At Home in Mossy Creek

by Deborah Smith

  When the girls emerge from the guest room, I hardly recognize Roxie. She had war paint on her face before and was in a stretchy outfit. Now she’s got on a regular dress. Heels and no make-up. Her black hair is down her back and she seems almost shy. Cowboy stares at her. When we all sit to eat, they are quiet, then Roxie pops up and starts to serve food to everyone. She’s so graceful, and Cowboy notices every movement she makes.

  Mr. Wiley and I watch this couple and he squeezes my hand under the table.

  “She’s a nice girl. Why won’t you marry her?” Wiley asks Cowboy. “Do you love her?”

  Roxie eats a little cabbage and puts her fork down, her gaze trained on Cowboy. “Do you love her?” Roxie repeats Wiley.

  “Me?” Estelle says, helping her.

  Roxie nods. “Do you love me?”

  Cowboy seems intent on finishing his vegetables. “Yes.”

  We all clap. I don’t know why. You can love a fish and not want to marry it.

  “Marry me,” Wiley says.

  “Marry me,” Roxie repeats.

  “No, you, Eula Mae.”

  “No, you, Eula Mae,” Roxie repeats, although she has the good sense to look confused.

  “Mr. Wiley, are you doing what I think you’re doing?” Estelle says, rising from her chair.

  “Yes, Ms. Estelle. I’m asking for your Great Nan’s hand in marriage and I’m waiting for an answer.”

  Mr. Wiley set the ring box on the table, and when Roxie sees it, her eyes fill with tears and she runs into the bedroom, closes the door and cries her eyes out.

  I don’t care. I’m grinning.

  Harry

  FULL DARK HAD fallen when we pulled into the parking lot of Mount Gilead Methodist Church. The broken-down bus was nowhere to be seen, but several trucks and a tractor-trailer I’d never seen before were lined up side-by-side in the parking lot, probably carrying all the equipment necessary to run a circus.

  The church was lit like evening services were about to begin. Evidently Reverend Phillips had opened the doors so the poor stranded troupe could wait in relative warmth while they waited for townspeople to pick them up. Several stood outside the doors, smoking.

  As I eased the Explorer into a space near the walk, the Abercrombies left the church with a young couple in tow.

  “I wonder who Zeke and Eleanor have,” Josie mused as she unhooked her seatbelt.

  I switched off the ignition. “There’s no way to know by sight, is there? Circus performers look just like everybody else when they’re out of costume.” I smiled at her. “Let’s go get our clowns.”

  “Harry, I told you—“

  “I know, I know. We might have lion tamers.”

  “Well, no, Mayor Ida said the circus didn’t have any animals.”

  “Bearded ladies, then?” I waggled my eyebrows. “Kinky.”

  Josie giggled. “Oh, Harry.”

  “Let’s go in. I’m dying of curiosity.”

  I came around the SUV and opened Josie’s door, then swallowed her hand in mine as we walked into the church.

  The mayor was busy talking to Jayne Reynolds, who held her toddler, Matthew, in her arms. A young lady I didn’t recognize was included in their circle. Most of the other people in the church sat wearily in the church pews. There weren’t many circus people left, I noted with satisfaction. Creekites always come through.

  Josie pulled me toward the mayor. We stopped just shy of the group to wait our turn, but Ida turned to beam at us.

  “Ah, the newlyweds! Most gracious of you to volunteer!”

  “Volunteer?” Josie asked sourly.

  I squeezed her hand, then offered my other one to Ida. “We’re happy to be part of it, Mayor.”

  Josie moved to Jayne’s side, clucking Matthew under the chin. “Who do you have?”

  Jayne looked down at the paper in her free hand. “Inga and Brigette Karlson. Ms. James says they’re dancers. Swedish, right?”

  The young woman nodded. She looked slightly akilter, as if dizzy. Mossy Creek has that effect on strangers. “That’s right. They speak fluent English.”

  “Josie and Harold Rutherford, this is Quinn James,” Mayor Ida said. “She’s the manager of the Cirque d’Europa.” Quinn, a pretty woman with tired eyes, smiled at me.

