At Home in Mossy Creek

by Deborah Smith

  “With Erik, silly,” Mrs. Finch said, as if I was in the first grade.

  Mr. Finch picked up his coffee mug emblazoned with Women want me, fish fear me. “You can’t say no. It was unanimous.”

  With a smug tilt to his head, Randy looked at me under his overgrown bangs that he’d combed down into his eyes. Like my brother John, Randy had bought in to the whole retro-seventies hair fad. “I don’t like to brag,” he said, his voice holding a swagger. “But I am an expert with the ladies. All you need to do is find some other guy to make him jealous.”

  Mary Alice rolled her eyes. “I have no idea what the girls see in Randy. Maybe they’re all nearsighted and stupid. But I think you need to be up front with Eric. Tell him how you feel.”

  “Is that how you do it in the fifth grade?” I asked gently.

  She shook her head. “Actually it’s sixth. I get my rules for living from Oprah.”

  Charles wiped his runny nose with the back of his hand. “Why don’t you just hit that girl next door or ride your bike over her foot?”

  I really liked Charles.

  Mrs. Finch put another biscuit on my plate. “All this well-meaning advice aside, you’ll be happy to know Will and I ordered a bouquet of flowers from you to Erik. I gave our local florist, Eugenia Townsend, a call. She was a little snooty about me having the gall to call at such short notice. Apparently I wasn’t the only one who wanted last minute service on a holiday weekend like this, but her assistant, Muriel, who is a very nice girl, offered to make up something, as long as it didn’t require roses. I told her to make sure it has poppies since Erik’s from Belgium.”

  My bite of biscuit stuck in my throat.

  “Will and I decided you needed a little poke,” she added.

  Poke? More like cattle prod. My appetite evaporated. Maybe I could cancel the order. “Have the flowers arrived here?”

  “Not yet, but I expect them soon.” Mr. Finch winked at me.

  Whew. Okay, I’d excuse myself from the table and phone the florist. Canceling was still a possibility.

  “I helped, too,” Charles said. “I gave Erik something and told him it was from you.” Imagining a construction paper heart with Crayon doodles, I didn’t panic. But I should have. Charles grinned. “Right before Erik went for his run, I gave him a frilly pink box of chocolates Randy bought for his girlfriend.”

  “You’re dead,” Randy said.

  Charles snuffed his nose. “I gave him Daddy’s nice watch, too.”

  Oh, my God. That’s why Erik wanted to talk to me. I couldn’t remember how to breathe. Was I hyperventilating?

  “My Rolex?” Mr. Finch’s voice squeaked.

  “Yeah. I said it was from Quinn. Oh, and I ate three of the candies, but one didn’t count ’cause it had some sort of jelly in it, and I had to spit it back out.”

  “Charles!” Mrs. Finch looked at me apologetically. “He’s only in the first grade. He doesn’t quite understand the limits of a little help.”

  “Or that I paid for that candy,” Randy said.

  Charles snuffed his nose again and grinned at me, revealing those half-grown-in front teeth. “I was hungry.”

  My phone rang. Damn it; I hadn’t called Mr. Polaski back. I hadn’t heard from the mechanic at Peavey’s Garage, either. I pushed my plate aside.

  How was I going to get Mr. Finch’s watch back from Erik? Better yet, how was I going to face him now that he knew I loved him?

  There is a good reason to hate Valentine’s Day, I thought as I leaned back in my chair at the kitchen table. I contemplated how best to salvage the wreck that had been made of my life. I glanced out the kitchen window. Here came Erik. A blur of red hair and red velour was following him to the back door. Magdalene. Great.

  “Erik!” Magdalene called as he entered the kitchen. Magdalene didn’t ask to be invited in. She barged. “I expect you have a gift for me, as well.”

  As well. So she’d given him something. Something I hadn’t yet seen. Please no plush toys with treacly sentiments embroidered on their bellies. I might throw up what breakfast I’d managed to eat.

  Before I could inquire as to whether there was a problem at the Cliftons, implying I didn’t want her here, the front doorbell rang.

  “I wonder who that could be?” Mrs. Finch said, as she departed for the door with a mischievous gleam in her eyes.

