THE RAINY SEASON, Laura Sanger Kelly, 10/11
10.
No more
Rachel stopped the car on the way back from the funeral.
Barb seemed satisfied more than grieved.
“Thanks,” he said as he reached for the door handle.
His bag lay on the floor of her car.
Reaching over, Rachel slipped her hand beneath the flap, pulling out the cube of soft wood.
He stopped, astounded.
“It’s pretty,” she said. “What do the figures mean to you?”
“Deliverance,” he said. “Can I have that back?”
She rotated it in her hand. On its base he had already etched a name: “Rachel.”
“It has my name on it,” she smiled. “Can I keep it? I might like to try working it into a figure myself.”
Barb was uneasy. “I do the sculpting.”
“You have yourself to take care of,” she replied. “I think it would be a kind reminder of today.”
He was caught without a reply.
Rachel felt an odd power returning to her bones; she wasn’t going to relinquish the block of wood.
“I’ll keep it,” she said resolutely.
“You are the smart lady who lives next door. . .” he said. “No matter. There are other women I can sculpt.”
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