  “Inga and Brigette have already gone outside to get their bags,” Jayne said. “I’d better go collect them.”

  “See you later,” Josie said.

  “Thank you again!” the circus manager bid. She smiled wearily as she turned to us and shook Josie’s hand, then mine. “Thank you for extending your hospitality. I know it’s an imposition, especially since it’s Valentine’s weekend . . .”

  “Don’t think twice about that,” Josie said. “We couldn’t be happier to help. Our house is small, but certainly more comfortable than a church pew, even if the Methodists’ are padded.”

  Ms. James nodded. “Mayor Walker told me about your house. That’s why I’m assigning only one troupe member to you.” She turned and called, “Yuri! Your hosts are here!”

  The head of a middle-aged man with thick black hair appeared above one of the front pews, where he’d obviously been resting. He waved with a weak smile and stood slowly, looking as if he bore the weight of the world.

  “Yuri Filakov is half of an antipodist act,” the manager explained.

  “Ant—” I said. “I’m sorry. What kind of act?”

  “He’s a foot juggler. Yuri is the porter. He lies on his back in a chair and holds his legs up in the air. The other part of the act is known as the flyer. The flyer is juggled, more or less. They balance on Yuri’s feet, lying horizontally or sitting, and then flip and spin in a series of increasingly difficult maneuvers.”

  “Wow,” I said sincerely. “I’ve never seen that. Sounds very athletic.”

  “I saw the Cirque du Soleil do it on an HBO special,” Ida said. “It’s amazing.”

  “It is amazing, and extremely athletic,” Ms. James agreed. “Yuri is as strong as a bull. He does speak English, though his accent is a little thick. He’s good-natured about it, though, and doesn’t mind repeating anything you don’t understand. Right, Yuri?”

  The man who joined them was nearly as tall as me, and his shoulders were several inches broader. What made his appearance even more remarkable was the fact that he was hairier than me. Josie didn’t call me Harry for nothing.

  Our guest had a long face with a broad, flat nose. His black eyes were dull with exhaustion and were topped by the bushiest eyebrows I’d ever seen. He was more or less clean shaven, but at this time of day, his stubble would put a hobo to shame.

  “I shall speak clear as bells in San Petersburg Cathedral, Miz Queen,” Yuri assured her. His mouth curved upward, but the smile didn’t reach his eyes.

  “Yuri, this is Mr. and Mrs. Rutherford. They’re offering you accommodations until our bus is repaired.”

  Yuri snapped his heels and bowed. “I yam most humbly grateful, Meester and Meesus Rutherford.”

  I held out my hand. “Please call me Harry, and my wife’s name is Josie.”

  Yuri shook my hand with strength. “Tank you. Please to call me Yuri.”

  “You’re Russian?” I asked.

  His face lifted. “I yam Russian. So good of you to know it.”

  “I was in Moscow a number of years ago for a conference,” I said. “Very interesting place. I’ve never been in a colder place in my life.”

  “Ah, Moscow. Not Mother Russia’s most beautiful city. Too bad you did not see San Petersburg.”

  I shrugged. “We flew in and out of Moscow. Didn’t venture outside that city.”

  “You went all the way to Russia and didn’t do any sightseeing?” Ida asked in amazement.

  “He probably di
dn’t see much more than the inside of his hotel,” Josie said. “My Harry is very . . . focused when he’s working.”

  I peered down at her. “I unfocused long enough to see you when you wandered onto my mountain.”

  “Oh, so Colchik Mountain belongs to you now.” She turned to our Russian guest. “Follow me, Yuri, if you please. Our car is just outside.”

  Ida and Ms. James thanked us again and said they would keep us apprised of the bus repairs. We gathered Yuri’s duffel bag from the dwindling pile in the parking lot and headed home.

  Josie plied Yuri with questions about his native land, which Yuri answered with politeness but not a lot of enthusiasm, which I put down to weariness from a long, hard day. We learned he’d been born in St. Petersburg, which had been Leningrad at the time. When he was twelve, he ran away to join the famous Moscow Circus. He began tending the circus animals, then developed an affinity for bears and worked as bear trainer until the Iron Curtain fell and he joined Cirque d’Europa.

