Crazy is as crazy does . . . : Part 2

Pearl Jinx
by Sandra Hill

(Page 2 of 7)

Dropping down to the edge of the deck, elbows resting on raised knees, Caleb breathed in deeply. The scents of honeysuckle and pine filled the early-morning air. Silence surrounded him, although it was not really silence if one listened carefully. The rush of the water's current. Bees buzzing. Birds chirping. In the distance, a train whistle. He even saw a hawk swoop gloriously out of the mountains, searching for food. He felt as if he'd been sucker punched, jolted back to a time and place he'd spent seventeen years trying to forget.

The Plain people, as the Amish called themselves, were practical to a fault. Fishing was for catching fish. No Lands End angler duds or fancy Orvis rods or custom-made flies. Just worms. But his Dat had been different. As stern as he was in many regards, he had given Caleb and his four brothers an appreciation for God's beauty in nature and the heavenly joy of fly fishing. Much like that minister in the movie A River Runs Through It, Caleb's old man had made fly fishing an exercise in philosophy, albeit the Old Order Amish way of life. Caleb smiled to himself, knowing his father would not be pleased with comparison to an Englisher, anyone not Amish, even a man of God.

And, for sure and for certain, as the Amish would say, they didn't believe in that wasteful "catch and release" business, which the fisherwoman in front of him was doing now with a twenty-inch rainbow. How many times had Caleb heard: "To waste is to destroy God's gift"? No, if an Amishman caught a fish, he ate it. With homemade chowchow, spaetzle oozing with butter, sliced tomatoes still warm from the garden, corn fritters, and shoofly pie.

Stomach rumbling with sudden hunger, Caleb shook his head to clear it of unwanted memories, stood, and walked down the railroad tie steps to the edge of the river.

The woman glanced his way, then did a double take. After a brief hesitation, she waved.

Yep, she must be crazy.

He was a big man, six-four, and still carried the musculature that defined a Navy SEAL. The tattoo of a barbed-wire chain around his upper arm usually gave women pause. Plus, he was a stranger. But did she appear frightened? Nah. She just waved at him. He could be an ax murderer, for all she knew. She was brave or stupid or crazy, he figured. Maybe all three.

Enough!

He waded into the cold water. It soon covered his shoes, his bare legs, his running shorts, and then the bottom of his T-shirt. Once he reached the woman, whose mouth was now gaping open, he gritted his teeth, then snarled, "Your phone broken, lady?"

She blinked. Tall for a woman - maybe five-nine - she was still a head shorter than him and had to crane her neck to stare up at him. "Ah, the persistent Caleb." Then she smiled and shook her head as if he were not worthy of her attention. Just like her damn fat cat and her damn rat dog.

Taken aback by her attitude, he failed to register the fact that she had, unbelievably, resumed fishing. She's ignoring me. I don't fuckin' believe this. Three days of chasing my tail, and she thinks she can ignore me. I. Don't. Think. So.

Without warning, he picked her up and tossed her over his shoulder in a fireman's carry, just barely catching the bamboo rod in his other hand as it started to float downstream. With her kicking and screaming, he stomped through the water, probably scaring off every fish within a one-mile radius.

"Put me down, you goon."

"Stop squirming. I'll put you down when I'm good and ready. We're on my clock now, baby."

"Clock? Clock? I'd like to clock you."

"I'd like to see you try."

"I mean it. Put me down. Aaarrgh! Take your hand off my ass."

"Stop putting your ass in my face."

"You are in such trouble. Wait till I call the police. Hope you know a good lawyer," she threatened to his back.

"Yeah, yeah, yeah. I'm shakin' in my boots . . . rather, Adidas."

"Ha, ha, ha! You're not going to be making jokes once you're in the clink."

The clink? Haven't heard that expression in, oh, let's say, seventeen years. Once on the bank, he propped the rod against a tree and stood her on her feet, being careful to hold on to one hand lest she take flight or wallop him a good one.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" she demanded, yanking her hand out of his grasp, then placing both hands on her hips.

Ogling your hips. "Getting your attention."

"You got my attention when you failed to complete the Park Service forms for the project . . . a month ago."

Copyright © 2007 by Sandra Hill

About the Author

Sandra Hill is a USA Today, New York Times extended and Waldenbooks bestselling author of fifteen novels and four novellas. All of her books are heavy on humor and sizzle.