by Debra Dixon
“Good morning,” I said to Jayne Reynolds, the owner.
“How are you this morning?”
“I’m fine. Do you reckon the hardware store is open yet?”
“It should be. I’m sure it’ll be open by the time you’ve finished your coffee. What can I get you?”
I didn’t see any prices stuck up anywhere. “How much are your lattes?”
Jayne frowned. “You know, I’m running a special on those this morning — only fifty cents.”
My head sure jerked around at that. “Well, I’ll have one, then. I could even have two, if I like ’em!”
Jayne laughed. “I don’t know about that. We don’t want to get you too wired up!”
I laughed, too, as I dug in my change purse and handed her a dollar bill. I’d like to have told her to keep the change, but I didn’t want it to seem like I was putting on airs. Besides, there was no telling if or when Bart would come home, and I didn’t have a job yet. As Jayne gave me my change, I asked her if she knew of anybody looking to hire.
She pursed her lips.
“I think Win Allen might be hiring a waitress, and I believe I heard someone say Rob Walker at Hamilton’s Department Store is looking for a sales clerk.”
I took a crumpled Piggly Wiggly receipt out of my pocketbook and asked to borrow her pen. “Hamilton Department Store,” I said, writing it down as I said it, “and —”
“And Bubba Rice Lunch and Catering,” Jayne finished.
“Thanks.”
She handed me my latte, and I sat down at a table. I tasted the latte, and it was really good — a lot better than the instant coffee I had at home. I watched Jayne work and noticed how happy she looked. I knew she was a widow and that she was raising a baby boy all by herself. That had to be hard. But, at least, her husband was dead, not traipsing around with the likes of Lu Ann Woods.
My mama had depended on Daddy for as long as I could remember — all her life, I reckoned. It’s how things were. When you got married and a man promised to take care of you, you took him at his word. You didn’t figure on him leaving you with no car, no job, a house payment and a goat to support.
I was tracing the design of the tablecloth with my fingertip and didn’t notice Jayne come by my table.
“Is your latte good?” she asked.
“Oh, yeah,” I said. “If I find work up this way, I’ll be sure to stop back in.”
“Oh, don’t worry. You’ll find something.”
“I hope so.”
Before she could offer me any more encouragement, I heard the awfulest commotion that ever was. A woman was screaming, a dog was yipping, and something else that chilled my blood. Bleeeehhhhh!
“Oh, no,” I whispered. I looked out the window just in time to see Missy Belle streak past The Naked Bean with a doughnut in her mouth. Then came a pretty, middle-aged woman with a Chihuahua in one arm. She shook her other fist while chasing Missy Belle down the street.
“I’m sorry,” I told Jayne, as I hurried outside.
I ran smack dab into the angry woman with the Chihuahua.
“I’m really sorry,” I said. “I take it the doughnut was yours?”
“Actually, the doughnut belonged to a customer. He’d just bought it from me when that damned goat ran in and took it from him!”
I glanced up at the sign above her shop. Beechum’s Bakery.
“Well, like I said, I’m sorry, Mrs. Beechum. I’ll pay for any damage Missy Belle did.”
“You’re sure right you will.”
Mutt Bottoms walked out of the bakery. Twenty-six years old to my twenty-two. Big and good-looking as ever, especially in the tailored khaki uniform of a Mossy Creek police officer. Great. Now, my humiliation was complete.
“Everything’s all right, Miz Beechum,” Mutt said. “No harm done.” He nodded at me. “That your goat?”
“Yeah. Missy Belle.”
“Did you see what direction she went in?”
“No.” I shaded my eyes and looked down the street.
Suddenly, I heard a screech from behind the azaleas in the park. It sounded to me like the call of that common old-lady bird, the White-Breasted Southern Big Hair. We all took off across the street — me because I figured Missy Belle had caused it.
Mutt thought so, too. “That’s Miz Abercrombie. Your goat must be in the flower beds.”
Sure enough, Missy Belle had discovered a huge batch of pansies planted beside the gazebo. She’d even dropped her — or, rather, Mutt’s — doughnut in favor of the pansies.
“I’m sorry.” I muttered that phrase over and over like a stuck record. I made a grab for Missy Belle and wound up face down in the flowerbed.
