by Debra Dixon
I was there now because I knew the girl who stuffed the box and wrote the letter.
None of that helped us to find the thing. Win and Amos, I could handle, but when Ida wants you to do something, you don’t question the command, you salute and say, “Yes, ma’am.”
Ida slid the letter across Amos’s desk to me. “You remember her?”
“Oh, yes,” I whispered. “That was one of the years I was working part time as cafeteria monitor. I remember poor Janey Stalcross.”
“I certainly don’t. Nor her family either. Who was she?”
“She enrolled halfway through her junior year after school started. Her family had moved to town so her father could do some kind of construction. All the cliques had long since formed, of course. Amos, most of you had been together since grammar school.”
“Tell me we didn’t bully her,” Amos said.
“You ignored her, basically. You were all caught up in college entrance exams and graduation and romance. She called herself ‘the invisible girl.’ She was overweight, had no idea how to dress or look after herself and no money to do it, anyway.”
“I checked in the annual. Didn’t find her picture,” Amos said. “She’s not listed in the Bigelow annual either from when we had to transfer over there after the fire.”
“Her father moved the family on before graduation.”
“But after the fire took place?” Peggy said.
I nodded. “So it would seem. Otherwise she couldn’t have added what she says she did.”
“I hate to wish anyone ill,” Peggy said, “But I didn’t know her. Thank God her lawyer forwarded it to you when he was supposed to.”
“His cover letter says he was supposed to send it to me exactly one week before the time capsule was scheduled to be opened.”
“So why are you dumping this on Peggy and me on Thursday? Why didn’t you give it to us on Monday?”
“The United States Post Office in its infinite wisdom didn’t deliver the letter until yesterday afternoon,” Amos said. “If we had the box, that wouldn’t matter. She can’t have known we’d lost it.”
“Poor child,” I said and felt tears sting my eyes. “To die so young.”
“I knew she was a fragile diabetic back then,” I said. “But I don’t suppose she told any of you. You were all so young and beautiful, Amos. It must have seemed to her as though nothing bad could ever touch you.” Guilt washed over me the way it always does when I fail folks. Janey used to come sit with me in the afternoons while I straightened up the lunchroom. I should have tried to keep up with her after she left, but I didn’t. “I never realized she was so angry,” I said. “Surely the secrets can’t have been that dreadful.”
“The scale of the secrets is not the problem,” Ida said. She was getting impatient. Ida tends to lose patience whenever the rest of us don’t cut to the chase fast enough to suit her. “It really doesn’t matter if she put evidence of axe murder in the box…”
“Yeah, it does,” Amos said.
Ida shook him off. “Oh, you know what I mean. It’s probably stupid teenaged stuff.”
“Like who was sneaking around on whom,” I said.
“Or cheating on tests or drinking and driving,” Peggy said. “Or smoking controlled substances behind the gym. Embarrassing but not life changing.”
“Unless you got into Harvard on faked test scores or had an accident while DUI and never reported it,” Amos said.
“Unless you killed somebody, the statute of limitations has long since run out,” I said.
“We cannot count on that,” Ida said.
“I refuse to believe Janey would use that sort of thing even if she had a way of knowing. I do remember she always carried a small camera around. She was forever taking pictures.”
“One of those self-developing dudes?” Amos asked. “They’ll have faded out after this time.”
“No such luck. And not digital—they didn’t exist.” I answered.
Ida interrupted. She had reached the end of her patience—never a long trip. “The point is, we have to find the box and sanitize it before Homecoming.”
“In the meantime, half the population of Mossy Creek is going to be wracking their collective brains trying to remember who Janey Stalcross was and what she had on them,” Peggy said.
Ida ran her hands over her hair. “And don’t tell me they don’t know about the letter. Trust me, they know. I do not need this.”
“We’re on it. Come on, Sherlock.” Peggy grabbed my sleeve and pulled me out the door of Amos’s office. “The game really is afoot.”
