Surprises

Ever have irrelevant characters and story snippets pop into your head and have no idea what to do with them? All I know is, I like this old woman.

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SURPRISES

She stood bent over the low basin, working the course cloth down the washboard into the rapidly cooling water. Twenty one strokes each time. She adjusted the fabric in her red hands and began again. “1... 2… 3… 4…” she counted as she worked. The rhythm was comforting and it kept her from thinking about the repetitiveness of it all. And the unrelenting gray of the sky. It kept her from thinking about anything, really.

She could tell by the way the door banged against the wall and how long it took to close who it was that came in without turning to look. “12… 13… 14…”

She heard him clomp over to the bed, shoes still on. He was sniffling – most likely caught that flu that was going around. He never ate enough fruit. He never protected himself with ceremony and herbs. It was like he wanted to die. He was so flighty – always half out of his body.

“19… 20… 21…” She adjusted the fabric once more. “1…2… 3…”

The old springs on the bed groaned and finally, one shoe hit the floor.

“8… 9… 10… 11… 12… 13… 14… 15… 16… 17… 18… 19…” She stopped counting and turned. Why hadn’t he dropped the other shoe?

He wasn’t there. Neither was his shoe. The room was empty.

With cold water dripping from her raw knuckles she remembered, they had buried him a month ago.

Nodding, she turned back to her basin. Where was she? “9… 10… 11…” she scrubbed the cloth down the board. No… that wasn’t right. Still, better too much than not enough. It was always not enough. That was the main problem.

Finally, she could begin wringing out the shirt. One of his. It wasn’t very dirty this time around. That was a blessing. In fact, after washing all of his things the water was still pure enough to begin hers. When was the last time that happened?

Last week.

She twisted his wet shirt one more time in her strong hands. Oh, that’s right. He hasn’t worn any of this. She draped it over the line by the window between his socks and pants. Everything dripped softly onto the rough wooden floor.

He’s late. She looked at the door, willing it to bang open and let him in with a gust of cold air.

After a while she pulled the basket containing her own dirty clothes over next to the basin. She slithered out of the skirt she was wearing and started on that first. She would want it dry first. “1... 2… 3… 4…”

She stopped. There was hardly any suds left after doing all of his clothes. And the water was cold. She picked up a slim sliver of soap and a knife. The suds were easily rectified, but she didn’t want to heat up the water again – all that lifting and sloshing – coaxing the stove back to life. Trimming thin slivers into the water, she glanced over at the stove. The coals were almost gray inside – tiny red eyes of brilliance peeked and glimmered now and then.

When she looked back, there was red in the water as if someone had spilled ink. The knife and soap were red as well. She had cut herself and it was getting all over her skirt. “Crap,” she muttered as she dropped the soap and knife and wrapped her hand in her slip to stop the bleeding. A crimson dot grew into a large kidney shaped stain. “Shit!” That was two pieces of clothing ruined.

She was just struggling against her slip, trying to remove it with one hand when the door burst open. Surprised, she spun and saw him walk in, shaking the wet from his shoulders and hat, spattering her floor.

“Where have you been?” she asked.

“Out,” he replied. “But I’m back now.”

“Take off your shoes,” she snapped, not wanting him to drag in mud.

“Ellen?” he put a hand on her shoulder and turned her to face him. “We need to leave.”

“Leave? In the middle of the laundry? And me with a bleeding hand?”

“Your hand is fine, and the laundry doesn’t matter.” He took her hands in his – soft fire hands he had, artistic. She felt the heat of annoyance that his hands were so much softer than her hard working hands. But that was the nature of his work – writing and such. Never bringing in enough.

He raised her hands to his lips and kissed them, one finger at a time.

“Joshua!” she gasped, expecting to see blood on his lips. When she looked, her hands had stopped bleeding. In fact, she couldn’t find the cut. “But… the knife!” She turned to face the basin and it was gone.

“You’re done with that knife, Dear.”

“Why?”

He was always so cryptic. Half of the time he was on another planet.

“You just are.” He smiled and the sun warmed outside the window to a brilliance she wouldn’t have expected for another three or four months – until high summer.

Where had the wash gone? There was nothing blocking the window – no line of clothes. And the sky was the blue of a robin’s egg. It made her heart blossom like a flower.

“You’ve always been full of surprises,” She told him as he led her to the door.