c. 2026 Rod Ice
All rights reserved
(2-26)
After attending worship services with her house guest, Krista Pearl returned to work at the Mountaineer Travel Plaza on Monday morning. But right away, she could tell that there was something amiss. A palpable chill in the air between herself and other members of the team. Normally, she would engage in good-natured teasing with fellow employees, as they took care of truckers and tourists. But now, most of her friends at the job-site stayed silent. Customers arrived and left without attempting to make conversation, or offering compliments and comments on the services provided. She could feel that her presence was being questioned and analyzed. Yet the business day continued without any incidents.
After the morning rush, Sally Roak appeared at the coffee station to fill her Mega-Mug. She visited the truck-stop almost every day, for caffeine enhancement and cigarettes. Her appearance was dated and out of style. So much that some might have considered her to be a female hermit. But she had lived in the area for a long period. Everyone knew her by name. And, she attended gatherings at the Taylor County Nazarene Worship Center, faithfully. When pausing at the front register, to make her purchases, there was an edge to her raspy voice. She did not hesitate to speak openly about what had happened on Sunday.
“Girl, why’d ya bring that rough character ta church? He didn’t look like somebody who’d sit and listen ta any Bible talk. My goodness, how many tattoos does he have? I think ya could do better fer a boyfriend. Y’all are pretty enough. That’s just my opinion.”
Krista flushed red with embarrassment. She knocked over a display of courtesy cards.
“Mama S, that fellow ain’t my boyfriend. He just showed up on his cousin’s doorstep at the start of winter. Ya know Bodean Pringle? I guess they are related somehow. This man told me that his daddy used to be a preacher. We kinda hit it off, havin’ drinks and talkin’ about nothin’ in particular. Anyhow, I felt bad fer him bein’ stuck with his Harley chopper sidelined fer the season...”
Sally went wide-eyed and pale.
“HARLEY CHOPPER? DOGGONE IT, WHAT’RE YA THINKIN’ THERE, LITTLE MISS? DIDN’T THAT NO-GOOD, JAILBIRD OF AN EX-HUBBY CAUSE ENOUGH DRAMA IN YER LIFE? I CAN’T SEE HOW YA’D HAVE AN OPEN MIND TOWARDS SOME FOOL WITH INK ALL DOWN HIS ARMS, AND GRUBBY, DIRTY HAIR ON HIS FACE! Y’ALL KIN DO BETTER, I THINK! A WHOLE DAMN LOT BETTER!”
The long-time cashier grimaced at this unkind description. The protest buzzed in her ears with a prickly vibe of condescension.
“I don’t think any of that fits him! He’s gentle and thoughtful, more than you might believe. I felt bad with him livin’ in a cold, cinder-block garage. That’s no place to spend January and February in these parts. I just reckoned on bein’ neighborly, that’s all. No more or less...”
The mature woman snorted and snickered, while collecting her change.
“Okay, sure, whatever ya say there! I’d just keep in mind that he sure ticked off Reverend Hageschutte! Not ta mention the church elders and deacons! That stuff don’t happen in his services. He’s used ta bein’ praised and followed as a leader. I don’t know what game yer boyfriend was tryin’ ta play, but it didn’t sit well with anybody. Not inside or outside of the sanctuary! God and Jesus still matter here, we ain’t like people in New York or Los Angeles. Not like fancy folks in San Francisco, Boston, Philadelphia, Chicago, or elsewhere! And missy, that’s not yer style, either! Ya grew up right here, in the hills! Ya stayed here, ya raised yer boy here!”
The younger resident nodded in agreement.
“Yes I did, Mama S! I did it all right in Grafton. I’ll probably die there, and be buried with my kinfolk...”
Her critic took a sip from the Mega-Mug. Then stuffed the fresh pack of smokes in a hand-tooled purse, slung over her right shoulder.
“Ya might wanna talk ta the pastor. I’d think an apology and a prayer request would be proper. That dust-up in the center aisle was way outta line! Give it some thought, girl! Think about it real hard! I hope they’ll show ya some mercy! Good luck, honey!”
Krista sighed heavily, as the cranky, old patron took her coffee and departed. There was a long line of visitors that stretched from the front counter, to their hotdog rollers. Background music reverberated with modern hits of Country & Western performers. The plaza stayed busy until past noon, and later. Happily, this made the hours pass by at a quick pace.
After her scheduled shift had ended, she gathered her coat and gloves before going out to the employee lot. The yellow, Jeep Wrangler had been pelted with snowballs, and plowed into its corner space. She cursed softly when noting that a frowning face had been scraped into a layer of ice on her windshield. A sign of discontent that echoed what she had heard before.
“GAWDAMN IT! MY NAME IS SHIT NOW! I NEVER FIGURED ON FEESHTAIL STARTIN’ TROUBLE IN A WORSHIP SERVICE! WHO’D HAVE SEEN THAT COMIN’? NOT ME, NOT ME! ALL I WANTED TO DO WAS PLEASE HIM WITH A SUNDAY OF DOIN’ GOOD! I THOUGHT IT WOULD PUT US BOTH ON A BETTER PATH! BUT LIKE ALWAYS, IT BIT ME IN THE ASS! I CAN’T WIN FER LOSIN’! I JUST CAN’T WIN!”
When she arrived home, the ranch-style shack was quiet. She did not hear the television, or a radio playing. A search of the kitchen and bedrooms revealed nothing. Except that seemingly, her guest had decided to make an exit while she was busy earning her keep.
On the dinner table, there was a handwritten note. Scribbled in pencil was a single expression of gratitude. Reading it made her eyes go wet. Then, she crumpled the square of paper in her hands. It was not enough of a goodbye to satisfy her curiosity, or need for companionship.
The single line was drawn in cursive letters.
“Thanks. See you again, sometime...”
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