It was a thorny time.
* * * *
One morning I picked up the phone expecting another ‘pronto’ summons, but Ida said, “Ardaleen’s forced her own handpicked judge down our throats. He’s a retired botanist from the University of Tennessee. Thought you might know him. Name’s Carlyle something. Dr. Carlyle something.”
“Carlyle Payton? Lord, yes, I know him. Not well, but for a long time. Science doesn’t mix much with the humanities.”
“What’s he like?”
“Pleasant. Competent.”
“Bribable?”
“I wouldn’t think so. He’s got plenty of money. He has a good reputation. Actually, he’s very attractive—or was the last time I saw him. You know the type—tweedy with patches, gray beard, lots of gray hair. Shorter than I am and a little tubby, but an all around good guy.”
“I wonder what my sister’s got up her sleeve, then?”
“I can’t imagine, but what . . . what are you asking me to do about it?”
“Use your feminine wiles on Dr. Payton.”
I sat down. “Let me see if I can remember where they are,” I said finally.
* * * *
The day of the contest, I was a nervous wreck. Carlyle Payton was staying in the best hotel in Bigelow but arrived in Mossy Creek leading an entourage of Bigelowans and driving a beat-up pick-up truck with a few clods of dirt in the bed.
Because the judging locations were widely separated from one another, the competition started with opening ceremonies and coffee at the Mossy Creek First Baptist Church community hall. Then we all sat down to look at the tapes of the now-defunct spring gardens. Bigelow drew the short straw and went first.
When the opening trumpets of Also Spracht Zarathustra—the theme from the famed science fiction movie 2001—hit us from all sides, I nearly fell out of my chair. The production was so far over the top that I expected Moses to part the Red Sea and reveal a field of multi-colored irises in the background. I was sitting right behind Carlyle. I could see his shoulders shake. He was laughing.
In contrast, the tape of Erma’s spring garden, produced by WMOS Media, Inc. courtesy of Bert Lyman and his studio/barn, was a model of restraint. The soundtrack ran the gamut from Mozart to Beethoven to Bruce Springsteen, but never seemed intrusive. Erma’s garden looked spectacular. Bert’s wife, known only to WMOS listeners as Honey, My Board Operator, served as the unpaid cameraman. Honey certainly deserved a raise.
Carlyle’s shoulders did not shake. Once he even leaned forward to get a better look.
Then we adjourned to drive down to Bigelow and view the Bigelow roses.
Ida was right. Even with three bushes missing, Eleanor’s roses were a shoo-in.
Ditto our Formal Garden. And this time Eustene’s topiary elephant really did look like an elephant, because we brought in outside help. Rainey Ann Cecil had come over from Goldilocks Hair, Nail, and Tanning Salon to trim the pachyderm—though she’d looked more than a little squeamish when the mayor asked her to do it. There was a story there, but I didn’t know what, yet. At any rate, Rainey’s salon-styled hedge elephant was a winner for us.
That left the Most Unusual Garden and the Best All-Around to be judged. Carlyle made notes, but kept them in his pocket. I was dying to see what he’d written, but picking pockets isn’t one of my skills. He’d greeted me like an old friend—I was— but he’d been carried off by Ardaleen, who kept a tight rein on him and looked at me with suspicion.
I have to admit the Bigelow Bonsai Garden was pretty tough competition in the Unusual Category. I felt like a giant stomping through one of those miniature landscapes they build for model trains. I was terrified to put my foot down for fear I’d stomp on some five-hundred-year old miniature peach tree.
Then it was my turn. We all drove back up to Mossy Creek. I’d been up since four a.m. sweeping and dusting and tidying. Not indoors. Outdoors. I couldn’t breathe, and I fumbled so badly with the latch on the walled garden that Ida had to step in and open the gate for me. I stood aside while Carlyle, the Bigelowans, the Creekite gardeners, and assorted spectators filed in.
“I don’t see what’s so unusual about this,” Bigelowan Helen Overbury whispered. “Looks messy to me.”
“Just an old wild flower garden,” said Ardaleen, sotto voce. “Anybody can do that.”
Carlyle said nothing but walked along the paths beside the raised beds, staring at each flower and vine. In the far corner, he started to laugh.
