by Debra Dixon
Part of my anger disappeared with the dust motes floating in the shaft of sunlight from the bay window. “Oh,” I managed to say.
She looked down at her lap as she spread long, slender fingers over her lap. “I’m dying, Sammie. The doctors say I only have a couple of months left. I wanted to make sure Joshua was taken care of before . . . before.”
I stared at her, almost at a loss for words. Finally, I said, “But why here? Why me?”
She shrugged and looked away. “Lots of reasons. Mostly because this is where I know he’ll be taken care of the best. And I want him to have the kind of childhood I wasn’t allowed to have.” She took a deep breath and I heard the catch in her voice. “I want him to know his place in the world so that no matter how far he goes, he’ll know where it is in his heart.”
I knew that was as much of an apology as I would ever get from her, and I was all right with that. She leaned over and picked up the papers on the table.
“These are the adoption papers. My lawyers have already drawn them up and I’ve signed everything. He’ll have a trust fund for college and enough to start a little nest egg. And money for you, too, to help with raising him. All it needs is your signature and he’ll be legally yours.”
“I don’t know . . .” I stopped, my eyes clouding with tears.
“He’s a wonderful kid, Sammie. I know you’ll love him like he was yours.” Her eyes swam before mine and I could hear the desperation in her voice. “He’s the only thing I’ve got that’s worth anything. And that’s why I’m giving him to you.”
We hugged each other tightly and I cried, grieving for the girl I had once loved but had never really known, and for the woman I would never know at all. Most of all I cried for Joshua, who would not remember the vibrant person his mother had once been.
When she pulled away, she said, “I’m so tired. Is it all right if I go lie down while you and Joshua get acquainted?”
“Sure.” I led her to the sunny front guestroom and brought her suitcase. She was asleep before I left the room.
I checked on her twice — once before Joshua and I sat down for a dinner of tomato soup and grilled cheese sandwiches and once before I went to bed. She hadn’t moved from her position on the quilt so I placed a blanket on her and left the room.
She stayed with me for two weeks. Each morning she’d awaken and dress as if she were going to a movie premiere, and she would have me parade her and Joshua around town. With her makeup and sunglasses, it was easy to disguise her illness. Even her own mother was fooled, although Mrs. Bodine now lived in a constant haze of alcohol and didn’t notice much of anything anymore.
But when Vivien would come home after our excursions she’d collapse into bed, barely able to move with exhaustion.
While she slept, I’d take Joshua to my mother’s or to the park. My heart opened to this beautiful little boy. On a Saturday, about two weeks after they’d arrived, I was in my mother’s back garden with Joshua and we were cutting flowers to make a bouquet to bring back to Vivien.
As he leaned forward to smell a rose, I noticed a silver chain around his neck and tucked into the collar of his shirt.
I touched the chain. “What’s this, Joshua?”
He looked at me with his mother’s eyes as he pulled out the necklace. I recognized it immediately. It was one of those “best friends” necklaces with a heart split in the middle, and one friend keeps one half and the other friend keeps the other. I had given it to Vivien for her fourteenth birthday and my own half was somewhere in the bottom of my jewelry box. “Mommy gave it to me yesterday. She said that it was my turn to keep it.”
I met my mother’s eyes and knew she was thinking the same thing. Vivien was saying goodbye. I grabbed Joshua’s hand and nearly ran the whole way home.
I left Joshua in the kitchen with Maxwell and raced up the stairs two at a time before throwing open Vivien’s door. I felt nearly weak with relief when I spotted her under the quilt. I was about to leave quietly when she called my name. Walking over to the bed, I sat on the side and took her hand.
Her voice was so quiet I had to lean down close to her face to hear her. “Joshua loves you.”
Her hand was cold in mine. “I love him, too. Not like that’s hard to do, though.”
She smiled weakly. “It’s time for me to go, then.”
I started to cry and she laughed. “I’m not dying yet. I meant to leave here. It wasn’t my plan to have everyone see me deteriorate.” She turned her head away but I could tell she was crying. “I want to be forever young and beautiful.”
