Critters of Mossy Creek

by Deborah Smith

“Like your momma’s secret?” Darva switched the flashlight to beam on me now. I winced and she shut it off.

  Standing there in the cool darkness of Mrs. Pickle’s garage, with Cato snuggling into my chest, I suddenly felt alone. And yet, not. Darva was my best friend. I’d told her the big awful secret that same morning after my mother had revealed it. I’d blurted it out and forced a smile, then stormed out to become this weird kind of woman who kept a smile on her sleeve, but her inner torments locked away.

  So it surprised me when the first teardrop spilled down my cheek.

  “Oh, Mia.” Darva hugged me, drawing me carefully into her embrace so we formed a kitty sandwich. Cato turned on the outboard motor. He was loving this double-hug, poor little misunderstood fella. “It’s going to be fine when you want it to be fine.”

  Stunningly sensible words from Darva, who only yesterday had decided that stealing a cat was a prudent decision.

  “It is fine,” I said. And meant it. “But I’ll never get back those years without my daddy.”

  “He’s a real nice guy, Mia. I bet he’ll make up for the lost time. And if he can’t, you’ll have a great future to look forward to. If you’ll give him a chance.”

  “You, Darva, are one wise woman.”

  She shuffled Cato’s furry head. “Sometimes.”

  A set of bright headlights pulled up the driveway. We both turned and made like stunned deer.

  ooo

  Mrs. Pickle stood in the garage wearing a red feather boa over her spring sundress.

  I cringed, wondering how soon it would take Mrs. Pickle to realize her garage door was open. Maybe she thought she’d pressed the opener.

  Hey, it could work. I prepared the nuisance eye—just in case.

  “You found my Fluffykins!”

  I held Cato out and studied his green eyes. “Fluffykins?” Didn’t seem to bother him that he’d been shackled with a humiliating name. “Er, right. Fluffykins.”

  “Mia found him in her mother’s garden,” Darva quickly provided. “I knew he must belong to you, Mrs. Pickle, because you got all those pretty show cats last week. Er . . . where are they, by the way?”

  “Show cats? Oh, I don’t have show cats. I did have a mess of them for a couple days. Mr. Brown over in Bigelow had a bit of trouble with termites. Had to evacuate all his champions, so I said I’d keep them for a few days. I didn’t want the herd running all over my white carpeting so had to keep them caged, the poor things. But they were no worse for wear. I took them out in shifts and let them scamper about the garage.”

  She reached for Cato, but I clung to his soft furry body. If I’d had talons—er, claws—I’d have been a force.

  “I’ve just been sick to think I’d lost Fluffykins. He must have got out yesterday afternoon. This old garage door has a mind of its own. Opens and closes at will. It’s a might creepy.”

  “Creepy.” Darva exchanged glances with me.

  I holstered the nuisance eye.

  “So you don’t harbor large numbers of show cats and keep them caged cruelly?” I asked, still hugging Cato possessively.

  “Oh, dear no, girl. Nor does Mr. Brown. He felt real bad about me keeping them in cages, but there wasn’t any other option. The man has a mansion, I tell you, and the cats have their own floor! They really do rule the roost. Come to Mommy, Fluffykins.”

  Cato jumped into Mrs. Pickle’s arms and made himself at home in her thin, crossed arms nestled amidst a snake of red feathers—without a glance to me. Traitor.

  “Poor thing.” Mrs. Pickle kissed Cato’s head. “He’s a mutt. I have no idea who his daddy is, but his mother was a prize winner.”

  “Just because he grew up without a father doesn’t make him a mutt,” I protested. I sniffed back a rogue tear.

  “Of course not, dear.” Mrs. Pickle stroked Cato’s back. “Fluffykins will never win any prizes, but I love him so much. There are lots of things we don’t know about people and the world, but we take them as they are. For the joy.”

  “For the joy,” Darva said, sighing. “Hear that, Mia?”

  “I do.” And I hugged myself and smiled. “Does he like to jump up and cling to your leg?”

  “Oh, yes, the feisty fellow. He’s young. I’m having him neutered soon. The world is so cruel to unwanted kittens. No irresponsible fatherhood for you, Fluffykins. Dr. Blackshear says neutering will calm his wild streak a bit. And my drapes will be thankful for it, believe you me. Will you ladies come inside for some lemonade?”

