Not So Peachy Day

by Wendy Meadows

  “Are you sure it isn't the food?” Sam tried to joke.

  “Very funny,” Michelle told Sam. She paused and said a few words to someone else and Sam heard Able in the background discussing the menus at restaurants on the street. “Sam, is everything okay? Are you guys still on your way to that island?”

  Sam tossed the sweater he was holding down onto his bed. “Michelle, we've been delayed,” he said with a sigh.

  Michelle closed her eyes. “I'm all ears, Sam,” she said and waited for the other shoe to drop.

  “Oh, give me strength, give me strength,” Momma Peach cried as she worked her short little legs through the high snow. “I am going to turn into a popsicle!”

  Sam shielded his eyes from the icy winds and searched for the truck stop. “Wind is getting stronger,” he yelled, the falling snow crashing into his face like little pieces of broken glass. “Timothy, how are you doing, son?”

  Timmy was holding Momma Peach's left hand and Rosa's right hand. He felt mighty silly wearing a sweater and two bathrobes over his coat, but Momma Peach had insisted. “I'm okay,” he called out in a chattering voice, “b-but my feet are r-really c-c-cold.”

  Sam lowered his hand, stopped walking, and, without saying a word, scooped Timmy up into his arms. “Let Old Sam carry you, huh?”

  Timmy looked into Sam's half-frozen face and his gruff but warm eyes and then wrapped his arms around the man's neck. “Okay,” he said, feeling safe. Sam wasn't a bad man. As a matter of fact, the little boy felt sure that Sam was the type of good guy who would fight it out with outlaws at high noon, if he had to. “Thanks, Mr. Sam, sir.”

  “Anytime,” Sam told Timmy and began working his way through the snow drifts again.

  “Carry Momma Peach, too, Mr. Sam,” Momma Peach begged. “Oh, give me strength, give me strength, I am going to look like a yeti’s cousin before we get there.”

  Rosa cradled her arms together and tucked her head down. “Sam, your island is sounding very nice right now!”

  “Warm, sunny beaches...palm trees...blue skies and soft waves...” Momma Peach moaned, “yeah, I could handle that. Rosa, let’s you and me keep imagining it. Maybe it will help us get through this mighty storm.”

  Timmy hugged Sam's neck and tucked his face down. Sam put his left hand on Timmy's head. “Not much further, son,” Sam promised and worked his way across the street.

  “Warm beaches...palm trees...blue skies...soft waves...” Momma Peach gritted out as she struggled through a drift of snow and nearly didn't make it out, “oh, I can surely dig that scene, yes sir and yes, ma’am!”

  “I'd settle for a sunburn right about now, Momma Peach,” Rosa joked over the cruel winds. “Maybe I should have gone to Mexico with my grandparents after all...well, at least for a vacation.”

  Sam focused on the truck stop and forced his body to work. He trudged through the high snow one difficult step at a time and didn't stop until he reached the front door of the truck stop. “Here we are,” he told Timmy and carefully put the boy down. Timmy hurried to open the front door and rushed inside. Sam moved aside and pulled Momma Peach and Rosa into the warm building and then stepped inside himself only to be greeted by the sight of Andy Pracks sitting at a table sipping coffee and reading a newspaper.

  Momma Peach grabbed Timmy and yanked the boy behind her. “The snake has been watching the inn,” she whispered fiercely to Sam.

  Sam nodded his head. He watched Andy lower the newspaper he was reading and look at them. “Is there a problem?” Andy asked in a cold voice.

  “You tell me,” Sam said, speaking over the jukebox. Clint Black was singing about killing time for a couple of snowed-in, bored truckers sitting at the front counter eating breakfast and grousing about the storm.

  Andy glared at Sam. “Stay out of my business and I'll stay out of yours,” he told Sam in a tone that sent chills down Momma Peach's spine.

  “John Minski is my business, pal,” Sam fired back in a voice that let Momma Peach know there was surely going to be a fight. “You better get that through your thick skull, too.”

  Andy put down the newspaper he was holding and slowly stood up. “Is that so?” he asked Sam and brushed a few wrinkles out of his gray suit. “Maybe it's time you learn exactly who you're speaking to.”

  “Maybe it is,” Sam agreed and took a step forward. “Momma Peach, take Timmy and Rosa and go stand at the front counter.”

