Miss Irene came to a stop. “On what grounds?”
“Speeding and reckless driving.”
“Young man, this isn’t an automobile. Now, get out of my way.”
Amos blocked her. “Sorry, Miss Irene, I can’t do that.”
She stared firmly at him. He stared firmly back. It was a stare-off.
A crowd gathered. Half the onlookers sided with Amos and the other half egged Miss Irene on.
“Stand up for your rights, Granny,” one yelled.
Another yelled, “Chief, call Hank and tell him to get over here and take his senior delinquent in hand.”
“Aw, come on, cut her some slack. She’s crippled,” a man with a cane yelled.
“Somebody call Bert Lyman over at WMOS and tell him to get over here with his video camera.”
Aunt Irene’s eyes lit up when she heard that. The only thing that Aunt Irene liked better than dressing up was to be the center of attention. The two things were mutually compatible. And she wasn’t above using her age as a tool for getting her way. She was having the most fun she’d had in years.
Lifting her chin, she tilted her head and adjusted her sun hat. “Please do call Bert. I think Mossy Creek’s mistreatment of the elderly should be shown everywhere. I bet it even gets on CNN. Now, down in Bigelow, this would never happen. Only Mossy Creek would persecute a ninety-three-year-old woman.”
Amos realized he’d opened a can of worms. Aunt Irene wasn’t going down without a fight. Melvin arrived on the scene. Melvin came to the rescue.
“Miss Irene, Casey needs you at the clinic right away.”
“Needs me? What for?”
“Hank’s on a call and one of the patients he’s boarding is going into labor. She needs your help.”
It was obvious that Aunt Irene was torn between being needed by her great nephew’s wife and being persecuted. Obligation and family need took precedence. She pointed her finger at Amos and gave him one last parting shot. “Amos Royden, whether or not I want to be, I’m a tax-paying citizen of Mossy Creek, (well, she paid sales tax) and I have rights. We’ll talk about this after I’ve handled Casey’s emergency.”
With that, she beeped her horn, backed up and with Melvin running along beside her clearing traffic, drove quickly back to Magnolia Manor. There, Aunt Irene traded her scooter for her Pontiac and, with Melvin wearing his chauffeur’s cap, she ignored the cool autumn air and let down her window, waving as if she were Miss America on parade as they drove out of town.
When they reached the clinic, I sheepishly admitted to getting her there under false pretenses. There was no labor and delivery problem. But there was trouble of a different kind. Dwight Truman had just called Hank on his cell phone. As chairman of the town council, Dwight was calling an emergency council meeting for that very same night, to declare Aunt Irene a menace.
Dwight wanted her banned from the sidewalks of Mossy Creek.
A FEW NIGHTS later, Creekites packed the courtroom where town council meetings are held. Bert Lyman was present, his WMOS-TV camera in hand. Ingrid Beechum, Jane Reynolds, Hope Bailey Settles, and most of the other shop owners were there, and all the residents of Magnolia Manor. Irene’s friends held up signs. Irene is Innocent. Seniors Will Overcome. Go, Irene!
Dwight Truman called the meeting to order. “Good evening, fellow Creekites. I’m filling in for Mayor Walker, who will be here any minute. She called to say she’s conferring with a lawyer about protecting the Sitting Tree, and the meeting’s running a little late.” He rapped the gavel. “You all know that we’re here tonight because we seem to have a little problem: Miss Irene is terrorizing the citizens on her scooter.”
“And the tourists,” somebody called out.
Dwight put a serious expression on his face. “With our apologies to Dr. Blackshear, we have to decide what we need to do about his great aunt.”
“I’m sure we’ll do what’s fair,” Hank said stiffly. He doesn’t like Dwight. Very few people in Mossy Creek like Dwight. Look up “pompous” in the dictionary, and you’ll see Dwight’s picture.
Dwight nodded. “The citizens love Miss Irene, and we have made every effort to accommodate her new means of transportation. However, we can’t have our town’s commerce threatened by her. I say that not only as head of the town council, but also as head of the chamber of commerce. Commerce is clearly my responsibility. And she does threaten it. Chief Royden, what do you have to say about the situation?”
