A Day in Mossy Creek

by Deborah Smith

  Amidst all the shrieking, cooing, shouting, and cussing, I heard Rory say, “Now how the heck did Oscar get loose? I thought I had him packed up good and cozy.”

  YOU SHOULD HAVE seen the looks on Mama and Daddy’s faces when we arrived home in a police car. Officer Mutt Bottoms explained that no charges were being brought against us, but only because they couldn’t prove we meant to let that rat snake loose in the ice cream parlor, and that witnesses swore Charles Huckleby threw the first punch.

  “But you’re lucky,” Officer Bottoms said, “that these two aren’t in jail for inciting a riot and fighting. Adele Clearwater almost had a heart attack at the sight of that snake, and Charles Huckleby nearly knocked a tourist through the plate glass window.”

  I felt sick thinking about what could have happened, and I know Rory felt pretty bad, too. Throwing a few punches at Charles had to please him some, but I knew he hadn’t meant to give old Miss Clearwater a heart attack or get a tourist knocked through a window.

  The minute the officer left our house, I launched into a profuse apology. I knew Rory and I were in big trouble. Just the mention of the police was enough to put Daddy on edge, let alone seeing us hauled home in a patrol car. We did have one point in our favor, though—our crime had nothing to do with stealing. Which meant I could surely handle any punishment Daddy might dish out, even if I had to clock it for a day or two. But what worried me more than my punishment was what might happen to Rory.

  Because Daddy never punished kids that weren’t his own. He always just sent them away. And heck, Rory and I hadn’t even beat level two on my new video game yet. This was no time to cut his two-week vacation short.

  “The whole thing was my fault,” I said, stabbing my thumb into my chest for emphasis. “I thought it would be funny, seeing those girls run from Oscar. I never meant to cause any real trouble.”

  “It wasn’t his fault.” Rory nudged me aside and faced Daddy squarely. “I was the one who took Oscar from his cage, and I was the one who let him loose.”

  “No, it was me,” I insisted, elbowing my way in front of Rory, hoping he’d get the message and lay off. He never had been one to tell lies, but I hoped he’d have the sense to go along with mine. “Rory didn’t know anything about Oscar until I let him loose at the ice-cream parlor.”

  “Chip Brown, you’re lying through your teeth,” Rory charged, angrier than he’d ever been with me. “You know dang well that I—”

  “Both of you are to blame,” my mother snapped, “and I’ve never been so disappointed in all my born days. Just think how Toby would feel if Oscar had been squished flat . . .”

  “We’re both sorry as we can be, Mama. But really, Rory had nothing to with—”

  “That’s enough.” My father’s deep, quelling voice cut through the noise like a hot knife through butter, and we all fell silent. Daddy’s a man of few words, and he rarely gets mad, but when he does, we all pay attention. “Chip, you go to your room.”

  I knew better than to argue. I headed for the stairs.

  Before I’d taken more than a few steps, though, Rory burst out, “What about me? Aren’t you going to punish me, Uncle Bunk? I’m the one who did it!”

  My father blinked a half-dozen times, as if he wasn’t quite getting a clear view. “I’m not sure what’s going on here, Rory, but you and I need to have a talk.”

  “A talk? That’s it . . . a talk?” He was scornful and furious and almost near tears—and I ain’t never seen Rory cry. “Why won’t you punish me? Why?”

  Daddy just stared, looking too surprised for words. I stood and stared, too. Taking his rightful blame for letting the snake loose was one thing, but begging Daddy for punishment! Had Rory lost his mind?

  “Don’t you take that tone with your uncle, young man,” my mother finally said, breaking the silence.

  Rory didn’t spare a glance for her, but glowered at my father as if he hated him. “The only reason Chip’s taking the blame is because he knows you’ll send me away.”

  Again, Daddy found no words, so Mama came up with some. “Send you away? Don’t be silly, Rory. Letting a pet snake loose ain’t all that bad.”

  I considered that to be good news, but it seems Rory didn’t. His mouth stretched thin, his fists clenched at his sides, and with one last glare at Mama and Daddy, he took off through the front door.

  Sometimes there’s no understanding a guy as cool as my cousin Rory.

