by Deborah Smith, Sandra Chastain, Donna Ball, Debra Dixon, Nancy Knight, Virginia Ellis
Oscar craned his head and gave us all a look like a worried gopher. “I’ll make a note of this sarcasm in the group dynamic.” He turned his back, clicked the cigar-shaped device, and pointed it at a poster pad on an easel. A red laser dot speared the first name he’d scrawled on the pad. “Mr. Washington. Stand up and own your shame.”
Wolfman, a burly, thirty-something black man with a thick beard, rose from the table like a calm mountain. His beard and mustache were neatly trimmed, and he wore a white shirt and a tie with brown corduroy trousers. The tie had Mickey Mouse on it. His hands were large and hard-worked, his face, friendly. “My name’s Wolfman Washington. I been in the earth movin’ business since I was old enough for my daddy to set me in the cab of a bulldozer. Got me two big dozers and two bobcats, a backhoe, and a twenty-ton dump truck. Me and my wife got us a nice little farm over in Yonder.”
“Get to the point,” Oscar snapped.
“Well, yessir. Heavy equipment sure isn’t the point.” He cleared his throat and launched into a poem. Wolfman was the poet laureate of Greater Mossy Creek, including Yonder and the other outlying communities. “Wife and kids, I’ll take no bids, Wouldn’t trade ‘em, For all the world’s riches, I’m just happy, Digging ditches.”
“Very nice,” I said.
Oscar glared at me, then at Wolfman. “Tell us your crime, Mr. Washington.”
“I was doing some work for a developer over in East Bigelow Estates—digging a swimming pool for his backyard—and whilst I was working he set this crew of men to building a gazebo, and one of those men was a Mexican feller, a real hard worker, he has a family, he’s a good soul, and, well, I found out that developer wouldn’t pay the Mexican as much as the rest of the crew. See, he knew the Mexican wasn’t here legal. So he knew the Mexican couldn’t do nothing about being cheated out of pay.” Wolfman paused. His chin came up. “I can’t watch a person be cheated out of his duly earned money. I can’t go home to my boys and tell ‘em we live in that kind of country. So I … I lost my temper, and I, uh, got in my bulldozer, and I pushed the developer’s golf cart into the swimming pool hole.” He sighed but kept his chin up. “I did the crime, I’ll serve my time, Just don’t want the world, To turn on a rich man’s dime.”
A bad poet, I thought, but a noble crusader.
Oscar snorted. “You, next,” he said loudly, and pinpointed my name on the pad. I stood, gave my particulars in a firm, loud voice, then started to sit down. “Not so fast,” Oscar said. “I believe all of us are familiar with your crime, via television and the newspapers. I’d like some comment from your classmates.”
I nodded, and calmly studied the group. Wolfman nodded politely back, Rough shrugged, Geena blushed, but Rhett Butler raised a hand. “What gauge was your shotgun?”
“Twelve,” I said.
“Wouldn’t a deer rifle have done more damage?”
My heart warmed. “Yes, but the shotgun was a family heirloom. A sentimental choice.”
“Next time, try to stand no more than twenty feet from the sign—”
“Enough!” Oscar stepped in front of me. He could have killed Rhett Butler with one waspish look. “You think the mayor’s violence and vandalism are a joke?”
“No, I think she betrayed her official oath, and she ought to resign from office. But I was talking technique, not morality—”
“Betrayed my oath?” I echoed. “I’ll tell you what would have been a betrayal of my oath: Letting the citizens of my town be trampled by the Bigelow political machine. Letting the governor’s arrogance overrule more than one hundred years of devotion to an old-fashioned welcome sign that means something to the people of Mossy Creek. Turning a blind eye when individuals corrupt the system for their own gain.”
“You corrupted the system when you did an end run around the law,” Rhett countered smoothly. “That makes you no better than your enemies.” He paused. “But you’re a helluva admirable fighter, I have to tell you.”
“Keep your fake compliments.”
“Temper, temper.”
“This is good,” Oscar said, studying my face. “We’ve hit a nerve. Would you like to describe how you’re feeling?”
“Not in language you want to hear,” I said flatly and sat down.
