A Day in Mossy Creek

by Deborah Smith

  I noted the new mailbox he’d fashioned and painted to look like a beaver. Orville was still proud of winning the battle with the “denizen of the deep” who’d tried to dam up his pond. The mailbox was folk art at its best, which surprised me. Maybe there was hope for Orville yet.

  But then my eyes followed the rusty hubcaps lining the driveway, drawn as always to that damned commode he’d set in the front yard. The commode resided under an ancient elm tree that shaded a good portion of the yard, south of the porch. A big, faded, red-plastic bow, made from what looked like red garbage bags, sagged from a leafless branch of the elm. Just below the bow, a dried-out evergreen wreath hung by a series of unbound wire hangers. The dried-out wreath and faded bow were centered directly above the white porcelain commode. The display looked like a throne for a redneck Santa.

  Unfortunately, Orville never understood why most people wouldn’t consider using an old commode as a yard chair. He didn’t much care if the neighbors saw him sitting on it reading the paper, or that they might think he was doing his business in the front yard. He worried even less if a stranger driving along the West Mossy Creek Road saw him sitting on the pot.

  I slammed on the brakes with a screech when I witnessed something worse—Orville atop a ladder attaching those damned icicle lights to his porch roof.

  I pulled off on the shoulder and dug in my purse to find my new flip-phone. I never remembered to turn it on and, no, I hadn’t set up my virtual mailbox. I sometimes worried I’d get dependent on it and get a whopper of a bill for going over my monthly minutes. But this was an emergency. I’d get Josie to rally the troops. There was no way Orville Gene Simple was displaying Christmas lights twenty-four-seven.

  JOSIE CALLED JASMINE Beleau—our local beauty, fashion and image consultant—and Sandy, who carries a badge and a gun. After they opted in on “Project Curb Appeal,” I picked up Clay from the McCready’s, brought my finds into the house, and fixed lunch for the family. It was almost time for me to leave. Mac was watching an old football game on TV. He referred to these old games on some sports cable channel as classics, and who was I to argue? Liking old things or things that looked old bound us together.

  Clay was wrestling with Dog, our Australian Shepherd. Maddie and Butler, our labs, were snoring near the fire. Mac was winning the competition with the dogs for the loudest snore. Now if I turned off the football game blaring on the TV, I knew he’d claim otherwise.

  I pressed the off button on the TV console.

  Mac opened one eye. “Hey, I was watching that.”

  “Really?” I asked, waiting for the line that always followed.

  “I was just resting my eyes.” He sat a little straighter in the oversized, club chair I’d slipcovered in a striped ticking. He grabbed the remote in his lap and pressed the on button. Some team in maroon and white was on the forty yard line.

  “I thought you only snored when you were sleeping,” I said.

  “I wasn’t asleep. I was listening to the game.”

  I blocked his view of the TV screen as best I could. “So what’s the score? Who’s playing?”

  “Okay. I give up. You win. I was just having a little cat nap.” He yawned as Dog woofed low at the word cat. “Where are you going?”

  “Oh, I’m just meeting up with Josie, Jasmine, and Sandy for a consultation.”

  “I like our ‘shabby chick’ house just fine.”

  “Shabby chic,” I said. “A shabby chick is a disheveled female. And the consultation isn’t for us.”

  Dog stopped tickling Clay with his nose. His ears raised to full attention.

  “So who’s it for?” Mac asked.

  “I’m sorry. I can’t tell you. I’ve been sworn to secrecy.”

  “You’re up to something, Patty.”

  I grabbed my purse and wrapped my scarf around my neck. “Don’t be silly.”

  Mac removed himself from his comfortable spot in the chair and walked over to the front picture window. He peered through one of the wooden slats. “And why do you have my ladder hanging out the back of the Expedition, and my Adirondack chair?”

  Thankful that he didn’t realize I had the space heater as well, I picked my key ring off of the key rack by the door. “Not everyone is six-foot-four inches tall. Some of us have to get up on a ladder to measure for curtains.”

  I got as far as opening the front door before he placed his towering frame between me and the front porch. I knew I shouldn’t look him in the eye, but I couldn’t help risking a quick peek.