  Darva took a step forward, but I offered an excuse for getting back home to greet my parents when they returned from the spa. Yes, my parents. Both of them. For the rest of my life.

  Ladies and gentleman, Colonel Mustard has left the building.

  Mossy Creek Gazette

  Volume VII, No. Five • Mossy Creek, Georgia

  Cat Burglars Steal Cats

  by Gazette Correspondent Jess Crane

  The recent disappearance of Mrs. Pickles’ cat, Fluffykins, sparked local rumors that a cat napper was at work in Mossy Creek. We can now report that Fluffykins was merely lost. Mia Lavender, home from UGA to visit her parents, found and returned Fluffykins to a very happy Mrs. Pickle. So Creekites can rest easy that no mysterious feline felonies are fully festering in full sight of full-time fluffy friends. Nor has Chief Royden received reports of any possible puppy purloiners, rabbit rustlers, snake snatchers, parakeet pluckers, hamster hoisters, weasel wranglers, mouse movers or fish filchers. If Gazette readers suspect otherwise please contact Ace Ventura, Pet Detective, care of this newspaper.

  The Mice that Roared

  Part Six

  Jayne

  “Now that the painting’s done, we can concentrate on furniture placement,” Josie said. “It’s a good thing that the counters were on opposite sides of the same wall. That’ll make the new layout more coherent. I’m glad we decided to close off the front door into the bakery so customers have to use this one entrance.”

  “That was a practical decision,” I told her. “It has nothing to do with feng . . . sh . . .” I trailed off as she turned an odd shade of green, then raced for the bathroom.

  This was the third day in a . . .

  Oh!

  I quickly followed her to the bathroom and banged on the closed stall. “Josie McClure Rutherford, you’re pregnant!”

  “I know,” she called miserably.

  “Does Harry know?”

  “You think I could fool Harry about something like this?”

  I smiled. Harry was a fine man. He loved Josie so intently he noticed if she wore a slightly different shade of lipstick. I believed he watched her so closely because he was afraid of losing her. He’d been in a car accident years ago which had left him horribly scarred. He’d hidden himself on Colchik Mountain, ostensibly to do research, but more to hide away from the world because of his physical and emotional scars . . . until Josie had found him.

  He knew how fragile life could be and now that he’d found someone who loved him not in spite of his scars but because of them, he wanted to hold onto her with everything he had.

  Now they were having a baby. I can’t say that I hadn’t been expecting it. Josie and Harry were so in love, it was bound to overflow into a baby.

  Babies were your own small piece of immortality. My own son, Matt, was evidence of that. I saw my husband in Matt every day.

  Josie emerged from the stall and gave me a rueful smile. “Okay, yes, I’m pregnant.”

  I wanted to drag her into a hug, but I couldn’t resist messing with her first. I crossed my arms across my chest. “And just when were you planning on telling me?”

  “Harry and I wanted to keep it to ourselves for a few weeks,” she said as she splashed water on her face.

  “So LuLynn doesn’t even know?”

  “No, and don’t you dare tell her.” She reached for the paper towel I’d pulled from the roll. “Mama’d kill me if someone else knows before she does. Don’t tell anyone!”

 
“Like you can keep secrets in this town.”

  “Jayne . . .”

  “All right, Swami, I’ll keep my mouth shut.” I used the nickname I’d given her because of her love for astrology and feng shui. “What’s the little tyke going to be?”

  “An ox baby, I’m hoping. Either Capricorn or Aquarius. Either will do. I didn’t want to wait another year and have a little rabbit. Oxen fit much better with mine and Harry’s charts.”

  She was so serious, I had to laugh. “That’s good to hear.”

  She stuck her tongue out at me and reached for the bathroom door. “Remember, don’t tell— Eeee!”

  A mouse ran across the bathroom floor and disappeared behind the toilet.

  Josie leaned against the sink, her hand over her heart. “When are you going to do something about those critters?!”

  “I’m importing another cat this afternoon. Argie Rodriguez’s Rudy.” I pushed the door open. “If that doesn’t work, I’ll call the fumigators tomorrow. Everyone in town knows about the little rodents, anyway. Might as well suck it up and hire a crew to clean up the poison afterward.”

