c. 2024 Rod Ice
All rights reserved
(1-24)
Salleigh Hogg had only lived at the Evergreen Estates community of mobile homes for a few years. Perhaps three or four, since her divorce and bankruptcy. Yet it had quickly become the worst experience of her adventure as an immigrant to the United States. She loathed the junkyard oasis with its lowbrow residents and unapologetic lack of social graces. Yet somehow, her foreign accent and manner had attracted interest from some of the neighbors. They doted on her like a favorite grandmother, throughout the winter. Always checking to be sure that she had plenty of food, and fuel for heating and kitchen needs. This convenient situation almost made her feel grateful to be at the trailer development. She could not bring herself to give thanks to a higher power, however. Her native London still beckoned with cultural diversity and a vibrant social scene. She longed to return home. But like others in the park, she had become stuck in the mud. Escape was impossible. Her meager monthly income barely provided enough to stretch from the first day of each month, to the last. So, she was a double exile, of Indian ancestry, raised in the United Kingdom. Now, a prisoner on the North American continent.
On Saturday morning, she woke to a temperature of -10 degrees Celsius. What her Yankee cohorts measured as 14 above zero, Fahrenheit. Her longbox dwelling felt decidedly cold, but not so much that she couldn’t survive. Layers of Irish wool kept her comfortable. She puttered around the prefabricated structure in a pair of pink, knit booties. They had been a gift from one of her distant relatives, sent across the big pond via an international postal flight.
While singing to herself, she reached for the teakettle on her stove. It was nearly empty and needed a good refill. But when she leaned across the sink, and twisted a faucet handle, there was no stream of clear, fresh liquid as a result.
Salleigh kicked the cabinet shroud, and cursed loudly.
“BOLLOCKS! BOLLOCKS! BOLLOCKS!”
At such low temperatures, her pipes must have frozen solid. She had forgotten to leave some sources of household water dripping overnight. That error cost her dearly, just after sunrise. She hammered her tiny fists on the countertop, and began to cry.
“BLOODY HELL! BLOODY, BLOODY HELL!”
Next door, Wolf Chapka was busy devouring a container of sausage gravy and biscuits that had been sent over by his sister, along with literature about her church. The delicacy was one he had enjoyed frequently, while growing up in rural Pennsylvania. Bits of the creamy sauce dribbled into his shaggy beard. When they became a nuisance, he wiped them carelessly on his T-shirt. This smeared the flavorful concoction all over his fingertips. He licked them gently, so as not to waste any of his meal.
“Damn that’s a tasty batch, Rhubarb! Yer one heck of a good hillbilly girl! Mama would be proud of that cookin’, I swear!”
The phone began to ring as he was finishing a mug of black coffee. He had brewed the beverage in a campfire pot, on the stove. When he lifted the landline handset from its cradle, a squawk of desperation scorched his ear.
“Wilk Szymon? This is the crabby old Brit lady on your east side. Good morning, my friend!”
The redneck motorcyclist chafed at hearing his given name spoken aloud.
“Whatdafugg Sal, nobody ever called me that except my maw, God rest her soul! It’s a handle taken from her Polish bloodline. Yer makin’ me grit my teeth like a little kid about ta get spanked! Why are ya up so early anyway, there ain’t nothin’ ta do on a day like this but huddle inside and watch it snow!”
The Indie-English expat tried hard to sound needy, without being an irritant.
“My plumbing is iced up over here, lad! As you people would say, ‘I’m screwed!’ I can’t even boil a kettle of water for my cocoa! I need help!”
The greasy biker became more sympathetic, while listening. He had a soft spot for anyone in need, after years of living in a glorified shipping container.
“Well shit! I’ve got a turbo heater that runs on propane. But it’ll take hours to thaw yer pipes. There’s no quick fix, trust me! January is eternally a bitch in this park! I got plenty of jugs filled though, I always stay prepared. Ya want me to bring some over? That’ll at least cover yer needs fer now. Get a campin’ pot like mine, it works all day, every day. Whether there’s power or not!”
Salleigh pulled the thick cardigan tighter around her drooping shoulders, and cursed again.
“I’d be obliged, my friend! Bob’s your uncle! Problem solved!”
She only had to wait about ten minutes, before the sound of big, leather boots thudded up her front stairs. Dogs were barking, across the street. Diesel exhaust from a three-quarter ton pickup idling in the driveway wafted past her icy windows.
“Open up, Queenie! My hands are full. I’ve got water, extra blankets from the Army-Navy store, and a plastic tub of biscuits, if ya want them! They’re still warm from my sister’s oven! I pigged up all the gravy though, sorry ‘bout that! Call me a glutton!”
The grateful woman swung her door forcefully, until the wood slab strained on its hinges.
“Come inside, come inside! Let’s have a chin wag, I’m bored sitting here alone! I’ll trade you some vegan curry for those plain biscuits! I never eat meat, you know that very well!”
Wolf stomped off his black boots before stepping across the threshold.
“Thanks fer the hospitality, ma’am. But I can’t stand too much human company all at once. It makes me feel skittish. I’m glad ta help out though, in any event...”
The foreign dame shook her gray locks, and protested.
“NO, I WON’T HAVE IT! SIT DOWN AND SHARE A PROPER CONVERSATION, I HAVEN’T SEEN ANYONE IN DONKEY’S YEARS!”
Her fellow resident had begun to wilt in the heat of her living room. Ice crystals melted and fell from his wild facial hair. He took off his orange, Carhartt toboggan, and held it gingerly while making excuses.
“Sal, ya know I’m not the chatty type. I’ll work all day ta help somebody, but flapping my jaws ain’t a priority. You want small talk? Open a bottle of whiskey. It’s too damn early ta drink, though. I’m tryin’ ta stay sober, at least fer this month. Let me stick that heater under yer house, okay? Let it run and see if that helps the pipes. I’ll keep an eye on things while it does the job...”
The venerable matron had tears in her eyes. She hugged him until he stiffened like a board.
“Damn you, Wilk! You’re a keeper, for certain! But it’s brass monkeys outside, I’d think spending a few minutes with a chum would be appealing! Suit yourself though, I’m glad for your help. Cheerio!”
Shortly afterward, noisy bumps and bangs from under the floorboards assured her that the propane jet was being maneuvered into place. She leaned against her stovetop, and started the kettle on a low setting. Soon, there would be hot water and a tasty drink in her cup. The instant cocoa would warm her innards. Something she needed greatly, during such a frosty episode of seasonal abandon. Yet her heart had gone numb without any companionship during the extended blast of winter.
Why wouldn’t the mountain man next door stay for a moment, and tickle her ears with his deep, baritone voice? She wanted to get to know him, better.
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