  Mac was frowning. “Why do I get the feeling you’re leaving out some important details?”

  A good offensive move was needed, so I shrugged, then kissed him like I had when we were first dating. Men can be distracted that way. Jasmine gave me that little piece of advice. It worked like a charm.

  “Maybe you can be late for the consultation,” he said with a familiar gleam in his eye.

  I’D PICKED UP TWO of my accomplices, Josie and Jasmine, in record time. We stopped at Mossy Creek Hardware and Gardening and bought red paint. Josie said Orville needed a red door to improve his Feng Shui, and his dog Duke needed some distraction. She’d brought a sack of Gour-mutt dog treats she’d picked up from Beechum’s Bakery. Ingrid’s Chihuahua, Bob, loved the liver-and-herb biscotti. Josie figured Duke would like those, and she had Ingrid toss in a couple of bison biscuits, too. My labs, Maddie and Butler, prefer Ingrid’s carob pupcakes. Dog’s favorite is the banana nut biscotti. I doubted Duke was that discerning since he rarely roused himself to bark at anyone’s intrusion, and when he did it was on a delayed basis. He was too lazy to be persnickety about which treats he ate.

  It took us about twenty-five minutes to decide that we couldn’t all agree on the right shade of red. So we bought three different quarts. Actually, I did the buying since the whole “While You Were Out” makeover of Orville Gene’s exterior was my idea. Plus, I thought buying three different shades of red would help keep Amos off my trail, just in case Orville decided to file a report.

  Tom Anglin winked at me when I handed him my debit card. “Kind of cold for painting today, Patty. Working on another visionary piece?”

  “Yes,” I said with a smile. “I bought an old pie safe at Ernest King’s estate sale. And we can’t decide which shade of red would be best for the crackle treatment.”

  “Right,” he said, with another wink. “You make sure you paint it in a warm-enough space. Otherwise it won’t adhere right.”

  I had my electric space heater in the back of the SUV, so I wasn’t worried about the paint adhering. I was a little worried about the winking. I was a happily married woman. Why was Tom winking at me?

  We headed down West Mossy Creek Road, certain that by the time Orville arrived back from Bigelow, we’d be long gone.

  Sandy, who’d enjoyed her part in fixing up Michael Conners’ bachelor pad last year, was already pulling up the rusty hubcaps lining Orville’s drive by the time we arrived. She had a couple of bales of white wire edging in the back of her truck. We didn’t have time to use the plastic stuff you had to pound in, and we’d decided the wire stuff had that quaint, old-fashioned feel anyway.

  “Please tell me you bought the wire edging in Bigelow,” I said.

  “Why should we give those Bigelowans our hard-earned money?” Sandy asked. “Tom’ll keep our secret. I explained everything to him.”

  “Great,” I muttered under my breath. We probably should have thought to bribe Tom. At least the winking hadn’t meant he was hitting on me. But Tom was the least of our problems.

  Josie’s face turned pale as she stared at Orville’s front door.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked.

  “The door. I can’t paint it if it’s locked.”

  “No problem,” Jasmine said, then dug in her purse for a bobby pin. She picked the lock o
n the front door without any explanation of where she’d acquired that particular skill, and none of us girls asked any questions.

  I wondered where Duke was. If he never showed, I’d bring my babies, I mean dogs, the treats.

  Once the door was open, Josie took the opportunity to grab a bucket and scrub brush and wash down the door in preparation for the red paint.

  While Josie started sanding the door, Jasmine and I worked as a team pulling all those icicle lights down. I wanted to clean the gutters while I was up there, but we only had so much time. You know it’s bad when the leaves in the gutters turn to soil and pine saplings grow in them. There was no question about it, we’d have to come back. The daylily bed beside the porch needed cleaning out, too. The brown, flattened fronds of last summer’s greenery hung over the bed’s rock border like the legs of dead spiders.

  Jasmine and I had our system down. She held the ladder for me. I’d remove the lights, coil up the strands, bind them with plastic wire twists and hand them to Jasmine, who’d place them into the large plastic wheeled tub she’d brought. I plucked the light fasteners and deposited them in my builder’s apron until I had enough to bind with rubber bands.

