by Catherine Armstrong

    Shaking herself alert again, she followed a little path out to the dirt road that led up toward the Hodgekins's house. Turning left, she saw that everyone had a fire in their fireplace. Twin plumes of smoke rose out of the two chimneys of the Robertson family's large house. The cart rumbled and creaked behind her, but the heater was still nicely balanced. It wasn't such a bad weight to pull, she thought. The snow made it more difficult, though. She thought again of Bill Cramer and wondered if he still owned that pawn shop. Maybe she should get out more and try to keep up with the goings on in Longridge.

    As she went up the main road, the cold began to lull her mind into a sort of static contentment. She kept thinking about that look in Bill Cramer's eyes and wondering what it had done to her. She hadn't felt her heart skip a beat like that since grammar school when she'd caught Riley Jones sneaking a look at her. Her parents had both died when she was thirteen, and she had no time for boys during her teenaged years. After all, when you had two younger brothers to look after plus a job in the mill to bring in enough money, boys were the least of your concerns. But thinking about that look in Bill's eyes made her heart leap again, even after all these years.

    It was getting very cold, she realized, and the wet snow was starting to seep through her boots. She just had to keep going. She looked behind her at the cart with the heater on it. It was becoming harder to pull the rickety thing. The wobbly wheels weren't at all sturdy in the snow. It was getting dark, too. She could still see the road very well, but she thought she'd have maybe another fifteen minutes of usable light before it would be too dark to see where she was going. She'd have to hurry. Picking up her pace, she dragged the cart forcefully behind her, hoping it would stay balanced and that she wouldn't hit any bumps. As she began to walk more quickly, she realized she could no longer feel the wetness inside her boots. She thought at first that perhaps the snow was dryer here, and she wouldn't have to contend with the wet. But then she realized her feet were numb. Was it that cold, or was she just too old and circulation wasn't what it used to be? She didn't know, but she thought dimly that it was the cold. Her mind was moving more slowly, too.

    She put her numb feet and almost numb hands out of her mind. She had to get to Mr. Hodgekins's place to get the heater fixed, and she didn't have time or energy to be worrying about numb feet. The faster she moved, the quicker she would be inside. She thought of Bill, and her heart was warm. She imagined him still working at the pawn shop, pushing up his glasses to watch the people peering in his window. He spotted her coming into the shop and came over to put a hand on her arm in greeting. "Oh, I remember you," he said cheerfully in her fantasy. "You're Ms. Mayer, isn't that right?"

    "Yes, please call me Emily," she said shyly, his hand still resting on her arm. No, she thought, fighting back to the present, Mr. Hodgekins's house. That's where she had to be, and soon. She hurried up the road, rounding a slight bend. Bill was smiling still, watching the last of his other customers leave the shop. She turned too hard to the right and stumbled on a tree root. The next thing she knew, she was down, her head slamming against the base of the tree. The cart overturned and sent the heater careening into the snow. One of her hands was scraped, and blood oozed from her palm. But more than the pain, she was aware of freezing wetness seeping into her thin pants and even under her shirt. She struggled to at least get into a Kneeling position. She took hold of the tree for support and pulled her body up to lean against it. She was thinking too slowly, and her head pounded as though kettle drums were beating inside it. Thoughts were jumbled. What should she do first? The cart, she thought dimly. No, she had to turn around first to take stock of the situation. But if she turned around, the wet... the cold... She looked over her shoulder and saw the cart lying in the roadway. And to her horror, one of the wheels was sitting detached several feet away from the rest of the cart. The rickety thing was useless now, she realized. It only had one other wheel, and with the snow, it would be impossible to pull without it tipping over again. How could she carry the heater, she wondered. Mr. Hodgkins, she thought desperately. The thought was like a single focused point of light in the rapidly darkening cave of her mind. She had to get to Mr. Hodgkins and fix the heater. Get up, her brain screamed at her body. But the cold was freezing her will power. She sank into the snow, her head resting against the tree. Bill was looking intently at her. "I haven't seen you around these parts much. What you been up to?"

    "Oh, she said, smiling back, been knitting some. Keeping up the house."

    "Gets mighty lonely in this shop sometimes. I try to keep myself busy though," he commented. Emily Mayer's brain snapped back to reality. A twig was poking her leg as she lay against the tree. The awareness of pain made her force herself to sit up and turn around to survey the situation. The cart was, indeed, useless. But she was almost to Mr. Hodgekins's house. Surely she could carry the heater for five minutes or so. She grasped the tree and realized that she was, by this time, very wet and very numb. She could not feel the tree's texture but only its pressure against her hands. She shivered violently. Oh, what a horrible day, she moaned inwardly. She managed to stand up, clumsily brushing the snow from her soaked jacket and pants. She realized she would have to leave the cart here. Someone might find it later and decide it was worth repairing. But for now, she must get that heater. She leaned down and attempted to pick it up. It was a lot heavier than she had anticipated, but the worst part was that she couldn't get a good grip. It was wet and icy, and her hands were rapidly turning into immovable claws. She blew on her hands, rubbed them on her left arm which was still dry, and tried again. This time, she managed to heft the heater and get it under one thin arm. Time to move again.

