Mossy Creek

by Deborah Smith, Sandra Chastain, Donna Ball, Debra Dixon, Nancy Knight, Virginia Ellis

  “Chief Royden just arrested your mother for shooting the new welcome sign,” Teresa said calmly. “I’m going over to the jail and try to spring her, if she’ll let me. You know your mother is always trying to make me feel tougher than I am, and I’ve been reading up on criminal statutes.” She paused, frowning but loyal. Teresa was a tax attorney, not exactly a criminal defense shark. “Maybe I could argue temporary insanity brought on by the start of tax season.”

  Robert, who had solemnly ordained himself a man at twelve years old when his father died, sat back in the chair of the antique desk where several generations of Hamiltons had commanded a world of clothing, knickknacks, home accessories, and all-purpose practical needs for comfortable living. He didn’t even look surprised. “I used to think,” he said, “that Mother would run away with the circus someday. Then I realized that the circus wants to run away with Mother.”

  True to Hamilton heritage, Robert was a creature of tradition—but not, like his late father and me—a natural-born troublemaker. After graduating from the University of Georgia with a business degree, he’d bought the aging small town department store from me with a token down payment he’d saved working part-time as a stockbroker, of all things. I’d never imagined a tall, strong, good-looking son of mine wanting to manage our failing old dinosaur of a department store, staffed by ten longtime employees so slow they chewed cuds. But Robert worked a miracle. He renovated and re-energized the building, he upgraded the merchandise, and he soon had the staff chanting Smile and Sell at staff meetings. Recently, he’d put a handsome new sign above the awnings of the main doors.

  Hamilton’s

  Because quality and good service still matter.

  There may be cheap, sloppy competition everywhere else on the planet, but in Mossy Creek a smiling clerk at Hamilton’s shoe department will still measure a shopper’s foot with a metal shoe ruler then bring a choice of potential shoes while the person sits in a comfortable chair, waiting like royalty. At Hamilton’s, a little old lady with a measuring tape pinned to her sweater will still help customers shop for a dress. At Hamilton’s, an old, freckled doorman will carry a woman’s purchases to her car. At Hamilton’s, people matter.

  Suffice to say, everyone in Mossy Creek adores my son, and so do I.

  I just wish he wouldn’t expect me to behave.

  “Go see if Mother will agree to bail,” he told Teresa. “Or bake her a cake with a file in it.”

  That evening—just in time for the six o’clock news—I stood outside the Mossy Creek jail on Main Street. From the Hamilton House Inn to O’Day’s Pub and all the way up to Mama’s All You Can Eat Café, citizens, reporters and camera trucks vied for space. The Mossy Creek town square is normally the most peaceful place this side of a Norman Rockwell painting, but on that spring night it became a hotbed of protest. People waved placards out the upstairs windows of the shops, dangled little bean-bag effigies of my nephew from the limbs of the square’s towering beech trees among signs that read HAM STRUNG, and had even wrapped the square’s looming sculpture of General Augustas Brimberry Hamilton of Jefferson’s Third Confederate Division in the official town flag. The flag bore our town seal, a medallion of creek and mountains circled by those glorious words, Ain’t Going Nowhere, And Don’t Want To.

  “No New Sign! No New Sign!” the crowd chanted.

  Camera lights flooded the whole scene. The entire town council stood behind me, forming a seven-person wall of sorrowful faces and ruffled feathers. I tried very hard to look noble and martyred, as if I hadn’t just spent a grueling six hours in a jail cell with window curtains. “Governor Bigelow is ashamed of his mother’s hometown,” I said into the microphones of all the major Atlanta radio and television stations, which only sent crews to the wilds of north Georgia when winter snowstorms threatened tourists or Hamiltons threatened Bigelows. “He has asked us repeatedly to change our welcome motto to something he considers politically correct. After I told him in no uncertain terms we would never surrender our heritage, he forced a new sign on us.”

  “Do you want people to think that Mossy Creekers are against progress?” a reporter asked.

  “Creekites,” I corrected. “Mossy Creekites.”

  “Uh, sorry, Mossy Creekites.”