  We stopped our disassembly line once to judge the three test patches of paint Josie dabbed on the door. I drank some water, while everyone else had hot chocolate that Sandy had picked up from Mama’s All You Can Eat Café. Sandy made a point of telling me she knew I’d given up sugar, so she’d made certain to ask Rosie Montgomery for bottled water, so as not to tempt me. She’d even outright refused the chocolate meringue pie Rosie offered.

  By the time we’d taken down the last strand of lights, had the tub packed in the back of the Expedition, removed the dried-up wreath and the faded plastic bow, and even swept the leaves off the porch, Josie’s second coat of Barnyard Red was dry. Sandy was about done securing Orville’s new driveway edging. I stood back, trying not to think about hot chocolate or chocolate meringue pie, and surveyed our progress.

  The red door cheered up the old white farmhouse immensely. Josie was busy inside, drawing up plans for a complete renovation. All we had left to do was get rid of that commode in the yard. I knew it was heavy, but figured Jasmine and I could lift it. I didn’t want to interrupt Josie. Maybe my New Year’s resolution should have been to accept my small stature.

  We put Mac’s Adirondack chair under the elm without much trouble, though Jasmine and I must have looked like Mutt and Jeff carrying the thing. I placed a cute red gingham pillow made of water-repellant fabric against the fanned back of the chair. Josie was still sketching away inside. Sandy was answering a call over the radio.

  As Jasmine and I proceeded to take either side of the heavy porcelain toilet, Jasmine asked, “Are you sure you can lift this?”

  “Absolutely,” I said.

  I knew what my tall, sturdy friend was really saying. You’re too little to pick this up. You’re not strong enough. I might be what some people would call tiny, if you didn’t count the ten pounds of sugar cookies plumping out my posterior. But my determination to do things for myself despite my lack of stature is what you might call Mac-sized. I should have realized Jasmine was just worried about me and what might happen. But I had to prove myself like The Little Engine That Could, my favorite children’s story of all time.

  We hoisted the commode. About halfway to the SUV, my arms felt like rubber bands stretched to their limits. I tightened my grip. My knuckles whitened as I huffed and puffed.

  “Let’s set the commode down for a minute and rest,” Jasmine suggested.

  Little did she know those were fighting words to tiny women the world over who carry off more than they can haul. “I’m fine,” I grunted.

  “See if you can lift it higher on your side,” she said, probably thinking she was being helpful. “Or maybe you could balance some of the weight on your shoulder.”

  I attempted the adjustment, and the commode started wobbling, sort of like a canoe that’s about to tip over.

  That’s when Sandy shouted, “Holy cow! We’re done for!”

  Orville’s battered old pick-up was speeding up the driveway where we were standing. That’s when the commode slipped from my grasp. Jasmine, bless her heart, couldn’t hold on to it either, and it smashed to the cold, hard ground, breaking into three pieces. Too many for Orville to have any hope of gluing it all back together. Thank goodness. I kept hoping I’d feel a little remorse, but I didn’t.

  MAC PRESSED HIS lips together tightly as he glared at me. Clay stood next to Mac, mimicking his expression, but looking far less menacing. I was in trouble, big trouble.

  Amos, notepad in hand, leaned back against his Jeep. His expression was almost gleeful, like he’d caught his sister sneaking out at night and was ratting on her to his parents. “Let’s start with breaking and entering.”

  “Only because Josie couldn’t paint the door with it closed, Chief,” Sandy said.

  He raised a dark eyebrow at her. “And we have destruction of property.”

  “It was a toilet that he kept in the front yard, for goodness sake,” I said in my best big-sister voice.

  He ignored my comment and continued his litany of offenses. “We have attempted theft of twenty strands of icicle lights and fifty rusty hubcaps.”

  “Fifty-three,” Orville said. “And don’t forget conspiracy involving an officer of the law.”

  That’s when Duke, Orville’s old hound dog, decided to run out from the woods to growl and bark at us for intruding.

