At Home in Mossy Creek Page 7

Big Band music filled the room with cheery melodies that always lifted my spirits, interrupted intermittently by Bert Lymon on the radio. WMOS, the Voice of Mossy Creek, dictated much of my afternoon activities.

  I loved the music but my personal highlight was the Bereavement Report. Bert or his wife, Honey, read the weekly obituaries from the Mossy Creek Gazette and the Bigelow Daily Reporter. Between those two they covered the newly dead from one end of Bigelow County to the other. There was always a good funeral to attend, although now my friends were mostly dead and those that were left were dropping like flies. Man, was I jealous.

  Today I was especially perky because I had two viewings and a memorial service to attend, so I was baking twice my usual amount of buttermilk biscuits, and Bert had just said he was going to play some Louis Armstrong. Life didn’t get any better than saying ‘See ya, later,’ to dead friends and listening to songs from dead Louis.

  Estelle’s head got too close to the bowl and I shook my spoon at her. She jumped back to her side of the table.

  “Great Nan.” She’d taken to calling me that. “I can’t determine how much you put in if you won’t accurately measure.”

  “You can’t write down a recipe, Estelle. You have to learn how to cook first, then duplicate it by cooking it again and again.”

  “Great Nan, I’m preserving history. Now what’d you just put in there?”

  “About a cup of flour, then a little bit more, about a teaspoon of baking powder, a pinch of salt, a quarter or so of baking soda, a bit of sugar, a third cup of milk, and fold. Then I got to double it ‘cause I got two funerals and a service to go to today. Oh, it was a fine day when you could sit aroun’ that old TV set and watch Great Louis.” I laughed, remembering how we used to push and pull to get the good seat. “Those were the good old days.”

  “Did you ever get to see him, Great Nan?”

  “Like in person?” The thought made me blush like a schoolgirl. “Well, naw. I just can’t imagine me seeing Great Louis in person. But I sho’ used to dance to him. When I was in my thirties I used to move like water.”

  Estelle laughs, not mean like she’s thinking what I’m saying is impossible, but like she just can’t imagine me dancin’ at all. “You, Great Nan? I thought you went to strict church. That you weren’t allowed to dance.”

  I nodded, understanding where she was coming from. Her grandmother, my daughter, was still coming from there. Still kneeling at the church all day and night, but missing out on the precious afternoons of life. We used to be devout like that until I realized God gave us those afternoons, too.

  “Chile, we worked all week and prayed every day, and on Saturday night we put that hot comb to our hair cause we was goin’ out on the town. Mayor Ida’s grandma, Big Ida, would give us a few dollars for helping with her chores and she’d loan me her . . . well, never mind.” I started dropping thick, bumpy dough onto the baking sheets.

  “Loan you what? The gun? Her gun? What’s the story behind that?”

  “One story at a time, Estelle! You act like you’re seven. Now pay attention. The stove can’t stop itself. Did you set the timer?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  “Well dead peoples don’t like when they relatives get served burnt biscuits, I promise you that.” We shoved them in the oven and watched them start to flatten before I took my seat again, the egg timer in my hand.

  Bert is a man of his word and he starts playing Louis. “We’d go down to this little hole in the wall called the Backdoor. It was a roadhouse.” I gave the word some drama.

  “You weren’t offended by that?” Estelle wanted to know, her eyes earnest. Youngun’s are so curious about everybody hurting everybody else’s feelings now. Back then, that was all we had and when me and Chicken and the rest of my girls got together, all we wanted to do was visit and dance.

  “No, Chile. It was like a great big birthday party every weekend. I paid my twenty-five cent admission and I would dance until my feet hurt.”

  Estelle rubbed my hand, her smile reminding me how pretty mine used to be. “Great Nan, that sounds absolutely lovely. I bet Mossy Creek was never the same.”

  “Yes, Chile, it was a special time and place then and now. Not many places back then where a girl my color was able to fit in so easy and feel that comfortable. I always say there’s magic in the Creek. Magic in the water. Oh, Bert. What’s gotten into him, interrupting Louis?”