Amos stood. “I’ve handled a lot of dilemmas in my career as a law officer, but a ninety-three-year-old menace on a scooter is a first. I’ve had Teresa Walker research the legal aspect of this case, and she tells me that we have no regulations to cover this.”
“Thank goodness,” a female voice said. “Unlike our council chair, other lawmakers have better things to do than regulate handicapped citizens.”
We all turned to look as Ida strode up the center aisle. She was wearing snug jeans, cowboy boots, and a quilted windbreaker over a white turtleneck. Her red hair spilled from a casual twist. I snuck a peek at Amos’s expression. He watched Ida with the quiet, intense focus of a man who knew what—and who—was important to him. Everyone in town saw how he looked at Ida whenever Ida wasn’t looking back.
Dwight turned red and looked annoyed—his usual look around Ida. She took the gavel from him and sat down behind the “Mayor Ida H. Walker” sign on the council table. She settled her firm, green eyes on Amos. “Chief,” she said, making it sound like a caress, whether she realized that or not, “Chief, Miss Irene wasn’t exceeding any speed limit, was she?”
Amos smiled slightly. He never let Ida get the upper hand, if he could help it. “It’s hard to say. What is the speed limit on the sidewalk, these days?”
People laughed. Ida thumped the gavel, giving Amos a slit-eyed smile that promised repercussions. She was always touchy around him now. The controversy over the Sitting Tree wasn’t helping. “Very funny, Chief. The city ordinance clearly says any handicapped person can park their vehicle in wheelchair-marked spaces.”
Dwight piped up. “It doesn’t say she can drive like a demon on the sidewalk! Because of her, I bent the front wheel of my new bike!”
Someone called out, “You’re always bent, Dwight.”
Ida rapped the gavel.
In the back of the courtroom, old Ed Brady cupped a hand around his mouth. “Good manners and a Christian attitude demand that we show consideration for those less physically fortunate than the rest of us. Let Miss Irene run free!”
Applause. Mr. Brady had a crowd of supporters who celebrated his rebellions against authority. Especially when it came to driving vehicles, like Miss Irene’s scooter and his farm tractor, in hair-raising ways.
Melvin walked into the courtroom. “Here comes the freedom fighter now!” he announced loudly. He stood at attention. In came Aunt Irene, puttering along on her scooter. She was dressed in a World War II helmet and a flight jacket. “Don’t pussyfoot around and lose your Constitutional rights,” she said to the audience. “I can tell you from experience, the streets are a war zone. It’s every man for himself.”
People applauded again. Dwight slapped a hand on the council table. “Not when one man, er, woman puts others in danger.”
Ida rapped her gavel. “Chill out, Dwight. You’re dissing a veteran.”
Miss Irene beamed. With her pale, Max Factor face powder and her Revlon Red lipstick, she looked like a gray mouse with pink cheeks and squinched-up lips. But my toddler, little Li Ha Quh Blackshear, took one look at Irene’s strange get-up and began to cry with fear.
Miss Irene stopped her scooter. Tears welled up in her eyes. “See what you’ve done,” she said to the council, accusingly. “You’ve scared my great-great niece. She thinks you’re persecuting me. Have you no shame?” If she’d been auditioning for the part of
a dying swan, she’d have won, wings down.
She was ninety-three and being persecuted. Melvin had definitely created a monster when he got her a scooter.
The courtroom went silent. I hugged Li and shushed her. She quieted, but kept staring at Irene as if Irene were stranger than usual.
Amos cleared his throat. “Where’d you get the war gear, Miss Irene?”
“From Ed Brady. In that he’s had some experience with the law suspending driver’s licenses, he’s been advising me. Ain’t this a kick in the pants? Me, and my tank, at war with Mossy Creek. And I don’t even have a gun.”
“Miss Irene, until we can figure this out, you’re free to go, but I’m arresting your scooter.”
“You can’t do that.” She looked at Hank, sitting on the dais behind the council table. “Speak up, Hank. You’re supposed to be looking after me, aren’t you?”
Hank grinned. “Sorry Aunt Irene, but you’re on your own.”
Aunt Irene drove her scooter as close to Amos’s toes as she could manage. “I’ve not broken any law, Chief. You said so yourself.”
“Well, you have, now. You’re blocking the aisle with your vehicle. I’m within the law to impound your scooter as a . . . hazard to the public right-of-way.”