  That’s as much as Josie gleaned from Yuri by the time we pulled up at the back door to our humble farmhouse. Josie settled Yuri into the guest room, then made a delicious meal of fried brookies—what she called brook trout. I’d caught them in the stream near the cabin. We also had field peas which she and her mother put up last summer, and seasoned rice.

  Yuri showered while Josie and I prepared supper. I fried the fish while Josie handled the more complicated dishes. She humored me every now and then, when we were having something simple, like fish. Before she’d found me on the mountain, I’d pretty much survived on trout and venison stew.

  Mostly she shooed me away, claiming that I was too big for such a tiny kitchen and just got in her way. She’d grown up in world where the kitchen was a woman’s domain. John and LuLynn McClure were decidedly old school parents. I was doing my best to change Josie’s perception of marriage to one where chores are shared rather than divvied up. Not only did I enjoy cooking, I enjoyed being with her, and I certainly enjoyed bumping into her in the small kitchen.

  To show her just how much, I pulled her into my arms and kissed her so thoroughly we didn’t hear our guest leave his bedroom.

  “Ah, forgeeve me.”

  We jumped apart, which made me feel silly.

  Yuri looked up at the ceiling. “I vait in the—“

  “No,” Josie and I chorused.

  “Sit down, Yuri, please.” Josie pointed toward the kitchen table, the only one we had. “Harry will join you. I just have a few things I need to finish up, and then we can eat.”

  Left with no choice, I sat in my usual place at the head of the small table. Yuri sat facing the kitchen.

  Josie had supper on the table in five minutes. She sat across from Yuri and we dug into the bowls of food. Josie never served plates from the stove. She always insisted on eating family style.

  “So, you juggle people with your feet,” Josie commented as she passed Yuri the peas.

  He shrugged his massive shoulders. “That is what I did, yah.”

  Yuri’s answer was so cryptic and his voice so heavy, Josie and I glanced at each other.

  “’Did?’” I asked. “Am I misunderstanding your English, or do you mean to use the past tense?”

  “I do not know this tents,” he said. “What I mean iz my . . . how you say . . . career as an antipodist iz kaput.”

  “Over?” Josie exclaimed. “Why?”

  A shadow fell over Yuri’s dark face. “I have lost partner.” His fork clattered against the plate as he set it down hard. “Her name iz Tatiana Nikulin. Beautiful woman. Strong. Young.”

  Josie gasped. “She died?”

  Yuri shook his head. “She run away from circus. Two days past. Tatiana alvays vanted to be American. A beeg strong young buck fall in love vith her vhere ve vere veek ago. He show up in Atlanta and ask for her to marry him. So she go.” He lifted his shoulder again, and dropped it heavily. “Who can blame her? He has own land. Lots of land. And dairy cows. She vill have lots of American babies and grow fat on American cheese.”

  Even I was touched by the deep sadness in his voice. Josie—who is far more sensitive to raw emotions than me—reached across the table and covered his hand with hers. “Oh, Yuri, I’m sorry. Can’t you find another partner?”

  He attempted a smile. “Vhere am I to find a partner such as Tatiana? I yam too old to train another.”

  “She wasn’t just your partner in the act, was she?” Josie asked softly.

  Yuri peered across the table at her, then finally admitted, “Yes, ve vere lovers. She vas much younger than me. A . . . how you say . . . strong lover.” He threw a wry smile toward me. “I yam too old for such nonsense, yes?”

  I’d keenly felt the difference in years between Josie and me when we first met, but she’d shown me that age didn’t matter. “A man is never too old to do what he wants to do. Especially when he finds the right partner.”

  Yuri conceded the point with an expansive shrug, but didn’t look convinced. “Even so, vith no partner, I yam useless for circus. They vill send me back to Russia vhen they see it.”

  “It sounds as if that’s something you don’t want to do.” I said.

  He nodded. “I have traveled much in my life. I do not know where ‘home’ iz. Mother Russia iz not my mother. I don’t know vhere I vould go. Or vhat I vould do.”

  “Surely the circus can find something for you to do,” Josie said.

  He smiled sadly. “Perhaps.”

