Carson and this new-in-town person, Tracy, the would-be wife of his now-dead business partner.

You see, dear reader, my hearing isn’t exactly what it used to be, but I have had occasion to be tested, and while I don’t need any “aid” in that area, I believe I know what I heard – that Tracy, in some world or another, feels she’s entitled to some portion of her betrothed’s estate, or at least more than what she’d already received.

Now, if I were to try to describe to you Carson’s reaction, I’d say two words: shock and anger. I could see his quaffed blonde hair, usually so neatly sprayed and filled with product, flopping in the night air, his face the color of a radish.

Wanda didn’t hear much of what was said directly either, but she had decided for herself that the topic was clearly money.

Since discretion is not her strong suit, I’d suggested – strongly – that we keep the exchange under our mutual ski hats.

That said, her lack of discretion is exceeded only by her lack of subtlety, which is why I fear my admonition likely fell on ears more deaf than my own.

By Gunnar Olafsson

Gunnar hails from Iceland where he has been a fiction and news writer. He is best known for his pocket tour guides Reykjavik on a Budget and Summer in Iceland. He considers his greatest literary influence to be the prolific Snorri Sturluson, known for writing historical sagas and poetry. When he’s not writing, Gunnar enjoys exploring Icelandic geology and taking part in archaeological digs.