  Momma Peach hesitated and then did as Sam ordered. “Timmy,” she whispered, “listen to Momma. If you see me run to help Sam, you stay right here with Rosa, do you hear me?”

  Timmy watched Sam take off his coat and drop it down onto a chair. “Is Sam going to fight that man?” he asked.

  “I'm afraid so.”

  “I've seen that man,” Timmy whispered. “He's real mean.”

  Andy shot a sharp eye at Timmy and then focused on Sam. “You're going to end up real hurt,” he promised and then, with one swift motion, threw a hard front kick at Sam. The kick caught Sam in his chest and knocked him backward. Sam tripped over a chair and crashed down to the floor. “Weak,” Andy hissed.

  Sam shook off the pain crushing his chest, grabbed the chair he had tripped over, leaned up onto one knee, and waited for Andy. When Andy drew close enough, he jumped to his feet, gripping the chair by its back, and smashed the chair over the man's head. Andy, shocked by Sam's fierce attack, dropped down to the floor and grabbed his head, dazed. After a moment, he slowly forced his body back up into a standing position. “I hope that hurt,” Sam said spitefully, spotting a thin stream of blood beginning to trickle down Andy's forehead.

  “You're going to pay for that,” Andy promised. In the corner of his eyes, he saw the two truckers stand up and look at him. Both truckers were huge and looked like they had tangled with some sour street dogs in their day. “This is between me and him!” Andy yelled at the truckers. “You do not want to make this your fight.”

  Sam held up his right hand. “It's okay, guys, this is a personal fight.”

  “No offense, mister,” one of the truckers said, “that fella looks younger than you and in better shape. It doesn't look like a fair fight to me.”

  Before Sam could reply, Martha came bursting out of the kitchen with a shotgun in her hand. She pointed the shotgun straight at Andy. “You get out of here!” she yelled. “I was wrong to let you in here to begin with. Now get!”

  Andy growled under his breath. “You're making a horrible mistake,” he told Martha.

  “You're the mistake,” Martha said between gritted teeth. “You work for Coplin and Morris...you help those awful men destroy everything that's good in this town. Why I even let you in here is a mystery to me…you're a no-good rat that somebody ought to have killed long ago. No get out of here before I fix that mistake and fill you full of buckshot.”

  Andy stared at Martha. “This town will belong to Mr. Coplin and Mr. Morris, not you, you backwoods hillbilly hick. They have important plans for this town and no one is going to disrupt those plans, especially not the likes of you.”

  “Mister,” the trucker who had spoken to Sam said, “you heard the woman. You better get out of here before you make me and my friend real mad. You don't want to see us real mad, either.”

  Momma Peach watched the two truckers take a step toward Andy. She saw Andy begin to reach for his right pocket. “Oh no, you don't!” she yelled and launched forward with her pocketbook swinging and began to beat Andy over the head. “Take that, you low-down, filthy vermin!”

  Andy backed up to the front door, shielding his head with his arms. Before he could push Momma Peach away, he was met by a hard punch to the jaw, courtesy of Sam. Andy stumbled back against the front door, pushed it open, and crashed down onto the snow. When he looked up he saw Martha aiming her shotgun at him. “Get!” she yelled and fired a warning shot into the icy air.

  Sam grabbed a thick black coat off the rack that looked like Andy’s, along with a pair of snow boots, and threw them out into t
he snow. “If you harm John Minski I'll dedicate my life to hunting you down,” he warned Andy.

  Andy rubbed his nose, looked at the blood that was dripping onto his hand, and then crawled to his feet. He locked eyes with Sam. “Two is better than one,” he promised. He grabbed his coat and snow boots and walked off into the storm.

  Sam kept his eyes on Andy. He watched the man walk to a gray snowmobile, climb on, and speed away. “Now where did he get a snowmobile?” he asked as he closed the front door.

  Momma Peach walked over to Martha and hugged the woman. “Oh, don't I love you, Martha,” she said.

  Martha lowered the shotgun in her hands and hugged Momma Peach back. “You weren't so bad yourself, Momma Peach. You're real lethal with that pocketbook of yours.”

  “Not as lethal as you and your shotgun,” Momma Peach chuckled. She looked at the two truckers, walked up to them, gave each man a big hug, and thanked them for backing the right people in the fight. “I won't ever forget my heroes,” she promised. “Now you sit right back down and enjoy your breakfast.” The two truckers smiled and returned to their breakfast. Momma Peach plunked down a fifty-dollar bill at the till and told Martha to make sure the truckers did not have to pay a dime for their breakfast that day.