  “A little too little and a little too late,” Orville said. He bent down and grabbed a stick. “Shut up, Duke. Go fetch.” He threw the stick, and the dog lumbered after it, tail wagging.

  He came back, without the stick, and lifted his leg to give the Adirondack chair a good dousing.

  “Stop that, you damned mutt! That’s my good . . .” Orville stopped and scratched his head, apparently rethinking his position. “Go ahead, Duke. Get the chair good and wet, and then you women can haul it off to where you found it. And you’re gonna buy me a new commode, too.”

  Amos frowned at Sandy. “Orville has a point about you being an officer of the law. I doubt I’ll like what I’m going to hear, but what do you have to say for yourself?”

  “It wasn’t stealing. I swear. We were only storing the lights for safekeeping. We planned to bring them back at the start of the holiday season and even help Orville put them up.”

  “And take them down once the season ends,” I added.

  “For perpetuity,” Jasmine said and smiled at Orville, who looked startled at the beautiful woman’s attention.

  Mac wagged a finger at me. “I think it’d be best if you declined to make any further comments.” Mac’s lawyer tendencies had kicked in, his need to protect his client overtaking his husbandly anger.

  “But I have proof of our good intentions,” Sandy said. “I’ve got the certificate we printed up for Orville.” Her blonde curls bobbed as she ran back to her pick-up truck.

  “This is why women are nothing but trouble,” Orville said, folding his arms over his chest, then sniffing like he smelled something bad. “I don’t care what that piece of dadblame paper says. I didn’t ask for no help with my Christmas lights, and I don’t see how hanging them all the year ‘round hurts anybody.”

  Amos and Mac didn’t refute him.

  I wanted to elbow my silent husband, but I couldn’t reach him.

  “Do you keep Halloween decorations up all year?” I asked.

  “I don’t have Halloween decorations, Mrs. Campbell.”

  “How about Valentine’s Day? If you had them, would you keep big pink and red hearts hanging from your elm tree? Or turkeys and pilgrims? Or Fourth of July flag banners?”

  “Well no, except maybe the good ol’ red, white and blue.”

  I groaned. “Orville, my po
int is that Christmas lights are for Christmas. You don’t turn them on except during the holidays. Why keep them up there? Quite frankly, it denotes laziness on your part.”

  “Laziness? Do you know it took me two hours to string up them lights this morning?”

  “And it took us no time at all to take them down. So what are you complaining for?”

  Orville turned to Amos again. “See, this is what happens when you start thinking maybe having a woman around might be nice. Then they start messing in your business, and you realize you’re better off alone. Fate stepped in today to remind me why I don’t need a woman around.”

  Amos wore a conflicted expression, like he wanted to agree with Orville, then thought the better of it.

  “So where were you when you had this revelation?” I asked Orville.

  Mac sent me one of his patented “mind your own business” looks.

  Orville scratched his head again as he debated whether he’d tell us. “One time I made me an appointment with the Hair Club for Men people down in Atlanta. I thought maybe if I got all fancified I could get me a woman to court. About halfway there, I changed my mind.” He glanced over at the urine-soaked chair. “You took the most comfortable seat I have and gave me that contraption with the girlie pillow on it. What kind of crime would you call that, Chief Royden?”

  “Have you sat in the Adirondack?” Jasmine asked, her voice all honey-smooth.

  “No,” Orville said, eyeing the chair.

  “Then how can you say you don’t like it?” she asked.

  “On pure principle.”

  “Well, Mac liked that chair,” I said. “I don’t see why it wouldn’t be comfortable for you.”

  Amos grinned. “You want me to add that to the list of crimes, Mac? Your wife giving away your oversized Adirondack?”

  Mac’s frown deepened. “No comment.”

  “Yeah, no comment,” mimicked Clay.

  Jasmine sidled up close to Orville. “May I?” she asked and removed his cap before he had a chance to say yes or no. She revealed the thin comb-over, swirled from back to front, then swept to the side in a curve nearly as intricate as the one Donald Trump created on a daily basis. “So what made you change your mind about the hair?” she asked.