“Aaaaak!” Old Mrs. Abercrombie sounded like she had something caught in her throat. “You . . . you . . . that goat . . . it . . . it . . . aaaak!”
I stood up and ran my hand over my face. “Yeah. Me and my goat. Aaaak.” I ran off in the direction Missy Belle had darted when I’d reached for her.
“Wait,” Mutt called, as he steadied Mrs. Abercrombie and tried to take the deadly garden hoe she was waving.
But I had to catch Missy Belle. At that point, I didn’t care if there was a single flower left standing. I hadn’t asked for any of this. I hadn’t asked for Bart Milford to leave me high and dry, and I hadn’t asked for Rochelle to drop a homeless goat on my doorstep. I hadn’t asked for Mutt Bottoms to witness my goat-chasin’ humiliation.
You’d have thought O’Day’s Pub would be closed that early in the morning, but danged if I didn’t see Missy Belle’s wagging tail go right through the pub’s open front door. Come to find out, Win Allen was catering some big to-do that evening and was at O’Day’s buying kegs of beer he’d need. By the time I got to O’Day’s, Missy Belle had chewed a hole in a burlap sack of peanuts.
“Missy Belle, don’t!” I cried.
Too late. Michael Conners, the pub’s owner — one of the finest lookin’ men in Mossy Creek, next to Mutt — came out of the back room along with Win Allen just in time to see Missy Belle hop up on a table and knock over a pitcher of beer. Beer went everywhere. There was no way I could get to Missy Belle without tromping on the peanuts that were strewn all over the floor, so I just tromped. Mr. Conners and Mr. Allen stood there gaping at me and Missy Belle.
Mutt rushed in behind me and had the forethought to sidestep the mess, but not before Ingrid Beechum’s Chihuahua jumped out of her arms and right into a puddle of beer.
“Bob, don’t!” she yelled, but he was already lappin’ up beer with the gusto of an Atlanta Falcons fan drownin’ his sorrow after another disappointin’ football game.
I picked up my goat and leveled my gaze at Mr. Conners. “I’ll take Missy Belle here on back home, and then I’ll come back and clean up this mess. I don’t have the money to pay for the damages, but I’ll work for nothin’ until we’re square.” I turned to Mutt. “Same goes for the flowers and whatever she did in the bakery.”
“Excuse me for asking,” Mr. Allen said, “but why in the world did you turn a goat loose in the middle of town?”
“I didn’t turn her loose.” Tears prickled in my eyes and my nose burned. “Best I can figure, she chewed through the rope I had her tied with and then she followed me here.” By then, I was flat out crying and making an even bigger fool of myself than I had been to begin with.
“The reason I came to town in the first place was to get the stuff I’d need to build her a little pen.”
Missy Belle started squirming in my arms, and I got scared she’d get down and I’d have her to catch all over again.
“I’ll walk her home,” I said, “and then I’ll be back to make amends as best as I can.”
“I’ll give you and Missy Belle a ride in my patrol car,” Mutt said.
“No, thanks. She’ll just eat your upholstery.”
I brushed past Mutt and Mrs. Beechum, and I started out Easy Mossy Creek Road toward home. I could feel the eyes of Mossy Creek boring into my back until I was
plumb out of sight.
I was worn out by the time I carried Missy Belle all the way back home. I went inside and took Missy Belle into the bathroom. I sat her on the floor and started running her some bath water. I couldn’t have a goat that smelled like a brewery. Besides, giving her a bath would give me time to figure out what to do with her long enough to bathe myself and then hightail it back over to Mossy Creek to clean up the messes she’d made.
I found out in a hurry that goats don’t appreciate a nice warm bath. I didn’t have time to think about anything but survival as I wrestled Missy Belle all over the bathroom.
“Bleh! Bleh!” She jumped out of the tub.
I caught her and got a head-butt to the chin for my trouble. I put her back into the tub and lathered her up with the dog shampoo Bart had used to wash Goofy.
“Bleh! Bleeeehhhh! Bleeeehhhh!”
