A Day in Mossy Creek

by Deborah Smith

  Rory didn’t seem to grasp the wisdom of this strategy, or maybe he didn’t quite understand my advice during the few stolen minutes I found to whisper to him. Since communication with other family members is strongly discouraged during a body’s clocking term, I wasn’t able to give the benefit of all my hard-won wisdom.

  Boy, was he screwing up. Whereas Toby and me would take our time with every chore, knowing that when you were done, you’d only get another, Rory zipped through every task, as if he was racing against the clock. Not only that, but he took extra pains to do a good job—a really good dang job—at even the most menial of tasks, like cleaning the kitty litter box, doing the supper dishes, and sorting out Daddy’s tool chest. I started to worry he was setting too high a standard for Toby and me to follow.

  The most amazing part was, Rory didn’t look at all put out by anything Mama or Daddy told him to do. He actually took to whistling while he worked—and every now and again, he’d flash a smile at one of us. Very ill-advised, if you ask me. If he kept this up, they’d surely have him scrubbing the toilets before too long.

  Daddy and Mama, meanwhile, closed themselves up in the den to phone Aunt Lou, Rory’s mama. In no time at all, Daddy came strolling out, looking well-pleased with himself. Next thing I know, Mama’s chatting on the phone with Miss Francine, telling her the news about Rory staying in Mossy Creek.

  Not fifteen minutes later, the coach from Bigelow High School, Buck Looney, called to talk to Rory. Kids in Mossy Creek still have to bus down to Bigelow for school, since we’re still waiting on the governor to make good on his promise of rebuilding Mossy Creek High. Daddy told Coach Looney that Rory was “otherwise occupied” at the time. No phone use allowed while clocking it. I heard Coach’s voice through the receiver, even though I was clear across the kitchen. He wanted to know if Rory was intending to wrestle. Daddy speculated that he very well might. And while he said it, Daddy got this gleam in his eyes, like he did every year at the start of football at the University of Georgia. Something told me he could barely wait to see Rory in action on the wrestling mat. I could barely wait, myself. Coach sounded so excited at the prospect of signing Rory up, I’ll bet he let out a great big “Yee-Hah” after he hung up.

  It was almost too much to take in all at once. I’d have Rory here year-round. How cool was that?

  Hamilton’s Department Store

  312 Main Street

  Mossy Creek, GA 30533

  Est. 1901

  Marble floors. Old-fashioned service. Modern selections. Visit our on-line catalog at www.hamiltons.com

  From:

  Robert Walker, executive manager

  Hamilton’s Department Store

  Rosh:

  You were right about the new glow-in-the-dark knit jogging caps with the iPod pockets. We can’t keep them in stock. Every kid in town wants one. Every kid, and my 50-ish mother, too. She’s been working outdoors a lot this winter, getting ready to build a winery at her farm. She likes the “Raging Pink” color. She puts her iPod in it and listens to Stevie Nicks. I stopped by the other evening right after dark. She was driving a tractor in from the field. I spotted her glowing pink cap a good quarter-mile away. If you knew my mother, you’d understand why I like to have that much warning.

  But the reason I’m faxing you is to ask a favor. Can you hook me up with one of your custom uniform designers? Just between you and me, I’m putting together a community-league soccer team up here. Adult men, thirty-and-over.

  Don’t laugh. Yeah, so maybe we’ll need a few uniforms in sizes like “Xtra-Large Beer Gut” and “Double-Wide Comfort Fit,” but just wait until you see us kick a ball. By the way, do you have any connections among the sports linament and Ace bandage wholesalers?

  Rob

  Chapter 6

  You can run, but you can’t hide.

  Amos Comes to a Decision

  I CHECKED MY WATCH. I was hungry enough to eat a horse, but I doubted I’d be left alone long enough to chew my lunch. I’d have to settle for a cup of hot coffee. Before I headed into the Naked Bean, I glanced around the square for troublemakers. When I didn’t see any, I shot a glance skyward. Just to be sure the sky wasn’t falling. After this morning’s mayhem, I wouldn’t have been surprised to see two suns, a meteor coming at me or an unexpected eclipse.