Aunt Irene looked around helplessly. Then she caught sight of Dwight Truman’s racing bike, parked in one corner. “Well, are you impounding Dwight’s vehicle, too? It’s blocking that corner.”
Dwight came to his feet. “That’s outrageous!”
“Arrest Dwight’s bike!” someone yelled.
People began to chant. Dwight’s bike. Dwight’s bike. Dwight’s bike.
Ida silenced them with her gavel. She cut her eyes at Amos. “Chief? I think Miss Irene’s got a point.”
Amos nodded, barely holding back a smile. “I believe she does. Melvin, if you’ll accompany Miss Irene back to Magnolia Manor and then bring the scooter over to the jail, I’ll take care of impounding Dwight’s bike.”
Dwight exploded. “This is absurd! Chief Royden, you can’t just stick my expensive racing bike in the jail parking lot. Someone will steal it.”
“Oh, I’m not putting in the parking lot. I’m going to lock it and the scooter in a cell. Visiting hours are on Sunday afternoon, one to three.”
Dwight sputtered.
The audience applauded.
Hank and Ida hid smiles behind their hands.
Irene raised a fist. Victory, even a symbolic one, was sweet.
Ida rapped her gavel. “I declare this issue resolved. Good night.”
Irene’s admirers leapt up and surrounded her, patting her shoulders and offering congratulations. With Li seated in a car seat attached to the side of my own scooter, I backed up. That was when I discovered that Melvin had put an automatic back-up horn on my vehicle. Beep, beep, beep it went, as if I were driving a fork lift through a warehouse. Already spooked by Aunt Irene, the Creekites gathered in the courtroom scattered, giving me a wide berth.
“Beep, beep, beep,” Li said, imitating the horn. I waved to Hank, who waved back. Li beeped us outdoors to my handicapped van. Ed followed us.
“Miss Casey, I’m sorry. I didn’t intend to get the town in an uproar. Melvin and I just thought Irene needed some help making her point. She ought to be able to navigate around town on her own, even if she is a mite reckless.”
“Well, I think you were certainly right. She’s having a ball. So, what do we do now, Ed?”
“Been thinking about that. Don’t suppose we could talk the mayor into reactivatin’ the Foo Club and get some civil disobedience going, do you? Maybe Wolfman Washington could bulldoze a hole in the jail. Spring Miss Irene’s law-breaking scooter.”
I laughed. Ida and her Foo Club escapades had become legendary. “I think we’ve had enough civil disobedience already,” I told Ed. “Melvin and you started this. Now you need to put on your thinking cap and get Irene out of it.”
He tipped his head to me. “We’ll figure something out.”
AMOS RELEASED HIS wheeled captives with a stern warning to Aunt Irene and Dwight about the proper use of their vehicles. Neither person was receptive to the chief’s suggestion that they take a taxi.
Everything calmed down through the rest of the year. Aunt Irene lay in wait during the holidays. She let the new year begin peacefully. She, Ed and Melvin debated ways to make Mossy Creek scooter-friendly, but didn’t appear to be up to any mischief. But then this cold, clear morning in January arrived, the day I should have seen coming for months.
Aunt Irene and her army of cohorts took to the streets in a protest march.
MT. GILEAD METHODIST Church was having their winter fundraiser on the square. Yes, it takes tough, faithful people to schedule an outdoor event in mid-January, but that was part of the appeal. Kind of showing off to the other churches in town. See? No ice storm, no snow, not even a drizzle of cold, winter rain to mar our event. A perfect winter day. God obviously likes us best.
They set up nice tents with propane heaters to keep everyone comfortable. The creative church women sell the crafts they’ve made all year long. They also sell pickles, canned tomatoes and anything else that can be put up in jars. For two days before the event, they assemble and cook their famous homemade chicken stew. They bake dozens of cakes and pies and cookies. Since the new minister, Mark Phillips came, the parsonage has been completely refurbished from money raised through such events.
As usual, people from all over our end of Bigelow County came to town to buy stew and other goodies. I held Li on my lap as I drove my scooter among the tents, hugging her close to me, loving her laughter and wondering how anyone could be as lucky as Hank and I. Hank managed to get away from the clinic for an hour that morning to accompany us to the event. Li picked out a rag doll we bought it, and then she preceded to throw it to the ground with regularity.
