Major Pettigrew’s Last Stand by Helen Simonson

possessed him. He was struck by the thought that he was often lonely, even in the midst of many friends. He exhaled and it must have come out as a sigh, for Mrs. Ali looked up from sipping her tea.
    “I’m sorry, I haven’t asked you how you are doing,” she said. “It must have been difficult today, dealing with the solicitor?”
    “These things have to be taken care of,” he said. “It’s always a bit of a mess, though, isn’t it? People don’t always take the time to leave clear instructions and then the executors have to sort it all out.”
    “Ah, executors.” The dry hissing sound of the word conjured the scuttling of grey men, in ransacked rooms, looking for matches.
    “Fortunately I am the executor for my brother,” he said. “Only there are one or two things he left rather vague. I’m afraid it will require delicate negotiation on my part to make things come out right.”
    “He is lucky to have an executor of your integrity,” she said.
    “Nice of you to say so,” he said trying not to squirm on his seat with a sudden twinge of guilt. “I will do my best to be absolutely fair, of course.”
    “But you need to act fast,” she continued. “Before you can take inventory, the silver is gone, the linens appear on someone else’s table, and the little brass unicorn from his desk – worth next to nothing, except to you – poof! It’s slipped into a pocket and no one can even remember it when you ask.”
    “Oh, I don’t think my sister-in-law would stoop…” He was seized with a sudden anxiety. “I mean when it is a question of an item of considerable value. I don’t think she’d rush to sell it or anything.”
    “And everyone knows exactly what happened but no one will ever speak of it again, and the family goes on with its secrets invisible but irritating, like sand in a shoe.”
    “There must be a law against it,” he said. Mrs. Ali blinked at him, emerging from her own thoughts.
    “Of course there is the law of the land,” she said. “But we have talked before of the pressures of the family. One may be the most ancient of charters, Major, but the other is immutable.” The Major nodded, though he had no idea what she was talking about. Mrs. Ali fiddled with her empty tea mug, tapping it almost noiselessly against the table. He thought her face had clouded over, but perhaps it was just the day. The clouds did seem to be moving back in.
    “Looks like we’ve had the best of the weather,” he said, brushing crumbs from his lap. “Perhaps it’s time we were heading back?”
    The walk back was silent and somewhat uncomfortable, as if they had trespassed too far into personal areas. The Major would have liked to ask Mrs. Ali’s opinion of his situation, since he felt sure she would agree with him, but her faster stride suggested that she was still lost in her own memories. He was not about to inquire further into her life. Already there was an awkward intimacy, as if he had stumbled against her body in a crowd. This was one of the reasons he had avoided women since Nancy’s death. Without the protective shield of a wife, the most casual conversations with females had a way of suddenly veering off into a mire of coy remarks and miscommunicated intentions. The Major preferred to avoid looking ridiculous.
    Today, however, his usual determination to retreat was being compromised by a stubborn recklessness. As he walked his head churned with the repeating phrase “I was wondering if you were planning to come to town next week?”, but he could not bring himself to express it aloud. They reached the small blue car and a sharp sadness threatened him as Mrs. Ali bent to unlock the door. He admired again her smooth brow and the brightness of her hair disappearing into its scarf. She looked up under his gaze and straightened up. He noticed her chin was hidden by the curve of the roof line. She was not a tall woman.
    “Major,” she asked, “I was wondering if it would be possible to