  Instead I found the perfectly ordinary, clear, cold blue of January, which meant the only thing left to blame was the metaphysical universe. To be fair, my horoscope had tried to warn me about Mercury in retrograde. Next time I’d listen.

  The day started out with my retrieving the paper and catching a criminal in the act. My next door neighbor was across the street stealing Ms. Zola Hartley’s newspaper. “Joshua! Do not tell me you are doing what I think you’re doing.”

  Joshua was a twenty-something living on a budget with two roommates. They all worked at the candle factory out on Trailhead Road and until this moment I’d considered them good neighbors—a little loud with the music but since I liked their play list, I wasn’t complaining. He had the decency to look sheepish. I think he would have scuffed the toe of his shoe, too, except he was barefoot and dancing back and forth to escape the cold.

  “Hey, man.” He pitched his voice in a whisper that carried across the street. “They cut the cable off. I need my news.”

  “Here’s a newsflash. That’s not your paper.”

  He crossed the street, bringing the paper with him and quick stepping. That asphalt had to be torture. He halted in the grass at the edge of my yard. “Come on, Amos. Zola wouldn’t mind sharing. She sleeps late. I can have this baby read, folded and back in her driveway before her coffee pot kicks on. She’ll never know.”

  “This isn’t the first time you’ve shared her paper is it?”

  He knew better than to lie. “No.”

  “You’ll be telling her how generous she’s been later today.”

  “Right. I guess so.”

  “Good.”

  The day went downhill from there. Mutt, Sandy and I were busier than I could ever remember. Battle would have enjoyed today’s call sheet. Especially the most recent part that pitted me against the Gray Panthers. I’d have to remember to tell him next time I visited the cemetery. My visits weren’t obligatory lately. Funny how a year or two of walking my father’s beat had brought us closer than over thirty-five years of being his son. I understood him a little better and I’d convinced myself that he’d begun to appreciate me as well. We had a truce of sorts finally and a fair-to-even chance of maintaining it.

  Of course, one of us being dead had improved our chances tremendously.

  The Bean’s shop bell jingled and a herd of freshly ground scents washed over me in their rush to escape through the door. I couldn’t tell Peruvian Dark from aged, canopy-grown Brazilian, but that didn’t matter. Jayne hadn’t ever put a bad cup of coffee in my hands. A few months ago she’d switched my regular with something. It was pretty good. Now I didn’t even bother to order. Just took my chances with what she gave me, from whatever pot struck her fancy. As long as it wasn’t decaf.

  Battle thought decaf was a waste of good cup. I agreed. If you’re going to drink unleaded you might as well drop by Maggie Hart’s herb shop and guzzle tree bark tea sweetened with clover honey. Gak. I knew Battle wouldn’t have tried the tea either. I wondered if he would have switched his coffee allegiance to the Naked Bean or kept getting his refills over at Mama’s café?

  The answer followed right on the heels of the question. Mama’s. Yep. Mama’s.

  Taste actually had nothing to do with it. Money did. Battle never surrendered a nickel without a fight. Rather than cough up an extra buck, he’d have drunk coffee so bitter you couldn’t have distinguished it from a three-time divorcée whose husbands cheated. Nope. Battle would have still been getting free refills down at Mama’s. Somehow that made gourmet coffee and its
price slide down real easy.

  Okay, so the truce isn’t perfect. But we’re working on it.

  The Bean was empty for once. The Methodists and their baked goodies were luring the lunch crowd away. Jayne looked up from something on the counter. I did the hey-I’m-here-for-my-coffee wave. She nodded and came to meet me, carrying and wiping some piece of stainless equipment that was essential to the espresso machine. At least I think it was essential because she constantly fussed and fidgeted with it. As she walked she smiled that wide, welcoming smile of hers, the ponytail swishing just a bit. I decided that Battle might have switched his trade after all. And she was definitely easy on the eyes. Battle liked easy-on-the-eyes. Plus Jayne had a way of making people like her.

  Until they got sucker-punched by her. Like now. “How can I help you, Vlad?”