Oscar pointed at Rhett. “You.” My blue-eyed nemesis stood with a sigh, and began to speak. He had a name as sturdy as his red-blooded attitudes. Delaware Jackson. Newly retired Lieutenant Colonel Delaware Jackson, U.S. Army, to be precise. A civil engineer. Combat veteran of Vietnam and the Gulf War. Fifty-five years old, divorced for more than twenty years from the mother of his son, Campbell, and grandfather of two. He had just bought the old Bransen farm outside Bailey Mill. For now, he was helping out his son, who owned a gym and martial arts studio in Bigelow.
“Mister Jackson,” Oscar bawled, emphasizing Del Jackson’s lowly new status as a mere citizen. “You conveniently forgot to explain anything about your crime.”
“There’s a six-year-old boy involved. He’s in foster care, and I have to testify on his behalf in a court hearing. I don’t think I should discuss the details.”
Oscar pawed through a sheaf of notes. “Well, I don’t care what you think. You tossed the boy’s father in a garbage container. You gave him a broken nose and a concussion. Why?”
Del Jackson eyed Oscar as if he were a termite in a woodpile. “My son and I saw the man whipping his little boy in the parking lot after a karate class.” He paused. “I decided to teach the man how to manage his anger. He needed a hard lesson.”
Oscar looked unnerved by Del’s valiant story and the group’s aura of respect. “You,” he ordered, and pointed to Geena. “You’re next.”
Trembling, she stood and began to talk. Until recently she had worked as a secretary for Swee Purla of Purla Interiors. Swee, Bigelow’s answer to Martha Stewart, was a cold-blooded tyrant. I had been to one or two elaborate parties at her rambling country cottage, and I’d seen her reduce servants to tears.
“My whole dream in life is to be an interior designer,” Geena said in a small voice. “I’ve worked for Mrs. Purla a whole year and never asked for anything but a chance to prove myself. Besides being her secretary, I’ve walked her dachshunds, done her Christmas shopping, even polished her shoes. She barely noticed I was alive, but … but that was all right. I just wanted a chance.” She stopped, her throat working, her eyes wet.
“No crying!” Oscar ordered. “Crying is a denial of guilt, and denial leads to uncontrolled anger, and I demand that you control yourself!”
We all glared at him.
Geena wiped her eyes and took a quick breath. “Finally, a nice lady over in Bigelow Estates asked Mrs. Purla if I could help with her lake cabin renovation. We’d become friends on an earlier job, and I’d suggested some colors, so”—she straightened her shoulders—”so Mrs. Purla said yes. I got to work as a designer!” Her face brightened. “I did the whole cabin, and it was wonderful. Mrs. Purla let me enter my designs in the state decorators’ association competition.” Her face tightened. “I waited for weeks to hear about my entry, and one day I came into the office, and I heard Mrs. Purla telling a client that the cabin design had won first place!” She paused, knotting her hands in front of her. “I’d won first place! But then I heard. I heard…” she groaned. “Mrs. Purla took all the credit! ‘Oh, I felt very inspired when I created the look for that cabin,’ she said. Well, I just went crazy for a second. After all I’d been through. I … picked up a faux Grecian vase off our display counter, and it felt so … so well-balanced, I threw it at Mrs. Purla. I didn’t mean to hit her, but I did! Right in the back of the head. She collapsed. I was terrified. I’d only stunned her, but she said I’d meant to kill her. I didn’t! I only wanted the credit that was rightfully mine.”
Geena broke down, sobbing. Rhett, Wolfman, and I got to our feet. Rough rose and leapt ahead of us. “Hey, take it easy,” he counseled her gruffly. “You didn’t even break any skin. Where I grew up, we got nuns who fight dirt
ier than that.”
“Stop validating her impulses!” Oscar demanded. “She’s got to deal with her remorse. Self awareness requires discipline and stamina.”
Rough pivoted toward him menacingly. “You just like to make chicks cry.”
“Watch what you say! I’m taking notes!”
“Go ahead. My name’s Nail Delgado,” he said in his Brooklyn brogue. “I just moved to Chinaberry last month. Got a trailer on some property my ma left me. Cutie Upton—she was from around here. I got a job at the candle factory. I don’t know what it’s like to live in the country—hey, I don’t know cows from cannoli, see? So my neighbor’s cow gets out of the pasture and comes over, and stands in my driveway and has its kid—its calf, whatever—has its baby right there by my truck. So I go out and say, Nice, cow, no hurry, and the baby’s just getting dried out, looking for lunch, but the owner comes over, and he’s a cranky dude, and he starts waving an electric cow prod like he’s gonna zap momma and her little beefcake. And I say, Cut ‘em some slack. They’ve had a long day. So he mouths back at me that they’re just dumb animals, and I say they’re on my land and it’s a cow sanctuary, I just decided. You poke ‘em with that zapper and I’ll stick it…well, anyway. He got mad at that, and I wrestled him for the cow prod, and when I got it I gave him an electric jab in the rump roast.”
