Hannah's Mail-Order Mate

Hannah's Mail Order Mate

                   He stumbled on the steps of the small commuter plane which had transported him from Chicago's O'Hare Airport to a small town in Northwestern Wisconsin, Opal Bay. A shorter-than-average man in a pale beige windbreaker open to the elements over a khaki polo shirt and brown trousers, he walked unsteadily, possibly because of the left leg, missing below the knee. Thick brown hair tousled gently in the breeze.

                   I relented and stepped forward to offer my help.

“Martin? Hi, I'm Denise, Denise Lincoln from Mail-Mates.”

                   He looked up then and scowled at the sight of me, but when I reached for his left hand, he allowed me to help him maneouver the stairs. Silent crossing the tarmac, he spoke only after we reached my LandCruiser.

         

“So where is she-my new wifey, then?”

                   A gentle Welsh accent did nothing to render Martin Crossley any more appealing, as his words were strongly flavored with resentment. Perhaps he had been less than successful in his home country at finding a mate, or maybe he hoped to successfully emigrate to America via marriage-a guarantee of new citizenship. Whichever the case, he didn't impress me, but then I was only the Matchmaker, not the Mate.

                   

“You'll meet Hannah shortly, I'm afraid. You do understand she has the right to rule for or against you, don't you?”

                   That stopped him in his tracks. He whipped around to face me so quickly that he stumbled once again, nearly lost his balance, and fetched up against the side of the truck.

“What-what do you mean, missy? For or against me? I'm a mail-order mate! I've flown from Cardiff to London to Chicago to” (and here his voice rose to a whine pitched at the peak of a chainsaw motor) “HERE! And I am NOT GOING BACK!”

“Well, Martin, you've indeed made that quite clear. But would you please just step into the vehicle” (oh I knew that was a poor choice of words when he scowled even uglier)
“and let's get on to the office where you can meet with your intended Bride.”

                   As he shifted his weight away from the passenger door, I opened it for him and gave him a fair push in. Then I slammed the door and walked around to the driver's side, schooling my face into a pleasant if robotic expression. Not a word was said during the twenty-minute trip into town, and not until I had parked in my assigned space did he react.

“What if she doesn't like me, then, Missy? What then?”

                   I turned to look at him, and I so wished to say, “I'll drive you to Lake Owewosabee myself and throw you in,” but I remembered just in time that this job made the LandCruiser's payments and kept me dressing fashionably. Instead I simply smiled and replied,

         

“I'm sure that will be no problem,”

meanwhile gritting my teeth so firmly I thought I could taste enamel chipping.

*^*

                   Once inside the office, I grimaced at the receptionist and inquired whether Hannah Mylee had arrived. Ginger replied that Hannah was waiting in my office, so I steered Martin into the conference room and suggested he have a chair, a coffee, and a pastry. He agreed to the chair and the pastry but declined the coffee, instead demanding tea! I explained that might take a while, and headed to my office to collect Hannah.

                   Hannah Mylee had applied to my division some three months before, with very specific criteria. She had inherited a dairy farm and then expanded to raise beef cattle as well. Now thirty, she had decided it was time for a Mate, and she came to us to find her one suitable to work the farm along with her and to provide big strapping sons to inherit when she eventually went the way of  all flesh. To that end, she had requested a tall (6'2” or above),hefty (225 lbs or better), muscular, strong, individual-of Slavic descent, preferably Russian or Eastern European. Hannah really could not care if he spoke English well, as long as he was strong, a hard loyal worker, and able to father many sons.

                   Well, she was in for just a little surprise.

                   Walking to the conference room, I told her,

         

“Hannah, your requirements were a little on the stringent side, and I must say, we had to relax them just a bit; but I'm certain you'll be very pleased with our results. After all, Mail-Order-Mates has been in business in this location for over six years now, and we have dozens of satisfied clients.”

“I know, my best friend Ginny and my cousins Irene and Charles all swear by your service. I trust them; that's why I decided to try it. But you know, I'm getting older, and I really need a husband now-my biological clock is ticking, and I'm almost getting too old to properly run the farms by  just myself.”

                   Oh, this could DEFINITELY become a problem.

                   I opened the conference room door and stepped back as I announced,

         

“Hannah, Martin, MEET YOUR MAIL-MATES!”

                   The expression on Hannah's face would have won First Prize at a photography exhibition, if the subject had been Rage. One glance at the short, wiry man slumped casually in the chair on the far side of the table, pastry crumbs decorating his polo shirt and jacket, would have been sufficient, but as she rushed forward and saw, stretching away from the table, his wooden peg-leg, Hannah lost all sense of reason. She lunged, spit at him, yanked away the leg, then pounded him in the head with it, all the while screaming incoherently. I stammered a demurral, but closed my eyes in resignation as she turned on me waving the wooden peg leg threateningly overhead. As it came whistling down on me I decided that perhaps Mail-Order Mates had been the wrong career choice for me.

Word Count: 997