I have never been so mortified. I wanted to run back to the house and hide. He turned around, found me in the crowd, and began to applaud. “Peggy, you are something else! I can’t think of another soul who’d create a garden like this.”
The Bigelowans began to mutter suspiciously. He pointed. “Well, for pity’s sake, people, where are your eyes? Lily-of-the-valley, English ivy, snow-on-the-mountain, trumpet vine. . . . How on earth did you manage to train that rebel onto the wall?”
“So what?” Helen Overbury said under her breath.
“And the foxgloves are some of the finest I’ve ever seen.” He walked around the four sides of the garden and called out the names of the plants as he passed them. Now the Bigelowans were really miffed because they still hadn’t gotten his point.
“You’ve even got mushrooms,” he crowed. “Amanita Phalloides and Amanita Virosa both. Damned near impossible to cultivate.” At last he came up to me, bowed, and said, “Signora Rappaccini, I salute you.”
Then Bigelowan Geraldine Matthews yelped, “My God, those are death angel mushrooms! And look over there—deadly nightshade. Oleander, and a catalpa tree! Castor beans! And Hemlock! My lord, everything in here is poison!”
Ardaleen whispered, “She’s crazy! She’s trying to kill us all!”
The way all those Bigelow women tried to squeeze through the garden gate, you’d have thought I was waiting with a bubbling cauldron to pour hemlock down their throats.
“Well, I never,” said Mimsy.
“All I wanted was to grow something I really wanted to know about,” I said nervously.
“And you did an admirable job,” Carlyle told me. “I’d very much like to bring a couple of my colleagues here to see this. May I?”
“Sure. Although I may be locked up in the loony bin by the time you come.”
“Nonsense. Well, ladies, time to follow the stampede to Ardaleen’s to view her entry for Best All-Around garden.”
The Mossy Creek Garden Club arrived in Eleanor’s minivan and Ida’s Corvette just behind Carlyle in his truck. The Bigelowans were waiting on the sidewalk before Ardaleen’s mansion. Ardaleen stood in the center with her hands on her hips.
“Before we go any further, I demand that Peggy Caldwell be disqualified for Most Unusual Garden,” she said the moment Carlyle reached her.
“Now wait just a damned minute, Siseroo,” Ida snapped.
Siseroo. You don’t call the governor’s mother Siseroo. Ida and Ardaleen traded murderous looks. “That garden of hers is an abomination,” Ardaleen said. “It should be destroyed. It’s a public nuisance. It’s dangerous.” She pivoted toward Carlyle. “It should be disqualified.”
Carlyle smiled sweetly. “Now, Ardaleen, I don’t think you want to start this kind of controversy. Peggy keeps the garden gate shut. Besides, if you want to destroy poisonous plants, you’re going to have to start with those azaleas of yours.”
“What?”
“And the iris and the cannas over there in the corner under the window.”
“They’re not poisonous!” Helen Overbury cried.
“Oh yes, they are,” Carlyle told her. “Actually, nearly every flowering plant and many of the non-flowering are quite toxic. Maybe they won’t kill you, but they’ll sure make you wish you’d died.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Carlyle,” Ardaleen snapped. “Nobody eats azaleas.”
He winked at me. “That’s my point, Ardaleen. Nobody eats wild hemlock either—not man, nor beast. Not even cows.”
“Everything in Peggy’s garden grows wild in half the pastures around here. The plants that don’t are grown in plenty of gardens simply for their beauty. No disqualification. So come on, Ardaleen, calm down and give me the tour of your pretty, poisonous flowers.”
He hooked her hand under his arm and walked away. She was trapped. She had to follow, and where she went, there followed her courtiers. Over her shoulder, Ardaleen threw me a look that would peel paint. Then she stared at Carlyle. “Carlyle, I had no idea you were on a first name basis with Mrs. Caldwell.”
“Dr. Caldwell, actually,” I said. But I didn’t say it loud enough for Ardaleen to hear.
I felt Erma’s heavy hand on my shoulder. “If anybody says to hit her, I’ll do it. I can make it count.”