So he’s Cutie Upton’s son, I thought in sad amazement. Cutie had had a hard life and disappeared as a teenager. I looked at her stalwart boy with admiration and then realized everyone else was equally touched by his heroic, breathless, bovine tale. Even Geena stopped crying and studied Nail as if he were a tender cut of steak.
But Oscar’s lip curled. “You think cows deserve more respect than a fellow human being?”
“The cows couldn’t fight back. They didn’t have an electric people prod.”
Oscar snorted. “Give everyone your name, Mister Nail. Your real name.”
“Francis Upton Delgado.”
“Francis Upton. Not so tough-sounding now, are you, Francis Upton?”
“I dunno. Why don’t you use my initials, instead?” He paused perfectly. “Just F.U.”
I bit my tongue. Glancing at Del Jackson, I caught the twitch of a smile on his lips. The obscene double entendre turned Oscar livid. “You’re out of here, jerk! You’re out of this class!” He leaned toward Nail, spitting as he shouted. “I’m reporting you to Judge Blakely. How does time in the county jail sound? Better than anger management class once a week? You’ve got your wish, then.”
“Don’t you dare,” I said evenly.
“Listen to the mayor,” Del told Oscar. “She’s speaking for all of us.”
We all drew closer together, all five of us, bonding in Mossy Creekite defiance. “You’ll have to send this whole class to jail,” I said.
Geena whispered, “Does F.U. mean what I think it means?”
I lied quickly. “It means Forget-about-it, You!” I looked at Del Jackson for support.
He arched an eyebrow. “Yes, it’s a Yankee insult.”
Wolfman, struggling not to laugh, added, “I think Yankees say it like ‘Foo.’ As in Foo You.”
Geena took a deep breath. “Foo!” she said to Oscar. “Just Foo!”
Nail, speechless through all of this, began to smile. “Hey, if my homies say it, it’s true. Foo You.”
Oscar looked at us with the white-rimmed eyes of a small, frustrated lap dog, but the slightest twitch began under his beady left eye. He was defeated. Five Mossy Creekites had just declared All For One and One For Y’all.
We were The Foo Club.
“Here’s to The Foo Club,” I said. The five of us convened at O’Day’s Pub after class, sitting in a dark back booth like a merry band of robbers.
“The Foo Club,” Del agreed, with a nod of his head.
“Foo!” the others said. We laughed and toasted ourselves. Del and I drank wine, Wolfman and Nail drank beer, and Geena cupped her hands around a soft drink she was too nervous to imbibe. “I just want to say,” I told the group, “that I admire every one of you, and I don’t think any of you deserve to be in that idiotic class.”
There were nods. Del inclined his head and smiled. “What about you?” he asked in his deep, heartland voice.
I shrugged. “I’m supposed to take an effective stand against the governor’s sneaky tactics. What did I accomplish? Nothing.”
“Mind if give you a little military philosophy?”
“Go ahead. We’re probably going to jail together, so let’s share.”
“All right. Here’s my advice. You need to regroup and attack from a new angle.” He smiled, flashing beautiful white teeth. The man was a walking temptation. He made me feel dangerous. And that was dangerous.
“I’ll think about tactics in the future,” I promised uneasily. “After this class is finished.”
Nail hunched his lean shoulders. “None of us are gonna make it through the class at the rate we’re going. We got nothing to look forward to. And no way to fight back.”
“I meant to be docile,” Geena moaned. “I meant to be humble. But now I just feel … I just feel … mad. And helpless. And wronged.”
“Man’s got to do, What a man’s got to do,” Wolfman recited. “Woman’s got to do, What a woman’s got to do. Right is right, wrong is wrong, Thinkin’ that through, Don’t take long.”
We were silent, all gazing into our drinks like fortune-tellers trying to read crystal balls. “I’m going to get rid of that new welcome sign,” I admitted. “Somehow.”