  EVERYONE’S GOT something they treasure, something they consider more important than anything else—and I’m not talking about love, friendship, family or anything mushy like that. I mean real, honest-to-goodness things. Mine is my video game system. If the house burned down, that’s the first thing I’d grab. Toby would grab Oscar, I’m sure, but since pets might count under the “mushy” category (like a brother or a parent), I’d say his most important item is his dirt bike. Mama’s is her Little Miss Bigelow beauty-queen tiara she won when she was a girl, before Tyrone Laslow’s Rottweiler put the scar on her face. And Daddy’s prize possession, without a doubt, is his FXSTDSE Screamin’ Eagle Softail Deuce Harley Davidson.

  You can hardly blame him for thinking it’s so special. Heck, it’s got a fuel-injected Twin Cam 95 cubic inch power train, a custom leather seat and pillion with chrome inserts, three-spoke custom wheels, dual front disc brakes and a custom “Candy Cobalt and Starlight Black” paint job with a color-matched frame. Trust me, it’s sweet. He and Rory spent weeks last summer polishing it, gazing at it and listening to its engine roar. Rory, more than anyone, knew how sacred Daddy’s Screamin’ Eagle was.

  That’s why a short while later, just before dark, when I heard the first rumble of a powerful engine coming from the barn Daddy used as a garage/workshop, I figured Daddy must have decided to take his motorcycle out to try and find Rory while there was still enough daylight to see by. I’d been pacing across my room, waiting for Rory to come back to the house so I could find out why he’d run off. But then I heard a surprised exclamation from Mama in the kitchen followed by a muffled curse from Daddy, and I realized Daddy couldn’t be the one who cranked up the Screamin’ Eagle. Since Toby was off spending the day at a friend’s house (and he probably wouldn’t know how to start up the Screamin’ Eagle, anyway), that left only Rory. And Rory knew everything there was to know about that motorcycle, including where Daddy kept the extra key in the garage.

  But surely Rory wouldn’t take Daddy’s motorcycle without permission. Why I couldn’t think of a single thing he could do to get into more trouble, short of doing bodily harm to somebody. He might as well pack his bags and never come back—a fact that Rory knew as well as I did. So, no, it couldn’t have been Rory starting up that Screamin’ Eagle.

  The roar grew louder. Clearly the motorcycle was out of the garage, heading down the drive. I heard Mama and Daddy running for the front door. I tore off out of my room and flew down the stairs, not wantin’ to miss whatever action was taking place. I reached the front porch just in time to see that Screamin’ Eagle fly past the house, toward the road. And sure enough, Rory was driving!

  Man, oh man, I always knew he was cool, but you shoulda seen him on that Harley, all hunched over the fat chrome handlebars, not even wearing a helmet, his shaggy blond hair streaming out behind him.

  Daddy ran to his pick-up truck and flung open the driver door, while Mama headed for the passenger seat. Daddy already had that old gray truck in gear when I vaulted into the back. No way was I gonna miss whatever Rory did next. I hung on to the side of the truck bed with a deathgrip while I poked my head out to the side, trying to watch Rory while Daddy sped after him.

  Rory barely slowed down when he turned out onto the road, and I held my breath, watching the motorcycle fishtail before it finally straightened up. He’d turned away from the town square, thank goodness, or he’d have had to stomp on the brakes to keep from running red lig
hts or plowing over pedestrians in the crosswalks, I’m sure. As it was, he was headed for the main highway that led out of Mossy Creek.

  “Rory!” Daddy yelled through the open driver’s window of the pick-up. “Rory, pull over!”

  Mama was hanging out the passenger window and yelling something, too. Rory gave no sign of hearing, though. Just kept that Screamin’ Eagle flying.

  Daddy sped up and gained on him. Just as we were closing in, Rory hung a left onto an old dirt road that led to Whitaker’s Pond. Daddy turned behind him, and Rory led us on a merry chase all the way ‘round the pond. Daddy was just a-cussing, which is something he rarely does, and Mama took to praying. Me, I just tried my best not to be pitched over the side of the truck bed, what with all them ruts and bumps we were hitting and all. And let me tell you, it ain’t easy holding on to cold truck metal with your bare hands in January, or braving the winter wind without so much as a jacket. I liked to have froze my butt off. My fingers, at the very least.