  “All right, folks, who among you can host a guest in your home this weekend? We’ve got the Cirque d’Europa bus broken down on Bigelow Road,” Bert announced. “And unfortunately, it’s going to take a day or two to get the parts needed to fix it. Being the neighborly Creekites that we are, we need good citizens to open their homes and welcome these slightly different, but harmless strangers into your homes. So if you’re willing and able to accommodate a pair of performers, please come and collect your houseguests. Mayor Ida and the town council thank you, and Happy Valentine’s Day this Sunday.”

  Being that I’m 101, I can’t move as fast as I’d like, but I feel quite springy most days, although all my movements have about scared Estelle to death. I sprang out of my chair.

  “Great Nan, what are you doing? Having a heart attack? Do I need to drive you? What’s going on?”

  “Shhh, Estelle. Nothing is wrong. I’m just going to get me some circus people. I always wanted to be in the circus. This is a great day in Mossy Creek history, and I’m not about to miss it.”

  Why did Estelle look like the eagle statue that had tipped over at the post office during the blizzard of 1922? ‘Cept she kept blinking and her lips were moving. “Circus people, Great Nan? Grandma isn’t going to like this one bit.”

  “Aw, my daughter’s a stick in the mud. She won’t be happy about it, no. Especially when she finds out they’re sleepin’ in her room.”

  The buzzer went off for the biscuits. “Hurry. We got to drop these off and get to that bus before all the good ones are gone.”

  “Great Nan, they’re people, not apples.” Estelle moved quickly while she talked, transferring biscuits to packing bowls. “You wanted to be in the circus? Why? The elephants stink, people walking on stilts. The whole idea scares me to death.”

  “Girl, be scared when you know you got the wrong end of a gun chasing you. People with makeup on, handing you balloons? I say hidey ho! Where’s my coat and hat? I’d better call Mr. Wiley and remind him Sunday is Valentine’s.”

  Estelle’s grin was mischievous. I do wish she’d get a boyfriend. If I can get one, anybody can! “Great Nan, you called him yesterday.”

  “So what? I’m trying to line up the right present. Now you stay out of grown folks business and get the car. Today just went from being nothing special to right nice.”

  Harry

  The sun had already disappeared behind Colchik as I wended my way home. The mountain’s shadow crept eastward across the valley toward Mossy Creek. Dusk was settling beneath the mountain’s thick blanket of hardwoods, though it was still more than an hour before full dark. What little warmth the mid-February day had provided was vanishing, quickening my footsteps. As if I needed a reason to hurry home besides the sure knowledge that if Josie wasn’t already there, she would be soon.

  I’d worked all day with an abstracted air of anticipation. Valentine’s Day was Sunday.

  The holiday had never meant much to me. Scientists are not the most romantic of men, generally speaking. This, however, was Josie’s and my first Valentine’s as husband and wife, and I knew what it meant to her. She’d been bustling about happily all week. We hadn’t made any specific plans, other than promising to not let work, family or friends interfere. We were going to spend the entire weekend alone. Together.

  The possibilities made my blood sing.

  As I rounded the last bend in the trail, I saw no smoke wafting from the chimney rising
above the white clapboard farmhouse nestled at the edge of a mountain meadow. Josie hadn’t made it home yet. Part of me was disappointed, though she wasn’t due for another half hour.

  Oh well. Now I could have the small, drafty old house warm when she walked through the door.

  After our honeymoon cruise last June, we’d settled into Josie’s grandparents’ house at the western-most edge of the McClure farm in Bailey Mill. The four-room house had been built by Josie’s great-grandfather around 1895 for his bride from Dahlonega, Josephine Mayfield, Josie’s namesake. The house had been updated somewhat through the years. The most notable addition being a bathroom at one end of the back porch. Even so, the house had been empty since Josie’s grandmother died three years ago. According to Josie’s father, John, the house wasn’t worth the money it cost to keep it up. So even before she died, Granny McClure’s house had started a slow descent into just another of the decaying structures that dotted Southern landscapes.

