Clarissa mounted, coaxed her weary horse into the glare, and waited, her back turned. In this antithesis of softness and moist shadows, her forward gaze and erect posture echoed my own response to the Top End’s harsh dictates. Her wide-brimmed hat, crinkled work clothes, and worn boots expressed the effort those dictates demanded. For her, I would give my best effort. For her, somehow, somehow, I would accomplish the dream.
“Ready?”she asked.
I swung into the saddle. “Ready.”
******************
I was not ready, however, for the dusty message tucked under the door of Number Nine. The note must’ve lain there for days.
I set down my bag. The message said, PHONE LEBRIK. Then gave the office number I knew by heart. Bernice must’ve written it. I found her, scarf tied over blue plastic curlers, emptying ashtrays in the main saloon.
“Missed you.” I gave her a peck on the cheek.
“Drat, I’m a sight!” She fixed a loose curler. “Well, aren’t you in the pink.”
“Never pinker.”
She melted. “Luv, you’re a regular sunrise.”
I showed her the note. “Lebrik called? When?”
“Three times.” She re-tied her scarf. “The last came at teatime, four days ago.”
“Shit,” I said, under my breath. She heard me, of course.
“My bedroom is nice and private.”
“You’re a godsend.”
*****************
It seemed best to stand. Bernice’s floral bedspread looked new. As did the green throw pillows.
I dialed Chile, my thoughts in order, as if I’d rehearsed for days. At his hour, Lebrik would be penning memos, hornrims perched on his nose, tie askew, hair unruly.
The line crackled, forever. I breathed deeply, tapped my boots on the carpet. Against orders, sweat ran down my back.