Mossy Creek Gazette
Volume VIII, No. One • Mossy Creek, Georgia
Addled Yearling Foretells Mossy Creek Win?
by Katie Bell
Homecoming got off to a wild start early Saturday morning when a young buck with a plastic Halloween jack-o’-lantern stuck on its head ran amok through town.
Havoc ensued, as did a wild chase by Mossy Creek Police officer Mutt Bottoms and half the football team, who were out for an early morning run with Assistant Coach Tag Garner.
“It swung by the Police Station at approximately eight hundred hours,” Officer Bottoms reported. “I was the only one on duty, and didn’t have time to even grab my keys. I hared off after it.”
According to Officer Bottoms, the young buck took off across the square. It ran past Mt. Gilead Methodist Church, jumped the east branch of Mossy Creek, then past Mossy Creek First Baptist Church. It narrowly avoided colliding with the football players who were running down Laurel Street. The team took off after the yearling and surrounded it on the softball field.
“The bucket was stuck on the animal’s snout, hanging like a feed bag,” Mossy Creek Quarterback Willie Bigelow said. “Looked like it probably was preventing the deer from eating or drinking. It had appeared to be snagged on the buck’s ears or horn buds. We thought we had him pinned in, but quicker than Jack Lightning, it sailed over Tater’s head and was gone. Disappeared out toward Lookover.”
Later that day, two children in Lookover found a dented, hair-lined plastic pumpkin in their yard, and other neighbors saw a young, thin deer running free. It rained on Saturday, which Veterinarian Hank Blackshear thinks helped the young deer wriggle free.
“I think this deer will be just fine,” Blackshear said.
“Of course it means we’re going to win,” Coach Tag said when asked if this might be an omen for the game on Friday night. “Harrington’s colors are orange and black, same as that trick-or-treat bucket. Even though it grabbed hold of him, that young buck defeated it. So will we.”
Who can argue with that?
’Shine On, Harvest Moon
When it comes to anything that’s social, whether it’s your family, your school, your community, your business or your country, winning is a team sport.
—Bill Clinton
Hayden Carlisle, Saturday
When life hands you lemons, you make lemonade—or in Tiny’s case—apple butter. Leastwise, that’s how my wife, Clementine Carlisle (CC to Mossy Creek, Tiny to me) looks at life.
Despite her citrusy name, which, personally, I think was her mother’s way of thumbing her nose at her husband’s well-to-do relatives, Tiny’s roots run deep in the fertile soil of Bailey Mill. Cousin to Hope Bailey, Tiny grew up on the outskirts of the Sweet Hope Apple Orchard.
So you might say, apple is her middle name.
Now, I don’t know exactly when my wife developed her great need to win the Jellies, Jams and Spreads Competition at the annual Bigelow County Fair, but I suspect it has a lot to do with her hankering to join the Mossy Creek Social Society. Though I can’t see the appeal of wantin’ to be a part of as uppity a group of ladies as I’ve ever seen. If that Adele Clearwater held her nose up any higher in the air she’d dr
own in a good hard rain.
’Course there might be just a smidge of friendly cousin rivalry involved, though I think Hope Bailey has more important things on her plate these days with running Sweet Hope Orchards and all. But don’t tell Tiny I said that.
Then there’s the fact Tiny is the Home Economics teacher at Mossy Creek High and feels a certain responsibility to excel at her, um, art. She transferred from Bigelow High along with all her home-grown students. Only her recipes don’t always turn out like she planned. For that matter, her sewing isn’t all it’s cracked up to be either. She knitted me a sweater one time with one sleeve longer than the other and a collar so tight it like to cut off the blood flow to my head.
But her heart’s always in the right place. The kids at Mossy Creek High are lucky to have her. A few of them even know it.
So every year, without fail, I help her drag her old family copper kettle into the back yard so she can slave over yet another new and improved apple butter recipe. Trouble is she never wins. Losing breaks her heart a little bit more each time, and I have to pick up the pieces.