  One of the puzzling oddities about Southern culture, to me. Why not tear the structures down instead of letting them turn into rotten, snake-infested rat traps?

  Our old farmhouse wasn’t to the rotting stage yet. At least the plumbing and electricity still worked—on good days. Because my work is on the mountain and Josie’s work is in town, we had to live somewhere in between. This house was convenient and free, so we’d decided to live here until we could find one more suitable. We did what we could to make it livable, but Josie deserved better. Much better. Something with a Martha Stewart-inspired kitchen, at the very least.

  Reminded of one surprise I’d planned for the weekend, I smiled smugly as I stored my backpack in the utility box on the back porch, then went back down the steps for a load of firewood.

  I’d just lit the fire in the Franklin stove—the only source of heat for the house—when I heard Josie’s SUV speeding up the drive. By the amount of gravel I could hear flying, I knew all was not well in Josie’s world. Which mean all was not well in mine.

  I closed the door on the stove and hurried outside. Josie’s car door slammed as I reached the screen porch.

  She saw me and planted her feet, arms akimbo, her purse swinging from her wrist. “Have you heard?”

  I let the porch door close and headed down the worn wooden steps. “Heard what?”

  “Valentine’s weekend is shot!”

  “Shot?” I stopped short and studied her flushed face. “Who shot it?”

  “Mayor Walker!”

  “Ida? I didn’t know she hunted Cupids.”

  Her brown eyes narrowed. “Make fun if you want to, but we’ll see how hard you’re laughing at the clowns who are about to invade our house.” With a huff, she pushed past me.

  Or tried to. I grabbed her and pulled her into my arms. “I’d never make fun of you, my love. You’re just so cute when you’re angry.”

  “Cute? Me?” She was genuinely startled. “I’ve never—”

  I smothered her words with a kiss.

  She struggled against me for an instant then sank into my embrace.

  Gratified that my touch could distract her, I ended the kiss and smiled down at her. “Explain, please, about the mayor shooting our weekend. Has she asked you to decorate town hall? With clowns?”

  Reminded of her ire, she scrunched her face again. She pulled out of my arms and started up the steps. “I’m talking about real clowns, Harry. Circus clowns.”

  “Circus clowns?” I followed her. “What on earth are you talking about?”

  “Mayor Walker called up to Swee Purla’s shop about an hour ago. Something called ‘Cirque d’Europa’ is touring the country. They were on their way from Atlanta to Tennessee when their bus broke down just outside Mossy Creek.” Josie placed her purse on a rung of the coat rack beside the back door, then hung her red wool coat over it. Even with her dander up, she remained organized. “The performers have no place to stay, so the mayor is calling around town, asking Creekites to put them up until the bus is repaired. That could take all weekend.”

  “So you volunteered us for a couple of clowns.” I was not surprised that my Josie had stepped forward. Southern hospitality was mother’s milk to her. “Cirque d’Europa? That’s a high-class act, as circuses go.”

  “Actually, I don’t know who we’re getting. I told the mayor that we don’t have much room, but she was so grateful for any bed, she didn’t mind. I couldn’t bring myself to say no.”

  I pulled her back into my arms. “Of course you couldn’t.”

  She lifted her chin. “You don’t know how badly I wanted to tell Mayor Ida where she could stick her old clowns. Or bearded ladies. Or lion tamers. Or whatever it is we’ll be getting.”

  “Josie!” I was truly shocked. I had never heard my wife speak like this. Usually, she was the first one to offer hospitality. “Y’all come” wasn’t just a platitude. It was a way of life.

  “Well, it’s Valentine’s, Harry! Our first together as a couple. And our house is so small. Where are we going to put them?”

  “In the guest room you decorated so beautifully.”

  “Yes, and that guest room is just a thin wall away from the head of our bed. We won’t be able to . . . I mean, they would certainly hear if we . . . Goshdarnit, Harry, it’s Valentine’s! I made plans.”

  I tightened my arms around her protectively. I would rather tear my own heart out than see the beautiful spirit of my wife in distress.