  Josie turned her gaze to me, and I held it until Yuri pushed away from the table.

  “If you vouldn’t mind, I vill go to bed. I yam most tired.”

  Both Josie and I stood.

  “Of course,” she said. “We’ll see you in the morning.”

  He bowed crisply, then left us to our supper.

  Win Allen

  WHEN YOU CAN’T trust your friends, it’s time to get out of Dodge. Well, technically I could trust them—to mess with my mind. Or my mime. Sure. I could have refused these particular houseguests. I probably would have if Amos and Hank Blackshear, the town veterinarian, hadn’t been standing there. You can’t let those boys see you sweat. You can’t let them know how to get to you. Not if you’re going to play baseball with them in the spring. I know this because I’m as bad as they are. I’ve been needling Amos over the whole Ida deal since the moment I found out he’d lost his mind and laid one on her. So I sucked up my aversion to all things “clown” and said, “It would be mime pleasure.”

  Which of course is a bald-faced lie.

  Etienne Decroux is known as “the father of modern mime.” I can’t help but wonder how much better the world would be today if he’d done the responsible thing and gotten a vasectomy. If I sound a little politically incorrect, please accept my sincere apologies. I grew up in the Deep South in the sixties, ingrained with the inborn prejudices that went along with those times. Over the years, I’ve outgrown ninety-nine percent of the ignorance that is prejudice. My remaining biases are focused in two directions . . . clowns and mimes.

  They can live in my neighborhood, but I’ll be damned if my daughter is going to marry one! Wait, I don’t have a daughter, but you get the idea. So, I’m certain that it is for this reason that I’ve been assigned, sentenced, if you will, to house two members of the circus that is stranded in town. You guessed it. Clown mimes. White faced, juggling clown mimes. Kill me. Kill me now.

  How do you kill a mime? Wait until they’re trapped in a glass box and shoot ‘em. I’m sorry; I just had to get that out of my system.

  Since most of the town is opening up their homes to the traveling band of entertainers and since Ida is almost impossible to say no to, I just told her that I had room for two. Note to self, next time, be more specific. Two NORMAL people.

  But, it’s too late for that now. It won’
t be so bad, I mean, it’s only for the weekend, right? And, surely these guys don’t stay in character when they’re not working, right? They’re probably just normal guys, right?

  If a mime is arrested, is the officer obliged to inform him that he has the right to remain silent?

  Coulrophobia is the fear of clowns and clown-like characters, such as mimes. I’m not losing a minute’s sleep over the thought of sharing my house for the weekend with a couple of mimes. However, Ida informs me that the manager of the circus insists . . . the whole crew intends to work for their keep. Clown mimes . . . in my restaurant. Relax . . . take deep, cleansing breaths . . . think calm thoughts . . . go to your happy place . . .

  OK, maybe it won’t be so bad. I can always use some extra help around the restaurant. It never fails, around any special occasion like Valentine’s Day, someone calls in sick, something goes wrong in the kitchen, someone has to go out for “whatever it is that we didn’t order enough of.” A couple of extra hands would be a good thing. Even if they are wearing white gloves.

  I learned from the circus manager, Quinn James, that their names are Tartuffe and Orlon. I also learned on Friday night that once a mime applies face paint, he is in character until the face paint comes off. So, my hopes for “normal” house guests were not to be. But, simple human needs are pretty easily communicated without words.

  Orlon immediately running to my kitchen, opening my refrigerator door and pointing was a pretty good indication that they were hungry. Tartuffe hopping up and down with legs squeezed tightly together was my clue that he needed quick directions to the bathroom. Orlon eyeballing my bottle of twenty-one-year-old Chivas Royal Salute was a cry for assisted suicide. And, since neither of them took off their makeup before going upstairs to retire for the night, not a cross word was spoken.

  Amos

  JAYNE REYNOLDS STILL lived above the coffee shop. I stared at her apartment door for a long time. I knew that it was time to try something new to get Ida’s attention. Jayne was a good soul. Easy to look at and would remind Ida that I hadn’t “settled” for her. There were other fish in this Mossy Creek fish bowl. Hopefully she’d realize that Jayne looked as wrong at my side as Del looked at hers.