  A delivery girl with kind brown eyes carried in two bouquets and set them on the kitchen table—one, long-stemmed red roses and the other an arrangement of bright yellow, orange and red flowers, which must be from me to Erik. Just shoot me now.

  “Oh, Will, you haven’t given me roses since Charles was born,” Mrs. Finch gushed, smiling broadly and looking like a woman still very much in love with her husband.

  Mr. Finch looked uncomfortably from the dozen reds to his happy wife. “I didn’t.”

  “Sorry,” the delivery girl said and tiptoed back to the front door. “I’ll let myself out.”

  How I wished I could follow, but Mary Alice blocked me from leaving the table.

  Mrs. Finch took the card in hand. Her blue eyes widened as she read it. “They’re for you,” she said, handing Erik the card.

  Magdalene looked like the proverbial cat that swallowed the canary. “I sent them, Erik. The card says, I’m passionate about you.”

  “The other bouquet is for you, too, Erik,” Mrs. Finch said, and made a point of nudging me.

  I calculated the distance between my seat and the passageway to freedom, but I couldn’t knock a child to the floor to get there. God only knew what Mrs. Finch wrote. If only I were a superhero who could turn myself invisible.

  “Who is sending you flowers?” Magdalene stamped her foot oblivious to the tension in the room. “I must know.”

  Erik frowned as he read the message attached to the bright bouquet. “Thanks,” he said.

  “I . . . um, I’m glad you like them,” I managed to spit out. I hated this awkwardness between us. I missed the ease we’d shared in each other’s company. Maybe if I made a joke about the card and flowers, we’d be able to move past it.

  “Quinn? Quinn sent you flowers? What does the card say?” Magdalene asked, reaching for it.

  “Nothing that concerns you.” Erik tucked it away in his pocket.

  Ouch. So my feelings weren’t anything for her to worry about.

  “The bouquet is pretty, Quinn,” Mary Alice said, now blocking me and Magdalene. Magdalene glared at the child, who held her ground. Mary Alice lifted her chin. “They’re different. They show imagination.”

  “Magdalene,” Mrs. Finch said, heading past me. “I’ve got a fresh pot of coffee. Why don’t I serve you in the den?”

  As the Finch children surrounded and herded Magdalene out of the kitchen, she tossed her mane and gave Erik one of those smoldering looks that runway models use. “I’ll be back.”

  I guess the time had come for Erik and me to have an excruciating talk. “Look, Erik, about the flowers. I can’t take credit for them or for whatever Mrs. Finch wrote on the note. They were her idea.”

  Erik rubbed his jaw, and I recalled how he’d looked in the towel, half-shaven, half-naked. My face burned.

  “Thanks for the chocolates,” he said, softening the “ch” into a “sh,” which made me tingle all over.

  “My guess is they weren’t Belgian,” I said.

  “Guess?”

  “Yeah, they weren’t my idea either. Nor was the choice of messenger, though Charles can be adorable.”

  He smiled briefly and removed Mr. Finch’s Rolex from his pocket and placed it in my palm. “I suspected this belonged to our host.”

  “Erik, I appreciate so much that you haven’t launched into the I-only-want-to-be-your-friend talk. I’m sorry that the Finches got a little overly enthusi
astic about this silly crush of mine.” I didn’t think it was possible, but my face grew hotter. “That’s all this is—an infatuation. I promise I’ll get over it soon. And I’m sorry if any of what happened this morning causes problems for you with Magdalene.”

  Erik’s lips moved like he was saying something under his breath, or maybe he didn’t. It was hard to tell with my hearing worsening.

  “If things were different,” he said in tones I could hear, “and you hadn’t had the Finch family’s help, what sort of gift would you have chosen for me?”

  I shrugged, which was hard to do with my head tilted. “I don’t know. I think Valentine’s Day is pretty cheesy. Besides what’s the point? You have Magdalene.”

  “I don’t have Magdalene.”

  “Okay, okay. You love Magdalene. I get it.”

  “What?” Magdalene shouted from the den. “I heard my name.”

  I heard what sounded like tackle football going on in the den.