  But I was too worked up to pay much mind to the cold. Rory rounded that pond, then headed back the way he’d come on the dirt road, with us in hot (actually, cold) pursuit. When he reached the main road, he stopped at the stop sign, which let us close the distance, but before Daddy could do more than holler out the window, Rory took off again, turning toward town. I hoped like heck he wouldn’t pass by our house and wind up on the town square. Mutt or Sandy would surely spot him then and haul him off to jail. He was three weeks shy of 15, when a body could get a learner’s permit, and even then I believe he’d have been in big trouble for driving that Harley all by himself.

  He hung a smooth right into our driveway—he was really getting the hang of steering that thing from the looks of it—and I let go of the breath I’d been holding. Shoot, he looked like a pro, the way he slowed down nice and easy and brought that baby to a halt just inside Daddy’s garage. A guy can’t help but admire a kid who can handle a Harley.

  Daddy didn’t look anywhere near admiring him, though. Lord a’ mercy, was he mad! I saw steam spouting from his ears, I swear, as he climbed out of the pick-up, slammed the door behind him and stalked into that barn-garage-workshop. Even Mama hung back some, taking her time getting out of the truck. I saw no use in moseying too close, neither. I stopped next to Mama just outside the garage, where we had a good view of the action.

  Daddy clenched his fists at his sides as he approached Rory, who had cut off the Harley, swung his leg clear of it and turned squarely for a confrontation. He didn’t look like he’d taken a bit of pleasure from that ride. And he didn’t look the least bit cocky for having handled the Screamin’ Eagle so well. Though I ain’t personally seen it, I suspect he had the look of a condemned man getting ready to die.

  His body stiffened and his face grew even paler as Daddy stalked close. It must’ve been like looking into the face of hell’s own fury.

  Oddly enough though, Daddy walked right past him, clean over to the far wall. And when he reached the wall, he pivoted and strode the other way. With every step, he shoved his fist into the palm of his other hand, harder and harder each time. His face was redder than I’ve ever seen it, and his mouth slanted this way and that. And his eyes . . .

  Good gosh a’mighty . . . his eyes were shining with tears. They weren’t dripping down his face or anything girlie, but they sure ‘nough hovered in his eyes. And his throat worked like he’d swallowed a chicken bone.

  He passed by Rory again without paying him a glance, then stopped at a stack of baled hay . . . and plowed his fist into that hay with a growl I’d never heard from a human. He hit the hay again and again, and when he whirled around, his chest was a’heaving. He looked a little crazy, and we all took a step back—even Rory.

  “You could have been killed.”

  He didn’t say it loud, but rough and gravelly, like his throat was too tight to let such a roar come through.

  Surprise loosened Rory’s jaw. He clearly hadn’t given his personal safety a thought—and sure hadn’t expected my father to.

  “Damn it all to hell, Rory,” he thundered then, loud enough to shake the barn, “you could be lying out there on that road—” He pointed in that direction, but his words broke off, and his throat muscles clenched again.

  And I knew what he was thinking. He was remembering his brother. Rory’s daddy. How he found him on the road, after some high-speed chase had killed him.

  Rory didn’t say a word. Just stood there staring at Daddy.

  “Why, Rory?” Daddy asked, his voice pure hoarse now. “Just answer me that.”

  Rory didn’t answer. In fact, he pressed his lips together until they nearly disappeared. The silence was heavier than any I’d ever known.

  “You took my Screamin’ Eagle without permission, and risked your life, your limbs, your everything, for nothing but a silly joyride. You scared us all sick. And you haven’t even tried to apologize.” Daddy frowned at him, as if he couldn’t for the life of him figure Rory out. Heck, I couldn’t either. “So what do you think I ought to do with you now?”

  Rory lifted his chin in a show of strength, but I could see he was hurtin’ something terrible. “I reckon you’re gonna send me away.”

  Dread clutched at me. Of course he’d send him away . . . and not just for the time being. Stealing the Screamin’ Eagle is one of those unforgivable offenses.

  “Is that what you want?” Daddy asked him.