Now anyone will tell ya, I’m not an openly affectionate man. In fact, I’d just as soon barrel over you than step aside. Can’t say why, always have been, but it served me well on the playing field back in the day, as Hayden “HayDay” Carlisle, Mossy Creek High football star.
My one soft spot is Tiny. I started calling her Tiny back in high school because she was just a little bit of a thing compared to my oversized football frame. Still is.
Seems like we’ve always been in each other’s back pocket. We were about ten years old when she broke her shepherd’s staff in the Mossy Creek Elementary Christmas program. When she looked up at me as those baby blues filled with tears, I gave her mine. And my heart right along with it.
I’ve loved her every day since.
Which makes it hard to explain why I spiked her apple butter.
Now, the thing you need to know about Tiny and me, she’s never won anything in her life. Nothing. Now, she’s been known to say she won me, but I’m not ashamed to admit I’m not much of a prize.
On the other hand, I’ve always had good luck, seemed to win anything I set my mind to. When I stepped out on that football field, I owned it. I was on my way to winning a full-ride scholarship to UGA. Then all hell broke loose when Mossy Creek High caught fire and I ended up with a busted knee. Just like that, no scholarship, no professional career.
That was my first taste of losing—and I didn’t like it.
Oh, I went on to get my degree in agriculture. Next to football, farming was the only other thing I knew. Right after Tiny and I married, my granddaddy passed on and left us his farm smack dab between Mossy Creek and Bailey Mill, in the shadow of Colchik Mountain. Over the years Tiny and I bought up more land and now run a right successful farming business. Tiny even has her own little apple orchard.
But I guess I never got over that sting of losing.
It’s the only explanation.
It was the Saturday before Homecoming. Mossy Creek was gonna play Harrington Academy, some fancy pants prep school down in Bigelow. We’d won every game in the season, except the last, so the tension was tighter than Adele Clearwater’s girdle after lunch at Mama’s Café. (Did I mention I don’t much like that woman?)
But that wasn’t the real cause of all the commotion.
The real reason every last Mossy Creekite was full to boilin’ over with school spirit was because this was the first Mossy Creek Homecoming in over twenty years, the first since the high school burned down. All season we’d been playing our home games down in Bigelow, because even though Mossy Creek High had been rebuilt, we still didn’t have a stadium. Groundbreaking was part of the celebration this weekend.
All this focus on the new Mossy Creek football team and their streak of success should have been my first clue.
The Booster Club was working overtime sponsoring all kinds of activities to raise money for the stadium—including one humdinger of a bake sale where all manner of famous Mossy Creek delectables could be had for a price. Which is why I found myself haulin’ Tiny’s copper apple-butter-makin’ pot into the backyard at the crack of dawn for the second time this fall.
Wolfman Washington took a deep exaggerated breath and patted his beefy hands against his thick middle as he smiled at Nail Delgado and me across the pot. “Nothing like the smell of apple cider on a crisp, sunny day.”
It was Saturday on the weekend before Homecoming. An unseasonably cold wind had peeled back the clouds hovering over Colchik Mountain, taking the warmth with it and leaving us exposed to a wide open blue sky and the first bite of autumn.
Nail just hunkered deeper into his jacket and shot me a look that said exactly what I was thinking. Wolfman was entirely too happy for a man who was gonna find himself standing on his feet all day, stirring until his arms were like to fall off. Wolfman let out a hearty laugh and grinned back at us like a cat living on a mouse farm.
That should have been my second clue.
The three of us stood as close to the pot and roaring fire as we dared and warmed our hands over the apple cider that was beginning to boil.
Wolfman, who lived over in Yonder, and Nail had been the first menfolk to show up. They’d helped me haul and stack enough firewood to keep the kettle boiling all day. I’d hired Nail a time or two for odd jobs around the farm, and over the last year he’d become a good friend.
But Wolfman and I go way back to the days his daddy and mine were friends. No one was better behind the wheel of a dozer than Wolfman. And when your life is all about playing in the dirt, a friend like Wolfman comes in handy.
Most days.
But we’ll get to that.
