Winter Affair by Doreen Owens Malek Page B

or not to go out at all, but the debilitated condition of her checking account convinced her to make the trip into New York. The trains would be running, and she had spent too much on Christmas gifts, as usual. When the bills came in next month she would be having her customary January nervous breakdown, and the thought impelled her into her waterproof boots and out the door.
    Claire, the rat, was still sleeping. Her teacher’s vacation had already begun, and she would be nice and rested for her trip to Wilmington later in the day. Leda propped Claire’s gift, an illustrated volume on impressionist painters, inside her storm door where it would be protected from the weather. Then she trudged down to the street and set about the task of clearing off her car for the drive to the station.
    Fifteen minutes later she was on her way and convinced that she should have stayed home. The roads were treacherous, as smooth as glass, and she groaned aloud when she approached the slope down to the Yardley depot and saw that it was blocked by a stalled truck. Other drivers were turning around and crawling back up the hill. Leda reversed direction and headed for the river road, which was bound to be less trafficked and consequently more covered with snow. But there was no alternative; if she wanted to keep her appointment she had to try.
    Leda had almost made it to the train station, creeping along and peering through the curtain of falling snow, when she hit a patch of ice and lost control of the car. The wheel spun out of her hands and the car shot across the road, careering madly into the bushes on the other side. She was alone on the road or she would surely have been hit. The car plunged down the slope toward the river, and came to rest against the trunk of a large oak at the water’s edge. It bumped to a stop, the rear wheels still turning, and Leda slumped in relief, her heart pounding.
    It was several minutes before she could bring herself to open her eyes and shut off the engine. She knew there was no hope of jockeying the car out of the ditch; the rear fender pointed into the air at a 45 degree angle, and the whole slope was as slick as buttered corn. She glanced at her watch and sighed. There was no way to make her audition. It would take her hours to get out of this mess, and it would cost plenty to get towed back onto the road. Great idea you had about making some extra money, Leda, she congratulated herself. She gingerly pushed at her door and discovered that it was stuck.
    Leda sat and considered her situation. She could either stay there, trapped like an astronaut in a capsule, or she could try to dig her way out and get help. She chose the latter course of action and reached for the handle of her door.
    It was some time before she managed to get it open, and then push it forward enough for her to slither through it. She rested for a while, leaning against the side of the car, and then reached back into the driver’s seat for her scarf and mittens. She slipped her purse strap over her left arm and squared her shoulders for the walk.
    As the hour got later traffic would pick up and she had hopes of hitching a ride. But first she had to get to the road. Climbing out of the gully proved to be a tricky proposition, and she was glad her boots had gripping soles. Once out on the street, she began flagging down passing cars, which were still few and didn’t stop. Finally a farmer from Upper Makefield gave her a ride in his pickup, taking her the two miles to the closest gas station. The tow trucks available there were already out, however, and promised to be gone all morning. Leda was thinking that the story would probably be the same at every station in town when an idea struck her. Her father had always kept towing equipment out at the hangar, for company problems, not for commercial rental. Maybe the truck was still there and maybe Phelps would send it out for her.
    She asked to use the pay phone at the station and called her