The poor thing must’ve thought I was trying to drown her. She leapt out of the tub again and butted the door. Thank heavens I’d closed it, or I’d be chasing Missy Belle all over the house . . . and, frankly, I’d chased her plenty for one day. I decided I ought to try to calm her down a little before putting her back into the tub to rinse her off. I petted her head and tried to talk to her in a soothing voice.
She wasn’t having any of that. “Bleeeehhhh! Bleeeehhhh!” She sounded like a little goat machine gun.
I sank back against the tub and closed my eyes. Could this day possibly get any worse?
Suddenly, someone pounded on the front door. I hoped like the dickens that it was Rochelle.
“Who is it?” I hollered.
“It’s Officer Bottoms.”
I sighed. It was just my luck that those people in Mossy Creek were gonna press charges. I managed to finagle my way out of the bathroom without letting Missy Belle out.
I wiped my sweaty palms on my pants and then realized that my clothes were sopping wet. I opened the door.
Not only was Mutt standing on the porch, it appeared that about half the residents of Mossy Creek were in my yard. They hadn’t come to give me a summons! This was a lynching!
“Uh, wow,” Mutt said. “Most people undress before they take a bath.”
“I really was coming back,” I said. “I was trying to . . . I haven’t had time —”
“That’s not why I’m here . . . why we’re here.” Mutt shifted from one foot to the other. “We heard about Bart and Lu Ann.”
“Lu Ann’s mama comes in and gets her hair done once a week,” said Rainey Ann Cecil of the Goldilock’s Salon. “She’s awful disappointed in Lu Ann.”
“We’ve come to help you fix a place for your goat,” Orville Gene Simple said. “I brought the lumber. I’m pretty handy with wood, and I’ve had plenty of dealings with animals . . . mostly wild ones, but don’t listen to any stories you hear about that.”
Even I’d heard about Mr. Simple’s run-in with the demonic beaver back before the Mossy Creek High School reunion.
“What’s this gonna cost me?” I asked. “I don’t have much money, and I’ve already got myself in more debt than I know how to repay.”
“It won’t cost you anything.” Casey Blackshear rolled her wheelchair up to the porch. There was a box from Beechum’s Bakery on her lap. “Ingrid sent you a coffee cake, and a couple of doughnuts for your goat.” Casey looked around the yard. “Where is she?”
“In the bathroom. I was trying to give her a bath.”
Every eye in the crowd widened, and somebody shouted, “We’d better get busy; and, Sugar, you’d better get that goat out of your bathroom!”
I hurried back to the bathroom. Missy Belle was lying beside the tub looking almost content. I sat down beside her and stroked her head.
I heard a tap on the bathroom door and turned to see Mayor Walker. It was like looking up to find the Queen of England in my toilet.
“M-M-Mrs. Walker . . . I mean, Mayor Walker, I —”
She smiled. “Call me Ida.” She nodded at Missy Belle. “I don’t imagine you’ll be able to rinse her off in that tub without a fight.”
“No.” I shook my head. “I’d rather not try that again. Do you have any ideas?”
“Let’s just wipe her down with some towels for now.” She took a towel off the shelf and ran warm water on it. “Try that.”
I took the towel and gently patted Missy Belle’s soapy back. She lay there complacently without so much as a bleh.
“She’s a pretty little goat,” Mayor Walker said.
“Thank you,” I said. “Not just for the compliment but for everything.” I bit my lip. “Why are you all doing this? You don’t even know me. I’m a Bigelowan.”
“Not anymore. You’re a Creekite now.” She smiled again. “Everybody in Mossy Creek has fallen on hard times at one time or another. All we ask is that you help out when you see a neighbor in need.”
That day I learned the true meaning of community. I’d believed community meant gossip and whispers and backstabbing and pettiness. Now I knew that the true meaning of community was acceptance and caring and helping and giving back. It meant belonging, truly belonging for the first time in my life.
By the end of the day, Missy Belle had a fine pen and an even finer shed. The shed even had a feeding trough in it! I had a house full of friends and I got a waitress job with Win Allen. Those Home Economics classes would pay off after all.
I also got a lawyer — Mayor Walker’s daughter-in-law, Teresa. She filed divorce papers for me against Bart on grounds of desertion. Once he got wind of that, he came back and tried to talk me out of it. He said he loved me and wanted me back, but I knew all he wanted was our house. I told him to take his dog, his truck, and his two-bit girlfriend and head on back down the road. I told him, “Me and Missy Belle have us a home now. We ain’t goin’ nowhere and don’t want to.”