  Even so, I was torn. Ever since the gracious people of Mossy Creek had shown me what the true spirit of kinship means by sacrificing their time and gardens so my Josie would have flowers at her wedding, I had thrown myself into that spirit of kinship. Josie and I attended church every time the doors opened. We went to town meetings, festivals, parties, and nearly every other function the town promoted. I wanted to do my part for the town that had given so much of themselves to us. I wanted to be part of it. For so long, I’d been part of nothing but my loneliness and my research. Then a whole town had opened its arms to me.

  Now that town was asking us to share our home for a few nights to strangers passing through.

  “How can we say no?” I asked softly.

  I saw complete understanding in the soft brown eyes that searched mine. Josie knew me intimately, every hope and fear and secret I’d ever harbored.

  She drew her hand down my face. “Harry . . .”

  “How about your parents? They have several empty rooms, now that you’re gone.”

  Josie shook her head. “I already thought about that. They’re sick.”

  “Sick?”

  “Stomach flu. Mama called me this morning at work, to warn me not to come over this weekend. Daddy was sick all last night, and Mama was coming down with it this morning.” Josie made a rueful face. “To my utter shame, I felt the tiniest bit glad when she told me, knowing it meant there would be no danger of them dropping by this weekend. Talk about instant karma!”

  I squeezed her gently. She saw no dichotomy in being a steadfast Presbyterian who studied Zen philosophy. And to his credit, Reverend Hollingsworth didn’t, either. They’d had several lively discussions.

  “Do we need to bring them anything?” I asked.

  Josie shook her head. “They can’t keep anything down. I talked with Mama just before I left work. She doesn’t want us coming by. At least not tonight. I’ll drop by tomorrow to check on them. I’m sure I can slip away from our guests for an hour or so.”

  “Josie, if you really don’t want guests this weekend, I’ll call the mayor and make some excuse.”

  She sighed heavily and shook her head. “Mama would kill me.”

  “Sounds like LuLynn is too sick to kill a cockroach.”

  Josie smiled lovingly as she took my face between her hands. “Oh, Harry, I do love you. But you know as well as I do that I can’t let you
make our excuses. Neither one of us could enjoy a romantic weekend, knowing we were letting everyone down.”

  “You’re sure?”

  She kissed me and let go. “Mama didn’t bring me up to turn my back on anyone who needs a good dose of Southern hospitality. Why, if I did that, I might as well be a Yankee. Besides, when I hold up my mantra beside the decision, I know I have to put a smile on my face and fluff the pillows on the guest bed.”

  “To which mantra are you referring? I’ve heard you mention about five million.”

  She raised a brow at my exaggeration. “My hospitality mantra, of course. ‘What would Martha do?’”

  I couldn’t resist teasing her more. “Martha Stewart is a Yankee.”

  She shook her head patiently, as if gently setting a child straight. “Not in her heart-of-hearts, Harry. Where it counts, Martha is as Southern as cheese grits casserole.”

  I grinned. “Where are we picking up our clowns?”

  “Mt. Gilead Methodist Church. And we need to get going.” She turned toward the bedrooms. “Give me just a minute. I want to change into my jeans.”

  “And fluff the pillows.”

  “All right, then, two minutes.”

  WMOS Radio

  “The Voice of the Creek”

  Bert Lymon, here, with the latest news update on the stranded circus folks. It’s gonna be a cold February night in Mossy Creek, but I’m happy to report our visitors have been parceled out to friendly homes for the evening. Only a few more are waiting to be picked up at the church. Take good care of them, Creekites!

  Chapter 2

  Friday Night

  The Circus Settles In

  Louise

  MY FIRST THOUGHT was that this crazy Cirque d’Europa troop was circumventing the child labor laws. The tiny person who got out of our mayor’s red Corvette couldn’t be more than ten. Then she turned toward me with a broad smile on her face. And crinkles at the corners of her eyes. Her almond eyes. She swung her wealth of straight black hair away and reached out her hand to me. She was probably closer to thirty than to ten. But what a thirty! I wasn’t in that good a shape when I was ten.