  Bravely, I met Erik’s gaze. “It was bad enough losing you as a partner. I don’t want to lose your friendship, too. I miss you enough as it is.”

  “Quinn, I don’t think you understand me. Sometimes friendships only last so long, and then—”

  My phone rang. “I need to call Mr. Polaski.” I certainly wasn’t going to sit here and listen to him tell me that we couldn’t be friends. Rather than cry, I bit the inside of my cheek.

  “You realize this conversation isn’t over,” he said.

  “Yes, it is,” I said a little too forcefully, knowing he’d find me alone at some other point that weekend, and he’d have his say. By the time he did, I’d have the pain in check. He’d never know how much I hurt.

  Sagan

  WHEN I WOKE up Saturday morning Nikoli was still dozing and we were both covered in a slight dust of snow. But the sky was bright blue and the wind had stopped. I was laying on one side of the burned-out fire and Nikoli was on the other, our heads and feet almost touching in a circle. In the dry leaves beneath the boulder there was a large white feather. As I studied the irregular pattern along the bottom of the feather I realized that the ground outside of our shelter had been swept clean.

  “Nikoli?”

  He woke with a start and scooted back against the boulder, staring at me, his eyes wary and filled with questions.

  “Nikoli?”

  I held out the feather and pointed it at the drawing, then held it out to him. He looked at the feather, at the wall and back at me. Then, with a shriek, he scrambled out onto the path and began to whistle. At least that was the only thing I could call it because it was sound unlike any I’d heard before. Vision, or reality? I might never know, but at that point I was certain that the frightened boy was communicating.

  I looked up at the sky. There was nothing there.

  He spoke. I had no idea what he said. Then he gave a frustrated groan and motioned that I should follow. I did, and in a much shorter time than it had taken me to climb the mountain, we were in sight of my house. I waved him inside, shivering. Within ten minutes he’d opened what appeared to be the last box of crackers in the pantry, stuffed a handful in his mouth then politely held out the rest to me. I opened the refrigerator. Empty. It appeared that we’d have a choice of crackers, popcorn or grits for breakfast.

  Any other Creekite would take a guest to town for a hearty breakfast. I considered it. Why not? And afterward we’d stop at the library for a book on Russian and at the Piggly Wiggly to restock the pantry.

  Simple. All I had to do was avoid Amos and Katie Bell while I decided how to keep Nikoli hidden from the immigration authorities. I didn’t want either our police chief or the town’s gossip columnist alerting the circus managers. Better take some time to think about it.

  “Grits,” I said to the kid, wagging a container at him. “That’s about it, for food. We’ll hang out here today while I make some discreet phone calls and try to decide how to help you.” I put a pot of water on the stove to heat. “If your pet bird is still around, you can feed him grits, too. My guess is, he’s either a frozen bird-cicle by now, or he’s roosting in my shed. Either way, I hope you and he like grits.”

  Nikoli stared at me, obviously trying to translate my intentions, if not my words. Finally, his face relaxed a little. He exhaled. “Grits,” he said in heavily accented English. “Okey dokey. Grits.”

  I set out bowls, spoons, butter, salt and pepper. When the grits were ready I spooned a large serving in Nikoli’s bowl. He sat down, tasted it, made a face, went to the fridge, brought back my ketchup bottle, and turned the grits into something resembling buttery red mud.

  He then ate happily, nodding at me.

  I sighed and shook my head.

  Win Allen

  AFTER A QUIET night, the mimes and I arrived at my restaurant, Bubba Rice’s Diner, at 5:30 a.m. to open up for the breakfast crowd. I assigned Tartuffe and Orlon some simple tasks, and we made it through the morning without incident. The customers even seemed to enjoy their antics as they “mimed” their way through their tasks.

  Thanks to Marcel Marceau, most of us know the classic mime routines like “man in a glass box”, “man pulling a rope” and “man walking against the wind.” Did you know that mime for “Fire!” is . . . “Fire! Fire! The kitchen’s on FIRE!!!?”