There was a pause—a silent, collective sharing of fate, pride, and redemption. “I see a fine group of soldiers, here,” Del noted quietly. “Ready to help you reclaim your honor, Mayor. And theirs.” More nods. I gazed at them in amazement.
“I’ve got a bulldozer we could use,” Wolfman said.
A soft, white, spring fog filled South Bigelow Road and the woods around Hamilton Farm like smoke.
“The fog’s here to help us,” I said. “My grandmother would say it’s a veil of angel wings.”
“Don’t go nutty on me,” Del grunted. “I’ve heard about you Hamiltons.”
I flashed him an evil look, which he didn’t notice in the misty darkness. He, I, and the rest of the Foo Club stood in the woods of my farm road, our faces illuminated only by a hissing propane lantern perched on the huge scoop of Wolfman’s biggest bulldozer. Behind the bulldozer sat a rented moving van. Del handed out dark ski masks, and we each put them on. I felt like a fool, peering out at the others from inside my mask. Why had I agreed to let Del run this military-type mission? I hadn’t. He’d just taken over.
“We all look like yarn monkeys in a craft-show booth,” I complained. “Is this really necessary?”
“We don’t want to risk being identified.”
“No, I certainly wouldn’t want to be recognized in 70-degree spring weather wearing a dime-store ski mask. That would add insult to injury.”
His blue eyes flashed—what I could see of them, anyway, inside his own wooly covering. “No more wisecracks, Private.” He looked at the others. “All right, let’s go over the plan one more time. Nail drives Geena south on South Bigelow Road to the curve, lets her out, and she stands behind the crabapple tree on the left roadside, watching for traffic headed north towards us. Geena, if you see headlights, you wave your flashlight at us.”
Geena peered at him like a sparrow. “I will, Sir.”
“Then Nail drives back to base—that is, the welcome sign and Ida’s driveway. Ida gets in his truck, and he drives north on South Bigelow to the top of the hill. He gets out and waits there behind the sweet shrub with a flashlight, ready to signal if he sees oncoming traffic headed south towards us.”
“Yeah, I got it,” Nail said.
Ida drives back, then hides the truck in the woods behind her grain silo. Then she’ll position herself by the silo and watch both north and south for signals from Nail and Geena. Are you clear on that, Ida?”
“Your wis
h is my command, General.”
“Ida, it’s Lieutenant Colonel.”
“Lieutenant Colonel, it’s Miss Ida.”
“What?”
“You earned your rank, I earned mine.”
He rolled his eyes then pointed at Wolfman. “Wolfman, when the sentries are in place, you drive the bulldozer to the sign, and I’ll follow in the van. You scoop the sign up, bring it to the back of the van, then we’ll load it and lock it up.”
“Man’s got a plan, and I understand.” Wolfman nodded.
“Good. Let’s shake on it.” Del held out a darkly gloved right hand.
We each laid a hand atop his. My throat tightened. “Thank you, thank you all. On behalf of Mossy Creek, I make you all a promise. I ‘ain’t going nowhere and don’t want to.’”
“Down with the Swee Purla’s of the world,” Geena chirped.
“Down with cheatin’ house builders,” Wolfman added.
“Save the cows,” Nail deadpanned.
“What I do for a pretty woman who likes guns,” Del said sardonically.
I could feel my face heat under the scratchy mask.
He only smiled.
We were in position. Wolfman maneuvered his bulldozer toward the sparkling, reflective-green welcome sign that had been installed to replace the one I shot. It was at least four-by-four feet, screwed to two long, steel posts anchored in concrete. Del stood near the sign, gesturing with both hands. I strained my eyes north, then south, checking for signals from Nail and Geena. I held a monogrammed handkerchief in one hand, like a flag.
It was just after midnight, and South Bigelow Road wasn’t a major late-night thoroughfare. In fact, the only people likely to be out in this part of Bigelow County at this time of night were Mossy Creek police officers on patrol. I’d discreetly checked Chief Amos Royden’s schedules. He was on duty tonight. That worried me. I wasn’t certain how he timed his patrol down South Bigelow to the town limits at Hamilton Farm, but I knew he’d make a least two rounds before dawn. Amos, who had come back to Mossy Creek after some stellar years as an Atlanta homicide detective, was disciplined and methodical. Plus his father, Battle, had been police chief of Mossy Creek for thirty years. Amos had inherited the Royden talent for sniffing out trouble. Especially trouble caused by Hamiltons.