Bart looked to start arguin’, but about that time Mutt Bottoms rolled up in his patrol car. Just rolled up and stopped in my yard. Gave a little tip of his finger to me and Bart. Leveled a certain kind of look at Bart. That was all it took. Bart left.
Mutt nodded to me, then drove away.
Me and Missy Belle stood on the porch, watching him go. I smiled.
“Bleh,” Missy Belle said happily.
Who would have thought that a blessing could have four hooves?
The Mossy Creek Gazette
215 Main Street • Mossy Creek, Georgia
From the Desk of Katie Bell, Business Manager
Lady Victoria Salter Stanhope
The Cliffs, Seaward Road
St. Ives, Cornwall TR37PJ
United Kingdom
Dear Vick:
Michael and Jasmine. Sugar and Mutt. Wow! Turn on a fan, Vick, ’cause the temperature is rising this fall! Here’s a little something sweet and funny to change the pace and let us catch our breath from the local romances. Trisha Peavy Cecil is Rainey Cecil’s cousin-in-law. You know how gregarious Rainey is — her Goldilocks Hair, Nail, and Tanning Salon is a gossip goldmine. But Trisha, being a Cecil by marriage, not blood, is a little less certain she wants to be the center of attention in Mossy Creek. Read on and see what I mean.
Katie
Chapter 6
In Mossy Creek folks try to speak in soft words ’cause they know that someday they might have to eat them.
Building Bridges
Chapter 6
People mark their lives by major events, either terrible or wonderful. Like when Elvis died, or when they won the Miss America Crown, or met Tom Cruise. Like those traumatic events, blessings can’t be foreseen or planned. They have to take you by surprise.
The call came at seven in the morning. My husband Pruitt was on his way out the back door when the phone rang. Pruitt coaches at Bigelow High, and I work part-time for the county parks and recreation department. I rushed to reach the wall phone, and he hung in the open doorway waiting to hear if our early call was an emergency involving a student.
I heard the loud screeching of badly adjusted hearing a
ids, and then Miss Mazie Turnage was shouting at me. “It’s my honor to inform you, Trisha Peavy Cecil, that you have been selected as the new standing member of the Mossy Creek Bridge Club.”
I winced, held the phone away from my ear, and shouted effusive thanks. Grinning, Pruitt gave me a smack on the fanny and went on out the door.
Miss Mazie dropped the officious tone but continued to vibrate my head. “I wanted to get to you early ’cause I know your mama is fit to bust with the news herself.” The Mossy Creek Bridge Club has rules for everything under the sun, and the rare privilege of such announcements falls to club’s most senior member. Miss Mazie is eighty-four and holding. To life that is. Arthritis keeps her from holding cards anymore.
I didn’t get to do more than nod at her comment about Mother before she talked on, telling me how she missed my Grandma Peavy, who had died the year before and whose position in the club I would be filling, and how she hadn’t seen Pruitt and my two kids in she didn’t know when, and then she innocently delivered the sucker punch: “I’m so glad we’re playing at your house. See you Thursday night, honey.”
I hung up the phone and reached for one of Pruitt’s brown paper lunch sacks. Visions of dust, dull hardwood, and fading drapes had me hyperventilating. I took a few deep pulls on the paper sack. Two days — forty-eight hours until Thursday — that’s all I had. My first thought was to call Mother. My mother, Elizabeth Newcomb Peavy, is the one who nominated me to fill Grandma’s place. She’s been a member of the club for thirty-seven years, and I knew good and well she had to have known the new member would be expected to host the next meeting.
I actually picked up the phone before I remembered that Mother would be at my door by nine-thirty. Since she retired from teaching fifth grade at Mossy Creek Elementary, Tuesday is her day out. Besides, I couldn’t accuse her of deception when I’d been helping Grandpa Peavy pull the wool over her eyes for nearly a year. Grandpa had been living next door in his gas station since Grandma died, a fact Mother wasn’t aware of. I slumped against the counter and tried to decide whether I should clean the oven or put my head in it.