The screened door to the kitchen slammed shut and we turned toward the old white clapboard farmhouse Tiny thought of as cozy. I’m not sure cozy is the right word for a place that’s drafty all winter long and would cook you alive under that tin roof if we hadn’t installed air conditioning, but it suits us just fine. Tiny’s always reminding me that owning an old home is a labor of love.
And I’m always reminding her that life on a farm was all about keeping one step ahead of the weather and playing catch-up with everything else.
Tiny and her mom, Momma Harper, came across the yard in an awkward waddle, the first bushel of naked apples held between them. Sweet Hope and Macintosh. Tiny said the Macintosh gave just enough tart to balance the sweet in Sweet Hope.
She and her momma had been in the kitchen since before sun-up trying to get a head start on peeling and quartering the twelve bushels of apples needed to fill the forty gallon pot. I’ll do the math for you. That’s 320 pints of apple butter.
And Tiny had her heart set on selling every last one at the Bake Sale on Thursday.
She looked like a college kid dressed in her jeans, T-shirt and favorite pink hooded jacket. When the wind caught her dark hair, she brushed it back from her face and smiled up at me like a little girl on Christmas mornin’. Tiny loved being with friends and family, loved the chill of autumn and the smell of apples and cinnamon in the air.
And I loved her. Yep, after nineteen years of marriage, that sparkle in her blue eyes still had the power to warm me from the inside out.
Just then I caught sight of Wolfman grinning at me like a fool. I shot him my best scowl and shoved the spoon ladle into his hands. It’s one thing for folks to know you love your wife, but quite another to be caught gawking at her like some love-sick school boy.
As I rushed forward to grab the bushel and dump the apples into the boiling cider, Wolfman and Nail made their way into the kitchen for more. Just about then, Del Jackson, who lives over on the old Bransen farm just outside Bailey Mill, and his ex-wife, Sheila, showed up to help.
That’s the thing about apple butter makin’. It takes a lot of friendly helping hands�
��some to peel, some to chop, but most to stir.
Hours and hours of stirring.
In no time we had all the apples in the pot and the girls had settled into the kitchen for a day of bread and pie makin’. The boys and I got to passing the time by passing the spoon-bill stirrer back and around and tossing wood on the fire.
For a bunch of guys mostly used to working alone, meaning not having to talk much, we did all right. The morning started off kinda quiet, with the occasional comment punctuated by assenting grunts, and grew to lively “remember back in the day” stories by early afternoon. Eventually the talk turned to the Homecoming game just a few days away.
Wolfman discovered his chatty side and started reminiscing about all our best football plays from back in the day when he played defensive tackle and I played cornerback for Mossy Creek High. The more he talked, the more I felt like those apples in the pot—all hot and bothered with nowhere to run. When he started in about that last Homecoming game the night of the fire, my insides turned to mush.
That should have been my third clue.
But I guess I wasn’t on top of my game.
“Wolfman, I don’t think we need to hear anymore about the night the school burned down. We’ve all heard the story one too many times as it is.” I pushed a little harder on the spoon than I guess was necessary, and Nail had to jump back to keep from being splattered by sizzling hot apple butter that sloshed over the edge.
“Yeah. Yeah, but hold on a minute. I bet the guys have never heard how you intercepted the ball that night at the 20 yard line in true “HayDay” style.” He leaned in. “Hayden drove the ball back down the field for a touchdown at the bottom of the second quarter, putting us ahead of Bigelow just as half-time started. The crowd was really worked up until all the lights went out. I mean, pitch black. Then someone yelled ‘Fire!’”
He paused dramatically as Del and Nail turned to stare at me, then back at him.
“The crowd rushed across the field toward the school like an ocean wave, plowing down everything in its way. Some cameraman from the Bigelow TV station tripped over a cheerleader and went airborne. I’d never seen anything like it. Knocked Hayden clean off his feet in a picture-perfect tackle.” His smile faded as he bulldozed his way to the end of the story. “Except the cameraman landed on his camera after the camera landed on Hayden’s leg.”