  “We’re peculiar, you see. We don’t want to be like every other town in the world. We hear the word ‘progress’ and see bulldozers tearing down the mountains. We hear the word ‘growth’ and see old farms being turned into subdivisions that all look alike.” I paused for effect. “We hear the name ‘Bigelow’ and see our silver-spoon neighbors in the south end of this county plotting to get rid of us. This is not about us resisting positive new ideas and new people. This is about Ham Bigelow wanting to erase his mother’s odd little hometown, so we won’t embarrass him politically.” I leaned forward. “Because this is about Ham Bigelow planning to run for President of the United States a few years from now.”

  Reporters gasped and scribbled feverishly in their notebooks while spewing questions at me. Will the governor confirm that? Has he said that to you personally? When will he make an announcement?

  “You’ll have to ask him when he pulls his head out of the sand.”

  Albert “Egg” Egbert, a retired Georgia Tech physics professor, second cousin of mine, old and jowly and hangdog, stepped forward with perfect timing, just as I had coached him to do. Professor Egg looked more like a ruined old homesteader than a man who could still dazzle everyone with an explanation of Einstein’s theories. He faked a cornpone accent and drawled, “Oh, Cousin Ham, how could you be so durned sneaky? We’ve been ambushed! No, even worse!” He paused dramatically. “We’ve been Ham-bushed!”

  I just stood there, gazing straight into the cameras, smiling like the cat that ate the ham sandwich. “Ham-bushed,” I repeated.

  The crowd roared.

  Three hours’ drive south of Mossy Creek, Governor Ham Bigelow cursed a blue streak and morosely sank back in his executive chair beneath the gilded dome of the state capitol. He was a tall, broad-shouldered man with shrewd eyes but considerable charm —the perfect, deadly mix of Hamilton charisma and Bigelow slyness. He only fumbled when confronted by the Mossy Creek magic for absolutely twisting his custom-made boxer shorts into a wad. Now he put a hand over his face and groaned. He could see Ted Koppel turning to the camera on Nightline. “Primary voters want to know,” Ted would intone. “Is Georgia Governor Hamilton Bigelow a candidate driven by consummate greed and ambition? They remember his own aunt telling the world some years ago that he planned to stake a claim on the White House. So voters want to know—as his own relatives are fond of saying—is Governor Bigelow merely trying to Ham-bush this presidential election?”

  Ham lowered his hand. “Mother, what am I gonna do?”

  Sitting beside him in a Queen Anne armchair she’d brought up from her million-dollar second home on St. Simon’s Island so that she would have her own special throne in her son’s gubernatorial office, Ardaleen Hamilton Bigelow glowered at her younger sister on the TV screen. Her green Hamilton eyes narrowed like the gaze of a silver-haired vulture. “I’ll teach Ida a lesson,” she hissed. She picked up a phone. “I’m calling Judge Blakely.”

  Ham stared at her. “Mother, you’re one mean old lady,” he said affectionately.

  Ardaleen smiled.

  Two weeks after I shot Ham Bigelow’s new Mossy Creek welcome sign, I stood beside my nervous daughter-in-law, Teresa, in the packed courtroom of glowering Judge Blakely at the Bigelow County Courthouse. Judge Doom, we called him up in Mossy Creek. He thought civilization in Bigelow County began and ended inside the city of Bigelow. After all, Bigelow was the county seat. Bigelow had a country club and a golf course. Bigelow had a French café and a sushi restaurant. Bigelow had a junior college, and strip shopping centers, and a new ten-screen movie theater with stadium seating and chili nachos. Bigelow had a Super Wal-Mart. What Bigelow did not have was pretty, unspoiled Mossy Creek—population 1,700, all nose-thumbing a
nti-Bigelow rebels. Though our town anchored the county’s northern end less than a twenty-minute drive from Bigelow, to Judge Blakely, Mossy Creek was no better than a mud-hut village filled with sign-shooting cannibals.

  “Well, Ida, the law finally caught you red-handed,” Judge Blakely brayed as he banged his gavel to start court.

  “I object,” Teresa said.

  “This isn’t the IRS office, little lady, so unless you got a problem with my tax return, you’re overruled.”

  Teresa blushed. I chewed my tongue and gave Judge Blakely a murderous look. “Don’t take your gleeful bad mood out on my daughter-in-law—or anyone else.”

  “You watch yourself, Ida Hamilton Walker. I’ll hold you in contempt. More’n I already do. Women like you have a responsibility to be ladies and role models. You let society down.”

