Vi Agra Falls by Mary Daheim Page A

have our own. I’m bringing fried chickens.”
    â€œ Chickens? How many?” Judith asked, wiping perspiration off of her forehead.
    â€œThree,” Renie replied. “Everybody laps up those fryers since I finally learned how to cook them right after forty years of marriage. How come Carl and Arlene Rankers aren’t doing their usual thing?”
    â€œThey are,” Judith replied, sitting down at the kitchen table, across from Renie. “They’d already made arrangements with the city to hold their annual Block Watch party. So we’ll end up with two shindigs going on at the same time in the cul-de-sac. Arlene asked Herself to change their event, but she refused. It should be quite a mob, since all the Dooleys will be coming, too.”
    â€œHow many at this point?” Renie inquired, referring to the large family that lived in back of the Flynn and Ericson properties.
    â€œI’ve lost track,” Judith admitted. “With so many children and grandchildren and various others relatives in and out, I just know a Dooley when I see one. They all kind of look alike.”
    â€œNice people, though,” Renie remarked, lifting the lid on Judith’s sheep-shaped cookie jar. “Hey, Coz, this thing’s empty!”
    â€œI don’t bake in this heat,” Judith said. “I won’t turn on the oven.”
    Renie looked forlorn. “Store-bought is fine with me.”
    â€œNone here.” Judith slumped in the chair. “I hate summer.”
    â€œMe, too,” Renie agreed. “Worst season of the year. Bring on the rain.” She sipped from the Pepsi Judith had given her. “I’m going to dread seeing our water bill. I can’t not try to keep allof our flowers and shrubs and trees from dying of thirst. In the long run, it’d cost more money to—” She stopped and reached into her enormous purse, which was on the vacant chair next to her. “I almost forgot. Your mailman must be suffering from heat exhaustion with all our steep hills. He dropped these in your driveway.” She handed over the latest issues of Country Life, National Geographic, and Architectural Digest, along with a couple of ads, the cable bill, and two letters.
    Judith scanned the stack of mail. “ Architectural Digest belongs to Ted Ericson. We’ve had a sub on the route the past week or so. Cecil’s on vacation.” She tossed the ads aside and looked at the first letter. “It’s a thank-you, I think, from that nice South Dakota couple who stayed here last month. I’ll read it later.” The other letter brought a scowl to her face. “This is addressed to J. C. Agra at Herself’s address. Damn. I suppose I’ll have to take it over there.”
    â€œHer last name isn’t Agra,” Renie pointed out.
    Judith shrugged. “I know, but the letter’s intended for that address. Maybe Billy has an alias.”
    â€œThat sounds right,” Renie said, and yawned. “This heat also makes me sleepy. I should finish up my errands before I nod off.” She stared at Judith. “What is it? You look weird.”
    â€œThat name—Agra. Somebody else in the cul-de-sac got a letter for a person by that name. It was also misdelivered.”
    Renie took a last swig of Pepsi and stood up. “Who knows? Every so often we get a religious newsletter for a family who lived in our house fifty years ago. Last week I got something in the mail for my dad, and he’s been dead for thirty years. They wanted to sell him life insurance. I almost signed up, figuring maybe I could cash in by waiting a couple of months and sending them his death certificate.”
    â€œYou’d actually do that,” Judith murmured.
    â€œBut I didn’t,” Renie said, not without regret. “See you Sunday for Joe and Mike’s birthdays.”
    In previous years, Judith often hosted a small party for her husband and