(This is part 15 of Fortune Cookie: A Christmas Tale)
Bodie remained gone.
Stepping away from the pond, Rosalyn peered down the road. I’m just checking the traffic. I have no interest in whether his red truck happens to show up. No interest at all. And, it’s not here, so there. Rosalyn set down the rope and shovel. She kept the pry rod in her hand, and squared her shoulders. Pond water from the beaver clog oozed higher. Soon her land bridge would disappear.
Nearby, where she had turned him loose, Excalibur nosed through the snow looking for tender bits of grass. He watched Rosalyn out of the corner of his eye. A muscle in her jaw clenched. She watched the horse watch her. I should be riding you, not fighting beavers. Talk about rider’s block. Then again, you’d probably just dump me, so what’s the point? Rosalyn swore. Excalibur winked. Or at least she thought he did.
Rosalyn jammed the pry rod up the clog and wiggled it. A twig, some ice chips, and half a cup of sandy dirt flowed away. She tried again, this time on the other side. More sand, ice, a handful of what looked like shredded tree bark. Beaver food, of course. The beavers, her money situation, Bodie’s arrival on the church steps, his kiss, they haunted her.
The sky darkened, and sleet spat down. Half-frozen water drops struck dead leaves, and rustled. At the edge of the pond, Buck whined.
Everything was against her. "Stupid men! Stupid money! Stupid clog!" Rosalyn whacked the root- and-dirt-infested mass with her shovel. "You pig!"
Buck barked.
She hit the clog again, and leaned against the pry rod, mouth against her glove. Its soft leather reminded her of Bodie’s lips. That darn kiss would not go away. She rubbed her mouth. "Stupid, stupid, stupid!" She hit the plug again, and then stopped. There was another sound, a shout.
"This is it! The time is now!" The derelict man walked down the road and gestured. He stopped at the bus stop sign just outside her driveway. Again the man cried, "This is it! The time is now!" The No. 9 bus pulled over. Clutching a page of the classifieds where an item had been circled in red, the man, dreadlocks flapping against his shoulders, boarded No. 9. The bus pulled away, headed for the light industrial section of town.
At least he’s going somewhere, unlike me. Rosalyn pummeled the clog. Nothing.
The rustling leaves faded into silence, as sleet turned to snow. Rosalyn pulled a knit cap out of her pocket, and shoved it over her dark mane of hair. She muttered, “So much for a clear and mild week."
***
Bodie stepped on the accelerator, and the truck sped forward. The rattling of the equipment on the trailer behind reminded him to slow down. He sighed and slowed. Why all the hiding who he was? Why couldn’t she just take the help and be done with it? He smacked the steering wheel. "What’s the deal, lady? Over and over again, I try to tell you, I won't hurt you, for real."
***
Rosalyn pounded the pry rod through the center of the icy clog. A double handful of sticks and mud fell away. Water flowed through the break. She inhaled, stepped back, and stared at the darkened sky.
(Next: Shooting stars danced)
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