  “I think I’ve lived up to my gender-based public responsibility to society more than you have. In the past two weeks, you’ve handed out hard sentences to every Mossy Creekite who’s come to trial here. From what I’ve heard, those people were all innocent. You’re punishing the whole town.”

  Judge Blakely reared back as if about to explode. Teresa yipped softly. “My client isn’t accusing you of abusing your power, Your Honor. She’s just upset about some of the new government rulings on tax deductions, and she’s taking it out on you—”

  Judge Blakely slammed his gavel down, and Teresa jumped. He jabbed a finger at me. “Ida Hamilton Walker, are you questioning my honor?”

  “Your honor, Your Honor?”

  “You being smart-alecky?”

  “About your honor, Your Honor?”

  The courtroom erupted in giggles. Judge Blakely rapped his gavel and glowered. Half the courtroom seats were filled by grinning reporters and the other half by dour aides of Ham’s, pretending to be ordinary citizens.

  Sue Ora Salter, the publisher of the Mossy Creek Gazette, chortled from her front-row seat. She was married to a Bigelow husband but hadn’t lived with him for years. She knew what was what when it came to co-existing with Bigelowans, as we called them. My son Robert sat near her on the front bench, handsome and formal in a dark gray suit, but frowning at the judge with a jaw-punching threat that made me proud. Robert might one day actually forget himself and act reckless. Sitting beside him, grinning at me and waving when I turned around to look, was Little Ida, my brilliant, eight-year-old, auburn-haired namesake. She was taking notes for her website.

  Judge Blakely yelled at me. “You makin’ fun of me?”

  “No, I’m letting you do it yourself.”

  “Now I’m gonna really hold you in contempt, you uppity—”

  “Mayor Ida Hamilton Walker pleads guilty to all charges,” Teresa interjected quickly.

  The judge froze. He eyed me warily, squinting at me, studying me as if I might be hiding a switchblade or another Your Honor quip inside my sleek blue dress-suit. “Well, well. You gonna holler uncle this quick, Mayor?”

  “I’ve already made my point. I’ve said what I needed to say. If it will stop you from punishing my townspeople, I’ll admit my guilt and take the consequences.”

  “Well, well.” Judge Blakely shuffled some papers. “Mayor Hamilton, you destroyed state property. Therefore, you’ll pay for a new sign to replace the one you shot. Plus, I’m giving you six months’ jail time—set aside on probation, as long as you behave.” He paused, then smiled fiendishly. “But you’ll have to complete six weeks of anger management classes at the Bigelow Counseling Center.”

  Anger management class was the equivalent of being sent to stand in the corner. I wasn’t being taken seriously—the whole town of Mossy Creek wasn’t being taken seriously. I wanted dramatic punishment—the kind television cameras could film. “I’d rather serve time in the county jail. I will happily wash county police cars or unload garbage at the dump with the rest of the unfairly convicted Mossy Creek citizens singled out in your reign of terror.”

  “Sssh,” Teresa begged. “Your Honor, could I approach the bench and discuss alternative sentencing for my—”

  “Nope.” He slapped his gavel down. “We’ll just see who’s funny, now.”

  To add insult to injury, Judge Blakely ordered the state roads commissioner to put up an identical new welcome sign within a day after my prissy, patronizing sentence hit the news.

  I had won the battle but lost the war.

  On a rainy Thursday night when the spring winds carried the first full songs of the frogs, I parked my 1958 silver-gray Corvette outside one of the antiseptically modern, white-brick buildings of a Bigelow office park. I stared balefully at the glow of light coming from the glass doors of the Bigelow Counseling Center. Flinging a soft black cashmere scarf around my black sweater and slacks, I strode inside.

  Room 7A was my destination, according to my court-provided instruction sheet. When I rounded a hallway corner, I nearly collided with over six feet of lean, muscular, male body. The owner of that body moved a plastic coffee mug out of the way without spilling a drop. I looked up into a rugged face, deep blue eyes, and short, sandy gray hair.

  “Excuse me,” I said. “You shouldn’t just lurk around corners holding dangerous coffee cups.”

  He smiled, and I caught my breath.

  There are a limited number of hunky men over the age of fifty, and this one could have been a leader in that elite group. I’m never helpless or coy around attractive males, but I gave him and his handsome packaging—loafers, khakis, a sweater and a brown bomber jacket—an unfettered once over, while my right hand rose to my chest and preened at my scarf.