I tried to keep from grinding my teeth as we trailed through Ardaleen’s garden. Beside me, Ida looked grim. “We’re dead,” she announced. “The convicts have this place looking spectacular. The borders look like they’ve been edged leaf-by-leaf with switchblades.”
“Keep the faith,” Mimsy said. “Pray for a miracle.”
We walked under the shade of hundred year old oaks and admired the shade plants under them. Then we rounded the far corner of the mansion. Suddenly we stepped into full sunlight, and ahead blazed the most beautiful red-orange flowers I’d ever seen.
I think we all gasped. They were darned near fluorescent. Stems nearly three feet tall, and flowers the size of small dinner plates. Unbeatable.
“Oh, well,” I said. “Better luck next year.”
Carlyle stopped so quickly that Ardaleen nearly tripped into him. He dropped her hand and walked up to the bed. It was large—by far the biggest concentration of one sort of flower in the garden. Why not? They were the prettiest flowers of them all.
Carlyle came back to Ardaleen, took her hand and sighed.
She simpered. “Aren’t they wonderful? I saved them for last.”
“Now, listen to me very carefully. I’m afraid there is going to be a disqualification this year after all.”
“Good, you’ve come to your senses.”
“Not Peggy’s poison patch. This garden. Yours.”
“What?”
We were all stunned.
“And I think you had better call your yard man right this minute and tell him to pull up these plants as quietly as possible, put them carefully into leaf bags and bury them in the nearest landfill. The governor’s public relations people will have a fit, otherwise. It just looks too odd.”
“No! I will not destroy this flower bed.” She glared at me, and at Ida. “What’s behind this? What kind of joke? Ida, I’ll speak with you in private, you traitorous—”
“I’m not the traitor in our family,” Ida said evenly. “And if you did your own gardening instead of conniving to get the taxpayers of this state to do it for you, you might learn something about plants. Including which ones are on the rules’ list for automatic disqualification.”
“What in the world are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about your drug stash, Siseroo.”
“My what?”
Carlyle shook his head. “In the future, you need to pay a little closer attention to those trustees from the prison who work for you. They must have had a good laugh.” He touched a brilliant red flower. “These are opium poppies.”
In the midst of the gasps—Bigelowans—and stifled laughter—Creekites—that followed, Erma leaned close to me and whispered, “They could harvest enough raw opium from those plants to zonk the entire prison out for a month.”
About that time, Ardaleen fainted.
So Mossy Creek won the contest by default.
De fault of de poppies, that is.
* * * *
I do not know why Ardaleen Hamilton Bigelow blames me for what happened. I swear I didn’t call the Atlanta newspapers to alert them to the poppy patches at the governor’s boyhood home.
Nor did I call the national news services. Or CNN.
I think Ida did.
Last week, Carlyle phoned to ask if he could take me to dinner. His drive down from Knoxville will take a good four hours, so I guess he really is serious about me. I feel like a teenager going on her first date. He’s no beauty, but he’s a sweet man and we know all the same people. And many of the same poisonous plants. Then Marilee told me she was four months pregnant. She went for a sonogram. It’s a girl. Claude is ecstatic. So am I. I’ll have a Bigelowan granddaughter. Oh, well. I may even let Claude call me Mother Caldwell.
Now I can never go back to Tennessee to buy that hi-rise condo. I’m the only hope for my grandchild. Otherwise, she’ll be raised as stuffy as her parents. I won’t let that happen, even if I have to kidnap her and raise her myself in Mossy Creek.
The garden club is looking for a bunch of new members to fill in the spaces that are likely to occur in the near future. Considering all the publicity we’ve gotten in addition to this reunion year bringing some oldtimers back to town, it shouldn’t be too difficult. The club has broadened its horizons. Heck, if they could turn me into a gardener, they can turn anybody into one.
I’ve bought a kitten for Dashiell. He was getting terribly lonely. I only have time to read to him at night.
I’m still angry at Ben for dying on me. But every day I come closer to forgiving him. After all, if he had to die, at least he had the good sense to do it in Mossy Creek, bless him.
I may even plant zinnias. He’d want it that way.