  Vlad? Vlad the Impaler?

  That Jayne packed a wallop when you least expected it. Reminded me of another strong, blunt woman I knew. A corner of my mouth kicked up. You couldn’t fault her reference. She was spot on. Vlad and I both shared the love of our villages. His neighbors showed their love with pitchforks and torches. Mine used electric scooters. Let me tell you, electric scooters coming at you are every bit as unsettling as pitchforks and torches. Especially the way Miss Irene drives.

  “Jaynie, darlin’, do not start with me. I’ve had a wicked bad morning. I’ve got a ticket book, a short temper and I know for a fact you’ve got trash cans blocking the alley out back.”

  She snorted and reattached the espresso part. Jayne didn’t stand on ceremony with me. “Amos, you give me a ticket for blocking the alley and I can guarantee you a new protest march by two p.m.”

  It was my turn to laugh. “Only by two? I thought you were better connected than that. I’m a bit disappointed. I’d have thought you could pull it together sooner.”

  She grinned over her shoulder and grabbed a to-go cup for my coffee. “Well, I could. But without Ingrid here to help I’d have to forgo the torches.”

  “Yeah, what’s a march without torches? Although it’s probably best if we don’t put another deadly weapon in Miss Irene’s hands. By the way, where did Ingrid go in such a hurry, packing Bob along for the ride? She usually asks me to keep an eye on her place.”

  “Just gone for the day.” Snap. The lid settled into place. “She and Ida are sorting out some city business. I think it was an old paperwork thing.” She traded me coffee for money. “Just as well they aren’t here stirring up more trouble for you. Looks like you got enough restless natives.”

  Before I could agree, a yellow plastic duck came sailing out of the little office in the back. I’d never been around a baby long enough to watch them grow from little lumps to little people. The process was interesting in a watching-a-train-wreck sort of way. The little sucker had quite an arm.

  Jayne pushed my change at me but made no move to retrieve the duck, which teetered forlornly on its broad nose, butt in the air. “Irritating isn’t it?” she asked. “That compulsion to run pick up the stupid duck? I’m convinced he’s working on his first science fair project.”

  I snapped out of duck-focus. “Come again?”

  She finally ambled toward the duck. “I’m convinced that kid has a little notebook and when I’m not looking he’s writing down things like, ‘Today the subject reliably retrieved the duck eight hundred forty-six times. Speed of return noticeably slower than with the binky. Must try the red block tomorrow.’”

  “Which you’ll retrieve reliably.”

  “Absolutely.”

  I headed for the door, warming my hands on the cup and asked a question that surprised me. “You like this? Being tortured in the name of science? Giving up sleep?”

  Duck in hand, her whole body radiated the answer and she cast a glance toward the play yard hidden just inside the office door. “Yep.”

  Baby Matthew tuned up for a scream. He’d apparently reached the end of his tolerance for the play yard. I sought the relative peace and quiet of the station. I liked my train wrecks without soundtracks.

  CALLER ID FOR THE station was a bit of technology that Sandy’d just had to have. Said it made her more efficient since we couldn’t afford a proper emergency response system. Probably did make her more efficient. But she wasn’t here and I had to pick up the phone knowing who was on the other end.

  I think I’d have been faster and more efficient about picking up the line if I hadn’t known it was Dwight Truman. I don’t think he could actually hear me swear under my breath as I picked it up.

  “Mossy Creek Police. Chief Royden here.”

  “Amos?” He sounded cranky, but then it’s hard to tell with Dwight. In the dictionary, the word crank has his caricature beside it. All nose and ears. Think of a human Dumbo but with less charm.

  “Yes, Dwight. It’s Amos. Unless you’ve hired another one, I’m the only Chief Royden we have at the moment.”

  “Good grief, Amos! Why are we paying a dispatcher if you’re going to answer the darned phone? That’s a waste of money. I never thought we needed another city employee anyway. It’s just a drain on the budget. And if the girl can’t even be trusted to properly answer the phone—”

  “Whoa. No one works seven days a week around here except me. The girl has a name, you know? It’s ‘Sandy.’ She spends most of her time out on calls now. She’s earning her pay as a full officer.”