“You always will be, Vivien. I’ll take care of you, you know I will. Just don’t leave. There’s still time for us to be friends — and for Joshua. Give us that. Please.”
She looked back at me and took my hand again. “I’ll think about it.” Then she closed her eyes and I left the room.
In the morning she was gone.
I raced to Joshua’s room to see if he was still there and was relieved to see him curled up beneath the floral sheets, a nearly threadbare stuffed bunny on the floor by the side of the bed. I retrieved the animal to the arms of the sleeping boy and sat in the chair to wait for the sun to rise on my first day of motherhood.
* * * *
Joshua and I planted a magnolia tree in the front yard in memory of his mother. It’s one of the ways I tried to ground him and Vivien in Mossy Creek, to give them both something to hold on to, a place to always come home to. Sometimes, as the sun is setting through the young limbs of the tree, I can feel her presence there. It’s like the restless tug of the wind, an impatient feeling of the need to move on. And then it calms and settles around us and I know that she is finally at peace.
Doug has now returned to Mossy Creek, too. He’s setting up a medical practice near the big hospital down in Bigelow. Not a few of us wonder if he’s back now to prove to us all that he was meant to be a doctor all along.
He stopped by my landscaping offices last week to buy some pansies for his yard.
He hadn’t changed that much, no more than me, I guess. Mostly older and wiser by the creases around his eyes and the surprise he carefully hid when I introduced him to Joshua.
While he juggled the two flats of pansies, I suggested some bulbs, too, and by the time I had his truck loaded, we had a dinner date for later that evening. I’m in no rush, and he’s got a lot of explaining to do, but I think I’ve earned the right to enjoy myself.
I think a lot about what Vivien said, about us all needing to know our place in the world. I was lucky to have been born knowing it while Doug needed to eventually grow into the idea. And Vivien gave it to Joshua as a gift of her love — full and ripe, like an autumn harvest. He will leave one day, but his heart will always have a place to hold on to. A place filled with people who love him and nurtured him. A place called Mossy Creek.
WMOS Radio
“The Voice of the Creek”
Good morning, Mossy Creek! This is Honey Lyman, filling in for Bert, who has a cold with a touch of laryngitis, thanks to the rainy autumn weather. He sounds like Kermit the frog on helium.
Our niece came for a visit last weekend and brought her five- year-old daughter, Alice. When the child asked for some ice-water, my husband went to the kitchen, took out a glass and opened the freezer door to get ice cubes. When he filled the glass with water from the faucet, Alice refused it, saying. “I don’t want that. I want the water that comes from the door.”
It took us a while to figure out that she’d never seen a refrigerator without an ice maker and water dispenser. Bert laughed and took little Alice out on the porch to see the well built into the porch just outside the kitchen door. I’m not sure what Alice’s mother is going to think when Alice refuses to drink any water that isn’t drawn in a bucket.
Have you ever noticed how small towns attract famous people? I think I know why. We all know how to keep a secret; we learned it by protecting our own. Movie stars, sports figures and business tycoons move here and be
come ordinary folks for a time. I have a theory about that. We have real problems and real people to solve them. We believe in forgiveness but we don’t tolerate excuses much. If a thing needs fixing, we fix it. But certain kinds of creativity seem to thrive on angst, angels and outlaws, and every now and again those creative people have to come home and have their spirits renewed. Maybe it’s our Cherokee heritage. Maybe it’s the creek. Maybe it’s because we’re family.
So come sit on our porch. We don’t talk about religion here, though all our denominations really do get along. They may agree to disagree, but it doesn’t stop them from getting married, moving out, leaving home or coming back.
We’ll serve you some fried chicken, tell a few tall tales and sip lemonade made from cold mountain water purer than anything bottled in Switzerland. And we’ll try not to talk about cantankerous topics like religion or politics. Much.
Chapter 11
In Mossy Creek, the description of an annoying adversary is fondly followed by “Bless her little ol’ heart.”