The Mossy Creek Gazette
215 Main Street • Mossy Creek, Georgia
From the Desk of Katie Bell, Business Manager
Dear Vick:
You have to understand how much the high school fire changed our town’s future. Let me give you an example: Dwight Truman, our Chamber president, is a prissy, ambitious weasel, but he’s our prissy, ambitious weasel, so, more often than not, he does what’s best for Mossy Creek. Some say that includes sucking up to Governor Bigelow a little too sincerely, but I’ll give Dwight the benefit of the doubt on that.
Anyhow . . . twenty years ago, Dwight was a rookie teacher at Mossy Creek High, but he sold insurance on the side and already had big dreams of owning his own business and being a politician. He ran for state senate that year, and he had a good chance of winning. The Creekites were behind him full force, not because he was beloved, but because no Creekite wanted the opposing candidate to win.
That candidate? Ham Bigelow. Our future governor and sort-of hometown son—to refresh your memory, his mother, Ardaleen, is a Hamilton. Ham was running for state senate, too. The Bigelowans predicted the start of Ham’s fame as a politician. All he had to do was win his first race. But all Dwight had to do to beat Ham was keep the faith among Creekites and take care of the ram.
Samson, the high school mascot, that is.
Dwight was in charge of shepherding Samson to and from the homecoming game that year. It was a major duty, not assigned lightly, since the Bigelow students had a tradition of trying to kidnap our mascot. Every teacher vied for the honor of guarding Samson. Dwight bragged that with him in charge Samson would be safer than a wool rug in moth balls.
Suffice to say, Dwight was wrong. What happened to Samson that night and the resulting fire ruined Dwight’s political support, and we’ve been stuck with Ham ever since. Even worse, we lost some of our good-hearted trust and began eyeing one another suspiciously.
There were whispers that Millicent Hart knew who caused the high school fire. She had a reputation even then for stealing little bits of information along with dimestore knicknacks. Chief Royden questioned her, and WSB Channel 2 News down in Atlanta even taped an interview with her as if she were a serious suspect—during which she stole the cameraman’s wallet, but that’s another story. Millicent never confessed a thing. I wouldn’t be surprised, though, if she didn’t finger the culprit or culprits one day.
In the meantime, Millicent is a menace to
nobody but her own daughter’s stubborn heart.
Katie
MAGGIE
Mothers, boyfriends, and movie stars. Can’t live with them, can’t live without them. In a year of reunions, some people know it’s finally time to come home. And some people know it’s finally time to leave.
MAGGIE
Moving Day
Since I’m widely regarded as Mossy Creek’s only real hippie—or the closest semblance thereof—I have to uphold my generation’s let-it-all-hang-out reputation and answer Katie Bell’s survey. No problemo. Seems like all I’ve done since starting a middle-aged romance with an ex-pro football player turned punk-haired sculptor is indulge public curiosity. Hey, when you were raised by a mother whose main hobby was stealing from everyone else in town, you get used to thinking up quick answers to personal questions.
So here goes. I’m baring my soul to Katie Bell and her readers.
What do reunions mean to me? I love reunions—most of the time. Who doesn’t love visiting with old friends and family? Except maybe for recently, I’ve really looked forward to every kind of reunion in Mossy Creek. But now, with all this emphasis on the year the high school burned down during homecoming, I find myself hesitant, even reluctant, to participate. It’s as though the mystery of that awful night shouldn’t be solved.
Our town’s rivalry with Bigleow is part of who we are as Creekites. If someone from Bigelow High caused the fire at Mossy Creek High, do we really want to know? After all, the fire happened so long ago. But that event, that single event, still focuses our animosity toward the whole town of Bigelow. We’re convinced the Bigelowans stole a part of our heritage that night.
Those of us who graduated from Mossy Creek High really resent that our grand old traditions went up in flames. The wooly dignity of our ram mascot—and the silly devotion that seeing him on the sidelines of football games engendered—was a warm memory for many of us. We’d sit in the bleachers on chilly fall evenings cheering the Mossy Creek Rams on to victory or consoling each other in defeat. But we never lost the camaraderie that bound us together. We were a family, a diverse family, devoted to a single purpose.
Reunion at Mossy Creek Page 11