The Divine Miss Genevieve

What a graceful sight to the eyes of the beholder the man became when he bounded out onto the granite rocks. Leaping from each stone and onto the next chosen, balanced by the movement of the fly rod as his arms whipped the line, he danced along the river’s edge. His blue shirt’s sleeves rolled up to his elbows, the brown hat exposing the sun-tinted, reddish moustache and long hair – glistening in the sun – took Genevieve by an emotional storm of longing.  She stood in the deep pool watching, her legs numb with cold, mind numb with her heartache.  Yet, she could not take her eyes off the man coming ever nearer.  And she was sinking – caught in quicksand!

Hank leaped onto the giant piece of granite just above Genevieve and stopped short.  “What the hell…” He whispered the words. Upon the rock sat a pair of prim shoes, a soft-colored dress with tiny flowers, and a pair of silk stockings. A unique curiosity filled him. He could not resist picking up one of the stockings then letting the soft weave cascade across his fingers, falling gently from his hand back to the rock. Hank peered over the edge of stone and down at Genevieve, who stared wild-eyed up at him.

“Ma’am, these are dangerous waters to be swimming in. You had better…”

“I’m sinking, sir!  I can’t move,” Genevieve’s teeth chattered as she finished speaking. Then she added, “And it’s miss.”

“Shut up and take my hand!” Hank commanded and let his fly rod fall as he dropped down flat upon the warm rock. He reached his hand down to the woman, now up to her shoulders in the river.

Genevieve reached up to the hand – brown from the sun and callused – and was sucked down into the water even deeper than before. “Oh, my God, help me!” Genevieve screamed and swallowed the cold liquid as her head disappeared, leaving only tiny hands waving madly in the air.

Hank grabbed her hands and pulled. His body slid across the rock, and he twisted while his feet searched for an edge to anchor his weight. He could see the green of Genevieve’s eyes, but he could not free her from the quicksand. Hank rolled off the boulder and hit the water without relinquishing the hands that were freezing cold within the warmth of his own.

The river’s current clutched at his body and pulled at him, attempting to separate the man’s strong hands from the woman’s tiny fingers. Genevieve was the only stable body in the water, and he used her hands and wrists to pull himself to her. He fought to bring his feet to the surface as the water whipped him. Finally, he found solid footing, bracing his leather boots against the very rock he once was standing solidly upon only moments earlier. He pulled the woman’s arms as he pushed at the rock, groaning with the labor of his task, fighting to keep his own head above the icy water’s fast-moving current.

Instinct told him not to relinquish even an ounce of force in the war he now found himself battling to be the winner. With gritted teeth, he braced his feet to push even harder, trying with his entire mind and all of his muscles to straighten his legs. The movement was slight, but it came inch by dreadful inch. The long hair of the woman in his grasp floated to the surface.

Then, suddenly and without warning, she was freed! The river swiftly took them both and swept them away, down its cascading and roaring path. Hank pulled the unconscious woman into his arms as they rocketed toward the falls, bouncing off of obstructing boulders. Nothing Hank Fitzpatrick could do would stop them from going over the edge. He knew it in his gut. In his mind, he wanted it to happen fast. It was the only avenue left open to him to save the drowning woman clutched to his chest.