The Look
Chapter 11
Some say being in the ministry is one of the most demanding callings a person can have. But I’d have to say marriage is harder.
When I first heard the call, it was as if the heavens opened and an almost audible voice told me I was to be a pastor. I would lead God’s flock. I would preach God’s word. The awesome responsibility sat heavily on me at the age of nineteen. Still did. But it was nothing compared to being a husband to Amelia.
No seminary training could have prepared me for the ache that gnawed at me every time I heard her sobbing in the shower. Every time she sniffed quietly in our bed at night. She was disappointed in me. She thought I would get sent to some huge church in Atlanta. And I guess I let her dream, because it made me feel good to have her beaming with pride at what she considered my many pastoral talents.
Even during those first three years in our first tiny church, she seemed to consider it paying my dues. She still saw me in a grand pulpit somewhere. Pipe organ. Massive stained glass windows. Television ministry.
But the day we got the call that we were going to Mossy Creek Mt. Gilead Methodist Church (and we had to get out a map to try to figure out where in the world Mossy Creek was), the light faded in her eyes.
My stomach tied in one big knot after that call came. I kept hoping she would give me The Look once again. The one that put me back at the top of the world — her world at least. But as we sat in our new parsonage with boxes all around, I couldn’t quite see beyond her anguish. Or her disappointment.
* * * *
The Saturday after we moved into the church parsonage, Amelia and I awakened to the sound of the doorbell. She bolted up in bed with a panic-stricken look on her face, swiped the hair out of her eyes and glanced at the clock. “Ten-thirty a.m. and the new minister and his wife are caught in bed. You answer it.”
“They won’t kick us out of town for sleeping in on Saturday.”
By the time I had put one foot on the floor, she was in the bathroom with the water running. I yanked on a pair of gym shorts as the doorbell rang a second time. “Coming,” I hollered in the general direction of the front door.
Amelia’s soapy face peeked out of the bathroom. “Hurry! And get a shirt on, for heaven’s sake.” She slammed the bathroom door, then I heard her moan.
“Oh, this is terrible.”
Pulling on my dirty tee shirt from the day before, I opened the door to a stranger.
The sleek, fortyish woman in slim tweeds gave me a quick once-over, but I had the distinct feeling she’d had enough time to register the minute details — lack of shoes, bed head, morning breath.
“I’m Mal Purla Rhett, church treasurer. Good morning, Reverend Phillips.”
“Come on in, Ms. Rhett. Call me Mark.”
“Oh, I couldn’t do that. It would be inappropriate.”
I could see we’d never be best friends.
She picked her way around boxes and perched on the edge of a worn velvet Queen Ann chair. The same chair Amelia and I decided must have been the original purchase for the parsonage.
“I thought I’d come fill you in on how I do the paychecks and pay the bills. And welcome you, of course,” she said without a hint of welcome. Then she handed me a shiny gift bag with tissue paper sticking out and a big fancy bow. “I’m also president of the Mossy Creek Welcome Club.”
“Thank you. That’s real kind. If you’ll give me just a minute, I’ll run and let Amelia know you’re here. “And I can brush my teeth.
“Fine.”
I’m not one to worry so much about what everyone thinks of me (except Amelia, of course), but this woman made me nervous. Maybe it was the designer pantsuit on a Saturday morning. Or maybe it was the Jennifer Anniston hairdo and perfect makeup when I looked like something the dog had dragged in. Whatever it was had me hurrying to locate Amelia, who’d always been a natural hostess.
She bumped into the bedroom door as I flung it open.
“Help.” I held up the frou-frou package. “The church treasurer is here bearing gifts.”
With smoothed hair and a touch of lipstick, Amelia looked as if she’d been up for hours. “Go start the coffee. I’ll entertain her while you make yourself presentable.”
My calm, collected (at least on the surface) wife took the gift and glided down the hall. “Good morning. I’m Mark’s wife, Amelia . . .”