  “I’ll hel—”

  “Oh, no, you won’t. You, little mother, will not come near this place for a week after they’re done.”

  “SSssshhh!”

  I rolled my eyes and we stepped back into the shop.

  I immediately spotted Win Allen at the counter, ordering a mocha latte from Ashley Winthrop, who I’d stolen away from Poppy’s Ice Cream Parlor. She worked for me after school and on weekends. I knew it was a mocha latte because that’s all he ever ordered.

  “Hi, Win,” Josie said. “What’s up?”

  He glanced over at us and smiled. “Josie, Jayne. I just closed the diner for the day and thought I’d come let y’all know that I’ve definitely decided to run against Dwight for town council.”

  “That’s great,” Josie said with as much enthusiasm as her still-queasy stomach would allow. “Harry was so excited about the possibility when I told him.”

  “I know,” Win said. “He ate lunch at the diner today, hoping to persuade me to run, but I’d already made up my mind.”

  “Well, that stinker!” she said. “He didn’t even invite me to eat with him.”

  “You ate lunch with me,” I reminded her. “Remember the tuna salad we ate upstairs? Oh dear, do you think that’s what made you—”

  “Win!” Josie said a little too quickly. “Have you thought about the colors for your campaign?”

  He blinked. “Well, no. To tell you the truth, I haven’t gotten that far. What do you think? Red, white and blue?”

  “Gracious, no! Too much of a cliché. We need to plan this carefully. Good luck follows us when we align with our true selves, so using the colors that are best for your sun sign will help enormously.”

  Poor Win looked nonplused. “Sun sign?”

  “Your astrological sign,” I said. Sometimes Josie needed an interpreter. “As in ‘What’s your sign?’”

  His brow cleared. “So what colors go with Cancer?”

  “Cancer? Really? Cancer. Hmmm.” Josie glanced from Win to me, and I knew the path her mind was taking. “Interesting.”

  “Josie . . .” I said with menace in my voice. Her matchmaking acumen hadn’t been successful enough with Dan that I wanted to try it again. At least, not so soon.

  “I’ll have to study on it,” she told Win. “We’ll get you going, don’t worry. Jayne and I are 100% behind you. Do you have a campaign manager? Jayne would be terrific.”

  “Josie!”

  “Well, you would!”

  “Don’t pay her any mind, Win. Sometimes she gets a little too enthusiastic.”

  “Actually, Jayne, I came by to ask if you’d consider letting me launch my campaign with a party here in The Naked Bean. When’s your Grand Opening?”

  “A week from Saturday. Ingrid’s talked me into renaming it Naked Beans & Buns.”

  Win grinned wickedly. “I like it.”

  “You don’t want to launch your campaign at your diner?”

  He shook his head. “No, I’ll have enough details to worry about without having to cook. People might expect more food than I want to do, if we have it at the diner. No, the Bean is perfect. It’s on the square and we can limit the refreshments to coffee and cinnamon rolls and such.”

  I was flattered. Win Allen was a famous cook around these parts. He’d had a cooking show until a couple of years ago when a fire he blamed on a clown destroyed his set. Since then he mostly did catering jobs, some as far away as Atlanta from what I heard. His diner was only open for lunch, and that only two days a week. But on those two days, people were lined up before it opened.

  I’d only eaten there once, when Josie made me get away from the shop during my last month of pregnancy. I enjoyed it, but hadn’t been back since.

  “I’d love to help you, Win. Why don’t we go upstairs and make plans? You want to come up with us, Josie? You’re always full of ideas.”

  Again, Josie glanced between me and Win with piqued interest. “I’d love to, but I can’t right now. I . . . have to meet Harry.”

  “Tell him I said hello,” said an unsuspecting Win.

  “Oh, I will,” Josie called on her way out. “Bye now!”

  WMOS Radio

  “The Voice of the Creek”

  Hello again, fellow Creekites! This is Bert Lyman, as always, of WMOS-FM and its sister station, WMOS-TV, local cable access channel 22, bringing you breaking news and tattered gossip. News flash! Jayne Austen Reynolds announces that her Naked Bean coffee shop has now re-opened as the new-and-improved Naked Bean & Buns Shop.