  A muscle moved in Rory’s jaw, like he was chewing on something tough. “No, sir. But why do you bother asking me questions? You never believe me when I answer.”

  The air itself grew still and close in that garage.

  Daddy narrowed his eyes. “What are you talking about?”

  “You always think I lie. But I don’t. And you probably think I steal, too. But I don’t. And if you think I was stealing your Screamin’ Eagle, you’re wrong.”

  “Then just what were you doing, boy?”

  Rory let out a big rush of breath, and dropped his head, then lifted it again and looked at the ceiling, the wall, then Daddy . . . and his eyes were as shiny as Daddy’s had been. In a whispered little croak, he uttered, “I don’t know.”

  “Do you want to go to your mama? If you do, I’ll get you a flight and drive you to the airport right now. Do you want to go back to school? I’ll get on the phone to the principal and have him search that quarterback’s locker. You’ll be back in school by Monday.”

  Rory eyes widened, and I guess mine did, too. I hadn’t thought Daddy believed Rory about the quarterback throwing the stink bomb.

  “Whatever you want, Rory, I’ll help you get.”

  Rory swallowed hard then, and his eyes grew even shinier. “I don’t want to live at school, or in the apartment my Mama rented in Puerto Rico, or . . . or . . . “he choked up some.

  “. . . Or in a place where I’m just . . . company. I want to live at home.”

  Daddy looked as lost and confused as I felt. Where exactly was Rory’s home?

  Rory turned away suddenly and jammed his hands into his jacket pockets and looked like he wished he was anywhere but here. “Never mind about any of that,” he mumbled, nudging a stone on the ground with the toe of his sneaker. “I’m not your son, and I guess don’t deserve to be. Everyone knows you just send company away when they do something wrong, so—” he shrugged, “—call my mama, or the school, or—”

  “Wait just one cotton-pickin’ minute,” Daddy cut in.

  Rory glanced at him.

  “We haven’t settled the matter of you taking my Screamin’ Eagle without my permission.”

  Rory blinked, Then he frowned and flushed a little. “Oh. Well, I . . . I apologize . . .”

  “It’ll take a whole lot more than an apology.” Daddy seemed to be gathering steam, like a locomotive, and his voice grew loud and stern. “What you did was wrong.
When you take something that isn’t yours without permission of the owner, that’s stealing.”

  “But I—”

  “And I will not tolerate it in my family. My brother took to thievin’, and he died tryin’ to run, and I’d rather cut my heart out that to go through that with anyone else I love.”

  Rory gaped at him with the strangest expression.

  “I believe you’re gonna have to clock it, Rory.”

  Clock it. Daddy was making Rory clock it. Rory looked like he might be in shock at the news.

  “And I don’t mean for just one day,” Daddy went on in his sternest tone. “You’ll be clocking it for a full week.”

  “A full week!” I cried, aghast at the very thought. “Aww, c’mon, Daddy—”

  Mama pinched my arm, cutting my protest short.

  Daddy kept his attention on Rory. “And then, for the week after that, you’ll go straight to your room every day after school.”

  Rory pondered that, and so did I. How could Daddy know what Rory did after school, seeing as how his school was way up yonder in Tennessee . . .

  “Mossy Creek might not have a school as fancy as the one you’re used to,” said Daddy, “but the one we’ve got will have to do. You can go to college just as well from Mossy Creek as you can from Chattanooga. I have no doubt your mama will agree. It’s time we bring you home.”

  It took a good minute before I fully realized what he’d said.

  Rory understood straight off. His eyes went to brimming, and his mouth wobbled some, but happiness beamed from that boy in rays so strong, it warmed me like the summer sun. “Yes, sir,” he said to Daddy. “Yes, sir.”

  “Report to your aunt for duty. Your clocking starts now, son.”

  I HEARD TELL THAT folks take to harsh punishment in different ways. Some try to think of happier times while going through the worst of it, some rant and rage at every turn, and others wallow in self-pity. Toby and me are more of the wallowing kind. We’ve learned over the long, hard years the secret to surviving a clocking sentence. If you look and act pitiful enough, Mama might go a touch easier on you while assigning the chores. The same can’t be said for Daddy. There’s a definite knack to keeping your pitiful looks for Mama’s eyes only.