    She started off slowly but realized that it was almost dark, and she'd have to move a lot faster, run even, in order to reach Mr. Hodgekins's house before it was completely dark. So run she did, to the best of her ability. It was more like a trot, but because of the ponderous weight of the heater and her rapidly failing strength, it felt like she was sprinting. Air felt like frozen shards of glass in her lungs. She saw dimly that she was coming to a fork in the road, and all of a sudden realized she could not remember which way his house lay. On any other day, her mind would have been clear enough, and the light would have been good enough that she would have been able to reason it out. But today was different. She took the right fork, going on a gut feeling, and decided to try to move the heater to the other arm. Panic was overtaking her, and she did not stop or even slow down to make the change. Her heart was pounding painfully in her chest as she grabbed the heater with her other hand to make the switch. Her left arm began to relax, and then she lost control of the heater. Her hand had tried to grab at a patch of ice on the metal surface. Down went the heater, landing directly in front of her. Her reflexes were not quick enough. She did not have time to stop running. Instead, she plunged straight into the oddly-shaped heater and did a somersault, catapulting over it. She landed on her back just a little ways away from the heater, her head smashing into its coils. The wind was totally knocked out of her, and she almost lost consciousness from the blow to her head. She just lay there, not even bothering to move her head. All the will to move had been completely stripped of her. Snow drifted onto her chest, her face, her almost white hair. I'm an angel, she thought. And then Bill was saying it. "You're an angel." He stroked her hair and looked into her face with his dancing eyes. Music was playing in the shop, coming from the Filco radio on the window sill. He smiled again and said "Would you like to dance? I've never danced with a classy lady like you before. And his hands were on her waist, her hands on his shoulders. Motion was like stillness, so effortless, so perfect. "You're an angel," he said softly into her ear. One of his hands left her waist and stroked her hair. He clasped her hand and twirled her around, quickly sweeping her up in his arms again to resume the dance. The song drew to a close, and he stopped dancing long enough to kiss her lightly on the cheek.

    The next thing they heard from the radio was a commercial for Rexall drug store. Bill led her over to a bench near the counter and sat down beside her, his arm around her shoulders. He was beaming. "You'll have to come visit me more often," he said softly.

    "I'll be sure to," she whispered. Her heart was pounding, and her hands were shaking as he took her in his arms. They both stood up, their chests pressed closely together. He didn't try to kiss her again. He just held her. She felt her body melting into his. She felt so light, so content to be held in his arms. And she was fading... fading... melting into him.

    Bill Cramer shook hands with Mr. Hodgekins and reached to pull his jacket off of the hook by the door. "Much obliged for helping me with that old radio," he said. "I like it to keep me company when no one's in the shop. I'd been missin it a lot since the tubes went bad."

    "not t'all, not t'all," laughed Mr. Hodgekins. "Happy to do it."

    Cramer handed him a couple of dollars, and Mr. Hodgekins looked surprised. "Oh, you don't need to give me this. I was doin it just to help out a friend. Don't worry about paying me."

    "Oh no," Cramer insisted, thrusting it forward. "You just come in my shop any time you need anything."

    "Well that's real nice of you," Hodgekins said, and put the cash in his back pocket.

    "Well, got to be goin," Cramer said, putting on his coat and picking up the radio. "See you in church maybe," he said, opening the door and stepping out into the cold.

    Bill Cramer went down the steps and across the yard to the road. He had parked his car out on the big road in the hopes of getting out more easily on account of the snow. So he had to carry the hulking radio all the way to the fork. It was heavy, but he had planned on this when he parked the car. What he hadn't planned on was seeing a woman lying in the snow just on the other side of the fork. He stopped dead for a minute. He knew that face. But it couldn't be, could it? What would Ms. Mayer be doing out here in this kind of weather? Then he saw the heater upon which her head was resting. "Oh," he gasped, realizing why she might be out here. He ran to her and shook her shoulder. "Ms. Mayer!" he shouted. "You alright?" She lay still. He looked into her face, putting his hand close to her lips. No breath, he realized. Without even thinking, he put down the radio and scooped her up in his arms. He had to get her to the hospital. He grasped her wrist, feeling for a pulse. There was none. With horror, he realized that Ms. Mayer had died. "Oh, you poor poor woman," he cried. He carried her to his car and laid her gently across the back seat. He looked more closely at her face and realized she had once been beautiful. And the barest hint of a smile was frozen on her face, preserving forever that beauty which had fled when old age came calling. He brushed a tendril of hair back from her forehead, wondering sadly what tragedy had befallen her that she never found a happy life. You look like an angel, he thought, with the snow flakes clinging to your hair. And now you've gone to Heaven where your true father waits. It's an angel's journey.

The End

© Catherine Armstrong 1999
All rights reserved. All characters are fictitious in this story and no reference is intended to any person living or otherwise.