  These were the first words that I heard spoken by my house pest . . . uh, guests since their arrival on Friday night. Tartuffe came running out of the kitchen, hands waving in the air, screaming at the top of his lungs like a baby girl whose doll had just been ripped to shreds by rabid dogs. Then, realizing his cultural faux pas, he stopped, did his best Charley Chaplin “holding onto his head and jumping up and down” routine, pointing all the while at the smoke pouring out the kitchen door.

  When you shoot a mime, do you have to use a silencer? Just kidding. Really. Maybe not.

  As it turns out, it was only a small fire, confined to the oven. Ever see bread burned so badly that it actually caught fire? I hadn’t either, until now. And, while the oven wasn’t damaged by the fire, it needed a serious cleaning before we could use it again. On Valentine’s Day Eve . . . when we needed to start making a half-dozen cakes for desserts on the dinner menu. We had a lot to do and no time to do it. I didn’t want to face Saturday night Valentine’s Eve without chocolate. We redoubled our efforts.

  I’m not sure how long it had been going on before I became aware of the fact that I was miming my instructions to Tartuffe and Orlon. And, I’m not sure which one of us was the first to laugh out loud, but once the silence was broken, the mime routine was over, at least as long as we were out of sight in the kitchen.

  When they went out front, they returned to character. I didn’t bother trying to convince them to drop the mime routine with customers. Most of the folks who’d booked reservations that night would be happy little campers to get dinner and a special mime show.

  And the ones that wouldn’t be? Well, let’s just say that I wasn’t particularly interested in keeping Del Jackson happy when he brought Ida to dinner. Amos is my pal and I was rooting for him to get the girl. So if the mimes annoyed Del during his romantic dinner with Ida, good for them. Del’s a soldier, one of those commando, bleed-red-white-and-blue-types who never really retire. He had plenty of experience negotiating mime fields.

  Suddenly I was beginning to like mimes, and the last of my prejudices faded. Oh, wait. I forgot. Mimes weren’t exactly the last of my prejudices. Lawyers were. Excepting Mac Campbell, one of Mossy Creek’s leading legal types. He seemed a decent sort. Except for the kilt. I hoped he didn’t wear it when he brought his wife to dinner.

  I didn’t even want to contemplate how Tartuffe and Orlon would mime, “What’s a Scotsman have under his kilt?”

  Harry

  I ROSE WITH THE dawn Saturday, as I always did, and found our guest already on the back por
ch, gazing up the mountain.

  “Good morning,” I said.

  Yuri made a valiant attempt at a smile. “Good morning, Harry. Tank you for warm bed I enjoy last night. You have lovely home.”

  Only a Russian raised on the Siberian tundra would think so, I thought but kept it to myself.

  Last night, Josie and I had indulged in a long, mostly-whispered conversation about our unusual guest. Primarily we discussed what we were going to do with him today. It was Saturday so Josie didn’t have to work. My own work could be accomplished any day of the week, and I usually took off when Josie didn’t have to go in.

  However, since our romantic plans were shot, as Josie had put it earlier, I suggested that I take Yuri up the mountain so that I could check my data-collection sites. I had the feeling the Russian would enjoy being outdoors, even on such a cold day.

  Apparently I was right. Yuri sat on the porch swing in only a flannel shirt, even though the frigid morning air bit through my own flannel with icy fangs.

  “Thank you,” I replied to his compliment. “Josie is fixing some breakfast. After that, if you like, we can hike up the mountain. You can see a bit of scenery and get some exercise. And I can check my data collection sites.”

  Yuri brightened. “I vould like that. Riding in a bus every other day from town to town gets old. Ve only see countryside from out vindow.”

  We set off on foot soon after breakfast. Josie set off in her car to check on her parents.

  “These data collections . . .” Yuri shrugged. “I do not understand.”

  As we climbed, I explained to Yuri that I worked on a grant through the University of Georgia to study the effect of acid rain on the indigenous plants of the Appalachian Mountains. I had built collection facilities all over the nearby mountains to capture the rain for analysis. After a rainstorm, I hiked to each to collect the samples, then analyzed them in the small lab I’d set up in my old cabin, which Josie and I still used occasionally. If it had been awhile between rainstorms, I would visit each one to make sure some critter hadn’t gotten curious and torn it up. That had happened more than once. During the growing season, I also collected plant samples and analyzed them.