By the time I managed to finish dressing in clean clothes, locate an extra mug out of one of the moving boxes and start the coffee, my normally unflappable wife sat across from the treasurer with a brittle smile on her face.
As I came in the room, Amelia said, “Mal was telling me about her idea for us to host an open house.”
Mal. What a creepy name. I smiled. “Certainly.”
Mal Purla Rhett eyed me. “I think it’s a good way to meet the community. To establish your place here in Mossy Creek.”
I sat next to Amelia on the couch and took hold of her hand. “Sounds like a great idea.” As an afterthought, I glanced to see what she thought. She still had a smile on her face, but one I couldn’t read. “Of course, only if that’s what my wife wants to do.”
“Of course,” Mal said. “I can help with the decorating, if you’d like. My sister, Swee Purla, is one of the most successful interior designers in the South. She lives down in Bigelow, but I often assist with her projects. She and I have wanted to get hold of this parsonage for years, but the congregation has resisted.” She sniffed. “Creekites tend to be obsessed with maintaining the historic status quo. Even when that quo is an embarrassment.”
I looked around at the ragtag furniture and mismatched end tables. Probably an interior decorator’s idea of hell. “It’s a little worn, but we can make do.”
Amelia laughed. “And we plan to start our family, anyway. You know how messy kids can be.”
A family?
“How nice,” Mal said. “No need to put too much into new furniture if little ones will be running around destroying everything.”
I raised my eyebrows first at our visitor, then at Amelia, wanting to tell them both that kids wouldn’t be along anytime soon.
“So, Mal,” I said as I leaned forward on the cushions. “When do I get paid?
My smile was meant to tease her into lightening up, but Mal Purla Rhett seemed to have only one mode. Uptight.
She pulled a computer printout from her brushed suede organizer. “I’ll pay you twice a month. Out of the first check, I’ll pay your electric bill. In the middle of the month, I’ll pay your water and gas. I’ll also pay the phone bill out of that check.”
“You pay our bills?” I couldn’t stop the incredulity in my voice. I’d never heard of such a thing.
“Yes, I pay anything that’s in the name of the parsonage: water, gas, electric, phone, trash pickup. It’s a policy we adopted years ago after a pastor let the bills slide. The church got a bad credit rating because of him.”
I caugh
t myself with my hand on my back pocket, protecting my credit cards. “I don’t mind paying the parsonage bills myself, Mal. Amelia and I managed the parsonage at our previous church without any problems. You can check with the church treasurer. She’ll vouch for us. I think the parsonage family should be trusted to take care of their own utilities.”
“I’m sorry Reverend. It’s non-negotiable. Church policy is church policy.”
With my teeth on edge, I held my tongue and decided it wasn’t a battle worth fighting. Maybe not handling the bills would end up being a blessing. I would have more time to enjoy small-town life. “I guess that’ll work out okay. Will you forward us a copy of each statement, please?”
“Always do. They’ll come with your paycheck.” Mal Purla Rhett directed her gaze to Amelia. “I’ll give the check and paperwork to you each time. In my experience, pastors’ wives are far more competent than their husbands when it comes to managing business matters.”
Amelia smiled. “Well, how about I get us all some coffee?”
And so started my relationship with Mal Purla Rhett, Evil Treasurer.
* * * *
By the time we’d been in Mossy Creek for about two months Amelia was fit to be tied. Our Creekite congregation adored me, except for Mal Rhett. And they had plenty for me to do. Even though Amelia knew that being a minister’s wife meant sharing me with my flock, she’d never seen a flock so determined to keep the shepherd in the field. Luckily her socialite upbringing kept her from making an all-out attack on anyone in the church. Unfortunately, she took some of that anger out on me.
“So you have another meeting tonight?” Amelia asked, standing beside the dinner table. It was loaded with food.
“Yes, I always do on Mondays.”
She turned away and stirred something on the stovetop. “It wasn’t on the calendar. How am I supposed to keep up if you don’t write it on our home calendar?”
Her voice was calm, but I could hear the tension. Besides, whenever she couldn’t look at me, I knew she was really mad.