BETWEEN A ROCK AND A HARD PLACE
  By Patricia Harrington


  "Haven't you fixed that car, yet?"
  George Hansen didn't answer his wife, instead he slid deeper under the old 
  Buick so that only his legs stuck out.
  Eunice stood in the doorway between the garage and the laundry room, her arms 
  crossed over her bony chest. She added, "It's a wonder the police haven't 
  ticketed me for noise pollution driving that old heap."
  George blinked back stinging tears as he stared at the car's undercarriage. If 
  Eunice could see them, she'd scoff.
  "A grown man crying!" The tears weren't because of what she'd said; they were 
  about what she'd done.
  After dinner he'd put on the overalls that Evelyn had insisted he wear when 
  working on the car, and then insisted that he take to the Laundromat when they 
  became greasy. "I have no intention of dirtying my washing machine with them," 
  she had said. He was tuning the car to get it ready for their annual trip to 
  his mother-in-law's house in Seattle. Eunice's mother had a list of repair 
  jobs waiting for him that included repairing her bathroom. He didn't mind 
  doing the work as long as he could take in the Seattle Rock Hound Show while 
  he was there. After five days with Eunice and her mother, he would need the 
  break.
  Every chance that he could, George retreated to his refuge, the garage, where 
  he kept two treasures: his 1980 Buick and his rock collection. In the garage, 
  he could escape Eunice's hurtful words that she hurled with frequency. When 
  she did follow him out there, she didn't harangue him for long. She hated 
  standing in the cold-which was why George left the garage unheated.
  That evening he had gone out to check his rock collection and to look with 
  pride at his new carving chisels and riffler rasps that he used for shaping 
  and sculpting rocks. "My agates-my soapstone rock," he cried. "They're gone." 
  He frantically searched the shelves above the workbench and spun around hoping 
  to see the agates and soapstone piled in a corner.
  Then George rushed inside to the kitchen and said to Eunice, "Some of my rocks 
  are missing. Did you move them?"
  She didn't bother looking up as she loaded the dishwasher. "You had so many on 
  that messy bench that I threw some out. You still have plenty to play with."
  When Eunice said that, the red tide that had come and gone over the last few 
  months threatened to wash over George again. He stood perfectly still, not 
  fighting the waves of despair. He'd learned they would ebb if he didn't 
  struggle. But each time when the waves receded, they seemed to take a part of 
  him with them.
  George hurried back to the garage to paw through the garbage can and found the 
  agates scattered among the bags of garbage. But he couldn't find the 
  soapstone--his most precious rock.
  This time, the red tide rose like a tsunami, and he knew he had to contain it 
  before it completely engulfed him and swept away his spirit. Then what would 
  his poor body do? George supposed it might die, but he rather thought his body 
  would continue walking about. It would be a robot in spongy flesh with eyes 
  that blinked and a mouth that opened and shut mechanically. However, the man 
  who loved collecting rocks and working on old cars would be gone forever.
  George decided that Eunice had probably flung the soapstone into the narrow 
  yard between the garage and the neighbor's fence. He found it in a patch of 
  frozen weeds and tenderly carried it to his workbench.
  The soapstone was egg-shaped though slightly larger, and in color, was a 
  delicate mottled green and white. George liked to stroke the stone, holding it 
  gently as if it could break. He had seen soapstone figures carved by Inuit 
  artists at rock shows, and the sculpted statues of warriors, dancers and 
  fishermen had fascinated him. George thought there was a shaman inside his 
  stone and had checked out how-to-do books so that he could carve the shaman's 
  face and form his body to release him.
  A week ago, George had been studying his soapstone, trying to see where the 
  shaman's eyes should be, when Eunice walked in and threw his overalls at him. 
  "I told you to never to put these filthy things in my laundry hamper."
  He had wanted to protest that he hadn't worn the overalls fixing the car that 
  they were only soiled from mowing the lawn. But George didn't speak up because 
  he couldn't. He had held back too long and too often for the sake of keeping 
  some kind of peace. And when the red tide started, he felt himself crumbling 
  like a worn bulkhead being battered by pounding waves. It took all his will 
  power not to fall apart.
  Eunice said, "Don't stand there looking stupid. Put those overalls in a bag 
  and take them to the Laundromat tomorrow."
  George clutched the soapstone for support, and that's when he felt its warmth 
  soothing and consoling him. George kept the soapstone in his pocket the rest 
  of the day, and the red tide didn't return.
  Now Eunice stood in the doorway, pulling her sweater tight around her. "You 
  should have had the car ready last week. If you'd asked your boss for a raise 
  like I told you, we could afford something better."
  "Don't worry, I'll have it fixed by Friday."