She giggled. She threw the doll. Hank fetched it. She had him trained.
About eleven o’clock there was a humming sound, faint at first, then louder. Gradually the murmur caught the attention of the crowd, and they turned toward it. That was when I recognized the lyrics—We Shall Overcome. Around the square came a slow-moving line of scooters—there were at least a hundred—headed straight for the church fundraiser. Aunt Irene was leading the charge.
“Casey,” my husband said, “what do you know about this?”
“Not a thing, I swear.”
I drove my scooter over to Sandy Crane. Mossy Creek’s short, curly-blonde police officer was bent so far over a big trash can that her top half disappeared inside. Her gun belt clanked on the basket’s metal rim.
“Gotcha, you little mooch,” she said, and straightened. She held Ingrid Beechum’s Chihuahua, Bob. He had a french fry in his mouth.
“Sandy,” I called. “Look what’s coming.”
You know, lots of towns say they have a town square, but Mossy Creek’s town square was a true square, with sidewalks and parking spaces built all around it. The difference, unlike most small towns, was that our courthouse wasn’t in the center of the square. Instead we have a park with a Confederate statue, a gazebo, picnic tables, big shade trees, little sidewalks and lots of brown winter grass. That day, tents and booths selling the church’s goods and chicken stew dotted the area.
You could stand in the square and, turning, see the panorama of downtown Mossy Creek, including Aunt Irene’s “Charge of the Scooters,” which headed towards us from the north, where Magnolia Manor was located. Sandy and I stared. “Oh, lord,” she said slowly. “And here comes Amos.”
A police car arrived from the south.
“Did you know about this scheme of Irene’s?” I asked. Sandy, like our gossip columnist, Katie Bell, knows almost everything before it happens.
Sandy shook her head. “Not this. Oh, lord. This isn’t gonna mak
e the Methodists or the chief happy. On top of which, I gotta go tell him the rumors I’ve heard about Ida’s plan to—”
She clamped her lips shut. I stared at her hard. “Ida’s plan to do what?”
“Never mind. It’s police business.” Sandy hurried away, handing Bob off to someone else.
I drove quickly toward the intersection of Aunt Irene and Amos.
He stepped out of his patrol car, blocking her advance. They met in the middle of the street, eye-to-eye, again.
“Good morning, Miss Irene,” Amos said. “Does this mean we’re being invaded?”
“Absolutely.”
“Do you realize you don’t have a parade permit, and you’re impeding the flow of traffic around the square?”
“Absolutely. Do you realize how many of your senior citizens are coming to this fundraiser for the first time in years? Senior citizens who expect to spend a great deal of money here and everywhere else in Mossy Creek, now that they can get around the square as easily as anybody with two good legs?”
Amos looked at the hundred faces behind her in the scooter line, all nodding at him beneath yarn caps and mufflers. He sighed. I felt sorry for Amos sometimes. He’d come home from a successful stint as a big-city cop, but still had to prove he was as good a law officer as his daddy, Mossy Creek’s legendary police chief, Battle Royden. So Amos dutifully judged beauty contests, looked for lost cats, solved disputes between neighbors, and put up with being the most-watched bachelor to ever secretly court our mayor.
And now he had to face down Aunt Irene.
Her group of protesters started singing a hymn titled Walking With Jesus, only they changed the words to Driving With Jesus. This time, other Creekites joined in, and even some tourists. Near the front of the line, ancient Eula Mae Whit began beeping her scooter’s horn. “I’m a hundred-and-one,” she called, looking like a wizened brown fairy in a kinte cloth coat. “Do I look like I got time to waste on this argument?”
Suddenly, two of the scooters pulled out and glided smoothly to stop on either side of Aunt Irene. Melvin drove one; Ed drove the other. Ed’s late wife, Ellie, had been a resident at Magnolia Manor, and it had nearly broken his heart when she died. After that, Ed had almost given up playing Santa Claus for Mossy Creek’s Christmas parade. The last few years had been hard on Ed. Now it was obvious he had a new mission in life. He and Aunt Irene had become friends.
A Day in Mossy Creek Page 3