  Best not to tell him about the dispute at Orville Gene’s place. He wouldn’t understand that Sandy considered trespassing and committing vandalism part of her job description.

  “More money wasted,” Dwight complained. “You know the insurance went up when you made her an officer.”

  He didn’t actually accuse me of costing him business, but he was a mite touchy over the ruling that forced the city to get three bids for every contract. Dwight had lost the insurance deal recently. Right after we added Sandy.

  Tweedle ruffled in his cage. The parakeet had a sixth sense about Sandy and he didn’t like anyone who didn’t appreciate her. I had to agree. I was about out of patience with Dwight today. “Look, Councilman, I’m a little busy, and I’m not the one you should be having this discussion with.”

  “Oh, like talking to Ida would make any difference if you’re involved. You barely say two words at the town meetings and she interrupts to agree and rushes to the next item. If she weren’t so busy agreeing with you, I’d say you’d done something to rub her the wrong way.”

  Rub her the wrong way? Ha! That would assume I’d gotten close enough to Ida to touch her. All I saw of Ida lately was her shapely backside as she ran the other way. I’d never thought of her as cowardly but she was about to make a believer of me. A smarter man might have given up hope, but I figured if she wanted me out of the picture she’d have set me straight rather than avoid me.

  “Dwight, I’m burning daylight here. What did you want?”

  “Hooligans are using the football field. It has to be stopped.”

  “We don’t have a football field.”

  The gasp was a piece of performance art. I thought he’d hyperventilate before he stopped. “We most certainly have a football field. Just because the Governor hasn’t made good on his promise to allocate funding for the new high school doesn’t mean that the land shouldn’t be protected and preserved for our boys.”

  By our boys, I’m assuming he meant the football boys and not our troops overseas. By land I assumed he meant the big patch of ground inside the almost nonexistent track oval. To call it a football field was a great leap of faith.

  “Are you saying that someone is using the . . . football field for illegal activity?”

  “They’re practicing soccer.”

  “In England that is football.”

  Another gasp. “Amos, your flippant attitude isn’t helping. That land is a treasure and they’ll ruin the g
rass. Besides they don’t have a permit from the parks department.”

  I bit my tongue and didn’t volunteer that there were more weeds than winter-shriveled grass left. Whoever was practicing on the field would just save us the cost of a weed killer. “It’s winter, Dwight. Winter. Are you sure they are regularly using the field?”

  “Every Saturday at one o’clock. Last week they left the field in a muddy mess.”

  “Are you sure it’s every week? Maybe it was just a one-time deal. Did they ask you for a permit, Dwight?”

  “Not yet. But I’ve seen them out there when I’m doing my bike laps.”

  I tossed my pen on the desk and closed the folder on the report I’d been drafting. “I take it their chances of getting a permit are nonexistent?”

  “Well, I’m not the only vote on the parks commission.”

  “Yes or no, Dwight?”

  “No. I don’t believe they’ll be able to obtain a permit. Go and throw them off.”

  I sincerely doubted that Dwight had seen rabid sports parents or he wouldn’t be sending me out to do his dirty work. I didn’t like it, but my hands were tied. No permit. No practice.

  “All right. I’ll head out there. Get there before they start practice.”

  “Thank you.” He hung up.

  I stared at the now-dead phone in my hand. “You’re welcome, Dwight. Anytime. Happy to be of service.”

  Then I hung the phone up with unnecessary force. Three or four times in rapid succession.

  Tweedle approved.

  ROB WALKER AND his daughter, Little Ida, were the only ones on the old football field when I got there. Rob was fifteen or twenty feet in front of Little Ida, demonstrating some footwork with the soccer ball. He didn’t look half-bad for an over-thirty department-store manager. The baseball cap looked oddly out of place though. I called out and waved. Little Ida turned, waved back and ran toward me executing a perfect cartwheel along the way. I clapped. The one thing I knew about the pint-sized version of people was that if you paid attention to them, they’d return the favor. Besides I was just about to ruin her day. Might as well soften the blow.