  “Where did he get a snowmobile?” Sam asked himself again, walking over to Rosa and Timmy. “Are you two okay?”

  “You hit that man so hard he fell outside,” Rosa said in an impressed voice. “I didn't know you had it in you, Sam.”

  Sam rubbed his right hand and looked at Timmy. “Fighting is never the answer to anything. But sometimes, in life, you have to stand up to a bully.”

  Timmy stared at Sam. “The mean man kicked you. Are you okay?”

  Sam rubbed his chest. “I'll be sore for a bit, but yeah, Old Sam is okay,” he smiled and ruffled the boy’s hair. “Now, you two go sit down, okay?”

  Rosa took Timmy over to the same table where they had sat the day before. Sam walked over to Momma Peach. “Andy Pracks drove away on a snowmobile,” he said. “Where did the man get a snowmobile? This is Tennessee, Momma Peach, not Alaska.”

  Momma Peach tossed a thumb at Timothy. “This precious little boy said he's seen that evil snake before, Mr. Sam. I saw the way that snake looked at my Timmy. That snake recognized my baby. Now we have ourselves another problem. Now, I don't know where that snake got his snowmobile, but what I do know is that he has the ability to slither about wherever he wants. And that, Mr. Sam, is a real big problem.”

  Sam rubbed his aching chest again. He looked at Timmy and saw the boy staring out the front window. “Martha, can you bring us two hot cocoas and two hot coffees and four breakfast plates, please?” he asked.

  “Sure thing, hon,” Martha said. “Beth is in the kitchen cooking up a storm. We're not sure how long the generator is going to hold out, so she's cooking up as much food as she can. I told her the food will keep even if the generator goes, because how cold it is, but Beth has a mind of her own,” Martha finished and wandered away into the kitchen to put away her shotgun.

  “Momma Peach,” Sam said and pulled her closer to the jukebox to hide his voice, “why would a man like Andy Pracks have a snowmobile?”

  Momma Peach rubbed her chin. “I think that snake monitored the weather and prepared to use this here storm to his advantage.”

  Sam nodded his head. “Me too, but there has to be more. I mean, let's face it, Momma Peach, a man like Andy Pracks can kill John anytime he wants.” Sam leaned against the jukebox and rubbed his chest again. “I have a bad feeling, Momma Peach, that Coplin and Morris have a dangerous card up their sleeve that they're going to play while this storm is raging all around us.”

  Momma Peach reached out and touched Sam's chest. “How bad did that awful rat hurt you, Mr. Sam?” she asked in a worried voice.

  “He kicked me pretty hard,” Sam confessed. “I feel like my chest is about to cave in on me.”

  “You better sit down.”

  Sam shook his head. “Let me stand up and shake it off,” he said. “Momma Peach, I'm an old desert cowboy. I’ve known plenty of ornery horses and so I’ve taken a kick or two in my day.” Sam looked at Rosa and Timmy and then back to Momma Peach. “Few years ago, I was replacing a beam in the ceiling of the restaurant in my town. I'm not sure what happened, but somehow the old beam broke from the ceiling and landed right on my chest...right where Andy kicked me. Boy, I thought I was a goner. I went around for a few days feeling like my chest was going to cave in. Thought I’d broken a rib, but it was just an awful mess of bruises and a bit of a sprain. Eventually, I healed up.”

  “Old Sam is a tough old fart,” Momma Peach told Sam and patted his chest gently. “But Mr. Sam, Andy Pracks is a killer, so promise me you won't tangle with him anymore. Next time...just shoot the snake dead, okay? Because I sure don't want to lose you.”

  “I promise,” Sam assured Momma Peach and then said in a pained voice: “I guess I'll have to shoot that snake dead because I sure can't take him in a fight. Today sure proved that.”

  Momma Peach looked at Sam and studied his face. “Andy Pracks isn't going to take being thrown out of this truck stop lightly, Mr. Sam. He’s going to attack with full force.”

  “Yep,” Sam agreed and drew in a deep breath. “I'm not as young as I used to be...my mind keeps telling me I am, but my old bones remind me that I'm an old fart.” Sam bit down on his lower lip and smiled wryly. “Momma Peach, we're going to have to use our brains and outsmart this snake.”