  Excuse me while I ask my worldly-wise wife, Honey, if that’s one of those double entendres. Otherwise known as a naughty play on words. Anyway, Jayne’s taken over what used to be Beechum’s Bakery, so the Bean is now a full-service coffee shop. But don’t worry, folks. Ingrid’s still at the oven-helm. We won’t miss any of her cookies, pies and cakes. Y’all run by there and tickle your sweet tooth!

  “The bird of paradise alights only upon

  the hand that does not grasp.”

  —John Berry

  Me and Mr. Tibbs

  I didn’t start the day looking for adventure. Living in Mossy Creek, however, you don’t always have to look too far for adventure or, as my mamma likes to call it, trouble. It can find you whether you want it to or not.

  I’m Ida Walker. No. Not that Ida Walker. She’s my grandmother and mayor of Mossy Creek. I’m just Lil Ida to almost anyone who calls me by name.

  As it turns out, that’s part of my problem. Being “lil” anything is just plain annoying. Being a grown-up is easy. You do what you want, when you want and there’s no one to tell you otherwise. I understand grown-ups still have rules. Mamma is a lawyer so I know all about rules.

  I wish I could be more like my Nana. She usually has no problem handling her adventures, like with the police chief, but I’m not supposed to know about those.

  Yeah, right.

  My day started off kind of rocky. I was supposed to be learning next week’s vocabulary words (which I already knew) but Mamma said . . . and once Mamma says anything you should pretty much stop right there. I wish I had.

  Mamma fixed me and Daddy a good breakfast every day, no matter what. She says breakfast is important brain food. Guess I should have studied more and talked less because I ended up ridin’ my new Schwinn Ranger bike over to the library on a Saturday to find out why getting more pets is so much work and why I wasn’t old enough for that responsibility yet. Geez. I’ve already proved I can take care of a pony, two cats, three dogs, a lizard, two parakeets, my hermit crabs and Mickey and Minnie, my ferrets. Not to mention my new rabbit, Wampa. Well, okay, Mamma, Daddy and our housekeeper have to help me feed and tend all my critters, but I’m not a baby. I’m ten years old. Not that anyone has noticed.

  I turned my bike down Trailhead towards South Bigelow Road and stopped on the bridge over Mossy Creek, which is
where the town got its name. It runs right behind Hamilton’s Department store where Daddy works. When me and Mamma bring him lunch during the summer, we take our picnic out by the creek and watch the minnows swim up to catch imaginary flies. Daddy says they’re trying to catch the sunshine that glints off the water because Mossy Creek sunshine is all the nourishment a body needs. That and Mamma’s cinnamon banana crumb cake.

  Spring is a good time in Mossy Creek. It has to be the prettiest place on Earth and I’ve even been to Disney and Atlanta at Christmas time. It’s an explosion (one of my vocabulary words) of color with pink and white dogwoods hiding under the great oak trees older than even my grandma’s grandma. Out at Hamilton Farm where they grew my daddy, there are roses of every color you can imagine and wisteria even older than me! Not much leaves Mossy Creek. As Nana says, ‘Ain’t going nowhere and don’t want to.’ It was written on the silo at her farm, so it had to be true.

  But all of this was part of my problem, I realized that as I started back towards Bigelow Road. Things in Mossy Creek didn’t really change although they were pretty weird to start. I’d been asking for another pet since Mamma and Daddy said I couldn’t have a brother or sister for Christmas. Because Mamma is a lawyer Daddy said that meant she would always win the arguments in our family. I wasn’t giving up yet, however.

  I didn’t want another dog or cat. I wanted to be different. That’s pretty hard in a town like Mossy Creek, especially when you share a name with the women who invented ‘different.’ The Ida Walkers before me had done great things. They’d settled towns and fought for suffrage (another vocabulary word for this week), run farms, raised families and made fortunes. Nana had even gotten arrested (more than once) for standing up to the governor! I couldn’t let them down, could I? What was I going to shout about, as Nana liked to say. Mamma said it was natural for a young girl like myself to want to break out of her shell. I just better be sure that shell doesn’t end up all over her living room carpet.