  He tilted his head, arched sandy gray brows, and gave me the same head-to-toe scrutiny. “Nice accessories,” he said in a deep voice with a crisp Midwestern accent. “I apologize.”

  My face burned. The rest of me experienced a rebellious jolt of pleasure. I wanted to retort, You, sir, are no gentleman, as if I were some middle-aged Scarlett O’Hara, not quite upset but not quite happy, either. “I don’t know you, do I?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Are you here for anger management or for a class on picking up women?”

  He grinned. “Interested?”

  “Do I look interested?”

  “Your lips say No, but your smile says Yes.”

  I clamped my rebellious lips together and sashayed past him into our small, starkly lit classroom. What was the world coming to when a mayor could get hit on by a middle-aged Rhett Butler while attending court-ordered counseling?

  Maybe this punishment wouldn’t be so bad, after all.

  My fellow Mossy Creekites and I–all victims of Judge Blakely’s vendetta—sat in hard plastic chairs behind two cold metal tables in a little classroom where the wall posters offered feel-good slogans and finger-wagging lessons. Think, don’t fight. Smile, don’t yell.

  Kiss My Behind, I wrote on a notepad.

  I nicknamed our group the Mossy Creek Five. I knew two of them—bulldozer operator Wolfman Washington and young Geena Quill, who was the daughter of a friend of mine—but the other two—my rugged Rhett Butler, and a rough-looking young man with kind eyes—were newcomers who must live in the outlying communities of Mossy Creek. I sighed. Look Over, Yonder, Bailey Mill and Chinaberry were just crossroads with country stores to anchor them, but there had been a time when I could name every soul who lived there. I started to introduce myself to Rhett and Rough, as I named them, but the counselor suddenly entered the room.

  He was a short, thin, tight-mouthed man who wore a bright yellow badge pinned to his sweater vest. Oscar Seymore, Happy Therapist, it said beneath a smiley face. I distrusted him instantly. Oscar frowned at our little group as he handed out packets of reading material. “I expect y’all to read these papers for class discussion next week,” he commanded in a reedy, annoying voice.

  Barney Fife, I wrote on my notepad.

  Rhett leaned over, boldly invaded my personal space, and read my words. “I’m telling Teacher,” he whispered drolly. A mischievous smile lift
ed one corner of his mouth.

  I answered through gritted teeth, “Back off. I’m barely managing my anger.”

  “My job,” Oscar began, “is to provoke this group and make each of you think about appropriate ways to respond to unpleasant circumstances.” He stood before us, rapping the palm of one hand with a cigar-sized metal device. “First off, I want you to share your personal background and tell everyone exactly why you were placed in this class.”

  “Brainwashing 101 was already full,” Rough suggested in a carpet-slicing New York accent. Rough was in his early twenties, with dark hair and sharp, amused eyes. He lounged in his desk-chair with dusty, laced-up work boots crossed at the ankles. His shirt was clean but old, and his hands were covered in nicks and calluses. He narrowed his eyes and smiled, but his exhausted posture and the gaunt circles beneath those eyes told me this kid worked hard at some dirty job.

  Next to him, Geena fidgeted with the buttons of her demure brown suit and eyed him with shy fascination. She was trying very hard not to cry, and he was trying very hard to look mean. I felt a pang of sympathy for them both.

  Oscar’s cheeks colored. “Let’s get something straight, young man. I put remarks such as yours in my files for Judge Blakely to read. If you don’t want to repeat this class—or serve jail time—you’ll straighten up. And that includes sitting up straight, too.”

  Silence. Humiliation crawled through the room. Rough, the poor young guy, looked as if his skin were being sliced off bit by bit. Beside me, Rhett straightened and said quietly, “You must be talking to me, Oscar.”

  Wolfman, behind us, drawled firmly, “No, must be talkin’ to me.”

  I squared my shoulders. “Oh, no. Oscar means me.”

  Rough’s mouth quirked in a smile. “Nah, it’s just me.” He sat up taller, defiant. Geena darted nervous looks at him and the rest of us. Then she slowly pressed her spine into a proud line and lifted her chin, quivering with brave camaraderie. “No, me,” she peeped.