Station No. 14
Rosa sat with her hip aching, moreso as the evening wore on, and a burning crossword question. She thought more and more of Charles, he did not seem well. The events of earlier that day, the frantic pace and the collision on the sidewalk only reinforced her concern.
She picked up the phone to call him. Ostensibly, the reason for the call was to ask if Charles knew a
five-letter word for solitary.
Charles’ answering maching kicked on and, when the beep sounded, Rosa was dumbstruck. She hated leaving messages on those machines; she always felt as though she had no idea what to say. It seemed silly to talk to a machine as though it were a real person. Rosa stammered and them hung up without leaving a message.
It was then she heard a lound banging toward the back of her house. It was a peculiar sound with which she was unfamiliar. Her hip hurt, but her curiosity — which had increased throughout her years — was strong enough to get her out of her chair and look out the window. There, by a lone outdoor light shining from the back eave of his house, was Charles chopping wood. What perplexed her most about the scene was not the fact that Charles was completely ill-dressed for the task — wearing nice slacks and leather dress shoes — but the fact that Charles had no fireplace in which to burn the wood itself. Rosa was also able to hear something else in addition to the banging. Charles was grunting and cursing.
Rosa threw open the window. After persistent shouting, she finally got Charles’ attention. He stopped, turned and yelled: “What?”
“I was wondering what you’re doing,” Rosa said in as cheery a voice as she could affect.
“What does it look like I am doing?” Charles replied indignantly, returning to his chopping.
“I can see you are chopping wood, but you don’t have a fireplace,” she said, unfazed by his cross attitude. She had to yell again because Charles had resumed his loud work.
“So what?” Charles shot back over his shoulder, not stopping.
Rosa was now being much more of a pest to Charles than she had been previously. But the degree to which he was bothered was more the result of his bad temper than it was the result of anything odd on Rosa’s part. It was quite a normal question to ask a man why he was chopping wood when he had no place to burn it.
“Are you feeling alright?” Rosa ventured.
“I am fine,” Charles screamed, slamming the axe into a log. It was pretty clear to Rosa that Charles was looking to get out some of his anger and aggression and the wood pile was serving that need. But Rosa could also sense that something was not right, that Charles was caught in some sort of web.
Gesturing wildly with his hands, Charles thundered at Rosa: “Would you please leave me alone?”
Rosa sat with her hip aching, moreso as the evening wore on, and a burning crossword question. She thought more and more of Charles, he did not seem well. The events of earlier that day, the frantic pace and the collision on the sidewalk only reinforced her concern.
She picked up the phone to call him. Ostensibly, the reason for the call was to ask if Charles knew a
five-letter word for solitary.
Charles’ answering maching kicked on and, when the beep sounded, Rosa was dumbstruck. She hated leaving messages on those machines; she always felt as though she had no idea what to say. It seemed silly to talk to a machine as though it were a real person. Rosa stammered and them hung up without leaving a message.
It was then she heard a lound banging toward the back of her house. It was a peculiar sound with which she was unfamiliar. Her hip hurt, but her curiosity — which had increased throughout her years — was strong enough to get her out of her chair and look out the window. There, by a lone outdoor light shining from the back eave of his house, was Charles chopping wood. What perplexed her most about the scene was not the fact that Charles was completely ill-dressed for the task — wearing nice slacks and leather dress shoes — but the fact that Charles had no fireplace in which to burn the wood itself. Rosa was also able to hear something else in addition to the banging. Charles was grunting and cursing.
Rosa threw open the window. After persistent shouting, she finally got Charles’ attention. He stopped, turned and yelled: “What?”
“I was wondering what you’re doing,” Rosa said in as cheery a voice as she could affect.
“What does it look like I am doing?” Charles replied indignantly, returning to his chopping.
“I can see you are chopping wood, but you don’t have a fireplace,” she said, unfazed by his cross attitude. She had to yell again because Charles had resumed his loud work.
“So what?” Charles shot back over his shoulder, not stopping.
Rosa was now being much more of a pest to Charles than she had been previously. But the degree to which he was bothered was more the result of his bad temper than it was the result of anything odd on Rosa’s part. It was quite a normal question to ask a man why he was chopping wood when he had no place to burn it.
“Are you feeling alright?” Rosa ventured.
“I am fine,” Charles screamed, slamming the axe into a log. It was pretty clear to Rosa that Charles was looking to get out some of his anger and aggression and the wood pile was serving that need. But Rosa could also sense that something was not right, that Charles was caught in some sort of web.
Gesturing wildly with his hands, Charles thundered at Rosa: “Would you please leave me alone?”