  Momma Peach nodded her head toward the little boy who sat with Rosa at the table some distance away. “We're going to have to be quick about using our brains, Mr. Sam, because I am afraid my Timmy saw Andy Pracks kill William Krayton.”

  Sam looked at Timmy. “Really?” he asked.

  Momma Peach slowly folded her arms together. “I think my little Timmy was hiding in the attic for more reasons than he's telling me.”

  Sam continued to stare at Timmy. The little boy was looking out into the snow with a scared expression on his face. “Hey, Rosa,” he called out, “why don't you and Timmy take a seat over here next to the wall, okay? It’s warmer over here.” Rosa gave Sam a strange look but did as asked.

  Momma Peach leaned against the jukebox and watched Rosa and Timmy switch tables. “Give me strength,” she whispered in a scared voice and listened to Conway Twitty and Loretta Lynn begin singing about knowing the rumors were wrong as soon as they picked up the phone. It was a sad, lonesome song that matched the sad, lonesome storm outside.

  Outside, the snow whirled against the windowpanes as the storm howled on, as if hungry for destruction and ruin. Across the street at the inn, John sat close to the front door with his gun tucked into the pocket of his jacket, waiting. Waiting for his war to begin.

  Chapter Six

  “Well,” Momma Peach said and made a big old happy face, “my belly is now content and I’m ready to face the day.”

  Sam watched Momma Peach drain her coffee cup and then pat her belly. Momma Peach was now ready for action. But the action in question was something he could do without. “It's nice sitting here drinking coffee,” he said and moved his eyes to the front windows. “I'm not anxious to go back out in that storm, though.”

  Timmy looked down at a half-eaten plate of syrupy pancakes, scrambled eggs, turkey sausage and hash browns. A half-eaten biscuit and bowl of pepper gravy sat off to the side of his plate next to a glass of orange juice. “Momma, my belly is full,” he said, his eyes wide. “Please don't get mad at me, but I can't eat anymore. I'm still full from all the food I ate last night.”

  Momma Peach reached over and rubbed Timmy's belly. She made a serious face and pretended to be a doctor checking on a serious condition. “Uh-huh...I see...is that so, Mr. Belly? Okay...sure enough.”

  “What?” Timmy asked, alarmed.

  Momma Peach rubbed her nose against Timmy's. “Your belly said it was very, very full and asked me to save this here food for later.”

/>   “Oh...okay, yeah, sure,” Timmy beamed, relieved. “I'm sure I'll be hungry later.”

  Rosa pushed her plate away and picked up a mug of hot cocoa. “I'm stuffed,” she said and accidentally let out a little burp. “Oh, excuse me,” she blushed.

  Momma Peach chuckled. “Better to let it out and bear the shame than keep it in and feel the pain.”

  Timmy laughed. “That's a rhyme, Momma. I like that.”

  “You bet,” Momma Peach smiled. She looked into Timothy's sweet face. The boy's face was still far too thin for her liking; his eyes were still scared and uncertain, even though they glowed with hope whenever he looked at Momma Peach. “Oh, I am gonna have to give you a great deal of loving, yes sir and yes, ma’am.”

  Sam rubbed the back of his neck. “Timmy,” he said in a calm but serious voice, “son, we need to talk about something, okay?”

  Timmy frowned. “Momma?”

  Momma Peach gazed into Sam's eyes, read his thoughts, and sighed. “Baby,” she said and looked at Timmy, “Momma is kinda in a bad situation here. You see, I want to take my Timmy home with me—and by all means I will do it, too—but my Timmy has run away from the foster family he was staying with, which means—”

  “The Fowlers will be looking for me. Yeah, I know,” Timmy said in an upset voice. “I figured you would have to call and report me.” Timmy looked up at Momma Peach with pleading, desperate eyes. “Momma, don't let Mr. and Mrs. Fowler take me back. Please,” he begged.

  “Oh, baby,” Momma Peach said and pulled Timmy into her lap and wrapped her arms around him, “I am not going to let anyone take you from me. Especially not someone who, as you told us, hits you and treats you no better than an animal. But this old world has laws, baby...laws we have to follow or get into a load of trouble. So I am going to have to call this Mrs. Fowler and tell her that I want to adopt you as my own.”