  George had already adjusted the Buick's timing mechanism and was finishing the 
  work on the muffler and exhaust system. The real reason George didn't buy a 
  newer car was that he didn't have the equipment to fix it since the newer 
  models all had sophisticated computer chip running their systems. If he gave 
  up the old car, what excuse would he have to hang out in the garage-going to 
  work on his rock collection? Eunice would never tolerate that.
  George angled his halogen light in Eunice's direction, hoping the glare would 
  drive her inside. She turned to leave but gave a parting shot. "Well, hurry 
  and finish. I hate it when you come to bed after I'm asleep. You wake me up."
  Later, George changed into his pajamas in the hall bathroom and tiptoed into 
  the bedroom. When he pulled back the covers on his side, Eunice said sleepily, 
  "Mother called. She bought insulation and wants you to install it in the 
  basement after you finish the bathroom." She rolled away from him, and he 
  listened to her breathing as she fell back to sleep.
  George's heart thudded and bells rang a death knell in his head. He would 
  never be able to finish that extra work and attend the rock hound show. It 
  wasn't fair. Eunice knew how much he was looking forward to his time alone at 
  the show.
  George wanted to get up and get his soapstone, to hold it and feel its 
  comforting warmth, but he was afraid of disturbing Eunice. So he stayed awake, 
  fighting against the red tide and searching for a way out of the trip.
  He couldn't stand being disappointed one more time.
  The next morning, George's eyes felt coated with sand but his heart was light. 
  The shaman had visited him in the middle of the night and told him what to do.
  George took the soapstone to work and kept it in a drawer where he could touch 
  it. When his courage faltered, he picked up the soapstone and wasn't surprised 
  at all to feel it pulsing as if it had come to life and had a heartbeat. 
  George knew the shaman was close to breaking through his stony prison.
  After lunch, George called Eunice. "Dear, we'll have to leave an hour later on 
  Saturday morning. The boss wants me to have a report ready for some buyers 
  flying in from Japan."
  "But he's already said you could have your vacation time."
  "I know. But if I do this favor for him, I think it might tip things my way on 
  that raise. I'll help you pack Friday night and put the luggage in the car. 
  I'll take the early bus to work. The East coast office is sending the data I 
  need first thing. I'll whip out that report, and then you can drive the car 
  and pick me up at nine."
  "Well . . . "
  George knew she was thinking about his overdue raise. He pressed on, "You 
  won't have to rush about in the morning, and I won't be in your way. We'll 
  take the Snoqualmie Pass and still get to Seattle on time."
  Saturday morning, George sat in his corner office on the ground floor waiting 
  for Eunice. He knew no one else was in the building because he had checked. 
  Besides that, his window looked directly on the empty parking lot. He held the 
  soapstone and the shaman's reassuring presence that flowed from it.
  Eunice pulled into the lot at nine sharp and swung the car around so that she 
  was parked parallel to George's office. She honked the horn and rolled down 
  her window a few inches. George pulled aside the vertical blinds, peered out 
  his window and smiled for Eunice's benefit. He raised his hands, spread his 
  fingers apart and opened and closed them. Ten minutes, he mouthed.
  Eunice shook her head in disgust and rolled the window up.
  George knew that she would keep the motor running, the heater on and play her 
  Lawrence Welk tape while she waited. He slipped into the corridor, out the 
  side door, and then crouched over, crab walking to the car on the passenger 
  side. George didn't think Eunice would check her rear view mirror, and last 
  night, he'd tilted the passenger side mirror, so it wasn't possible to glance 
  in it and see behind the car. Knowing Eunice, she wouldn' t bother fixing much 
  less looking into the mirror. A cloud of white exhaust billowed from the car 
  in the cold November air. George took the soapstone from his pocket and fit 
  the rock's narrow end into the car's exhaust pipe. He pushed until it fit 
  snugly and the white plume stopped. Then he turned around, crept back to the 
  building and returned to his office.
  George stood by the window but far enough away and to the side so that Eunice 
  couldn't see him from the car. He watched until he saw her head droop, and 
  then waited patiently until her body slumped over the steering wheel. George 
  checked his watch. He'd wait a bit more to be sure the carbon monoxide had 
  done its work. He was in no hurry now.
  After George retrieved the soapstone, he washed and dried it in the men's 
  room. That's when he noticed two indentations in the stone's mottled surface 
  that shone like luminous dark eyes. George smiled at them. Tomorrow he'd carve 
  the stone and let the shaman out.

  Patricia Harrington is the author of DEATH STALKS THE KHMER. She also writes 
  short stories which win writing contests and/or are published in various 
  mystery magazines.