by Deborah Smith, Sandra Chastain, Donna Ball, Debra Dixon, Nancy Knight, Virginia Ellis
“You never told us what to do if a car’s coming,” I called to Del over the bulldozer’s deep rumble.
He guided Wolfman’s scoop to within inches of the sign’s bottom. “That part’s simple. Run like hell.”
“I take it you never won any medals in combat.”
Crunch. Wolfman’s scoop crumpled the sign’s bottom rim. I watched him maneuver levers up in the huge machine’s cab. The scoop rose, and the sign shivered. The grassy earth around its steel posts began to tear. I thought the sign might bend and rip up the middle, but it held. Suddenly, its concreted feet popped free. Ham’s second brand-new Mossy Creek welcome sign dangled helplessly in the foggy night air. Wolfman used his bulldozer to carry the captured sign over to the van’s open door. He and Del lifted the sign off the scoop and set it inside the van. Del pulled the van’s retractable door down, locked it, and gave me a thumb’s up.
I applauded both him and Wolfman. At the top of the hill to my left, a white, haloed dot of light began to swing wildly. My heart stopped. “Nail’s signaling!” I yelled.
Wolfman climbed into his bulldozer cab, gunned the machine’s mighty engine, and headed up my driveway through the woods. “Move it, Mayor,” Del called, leaping into the van’s driver side.
I hurriedly climbed into the passenger side. “I hate to leave Geena and Nail. They might get caught.”
“They’ll follow the plan. They’ll be fine.”
He stamped the accelerator, and we drove swiftly down South Bigelow toward Bigelow and the interstate that would take us to Atlanta. I rolled down my window and hung my head out. Just before Del and I rounded a curve that would hide us from view, I glimpsed a pair of headlights.
I slumped back in the seat. “The chances are good that’s Amos, and he’s turning around at the silo right now—he doesn’t go outside the town limits on patrol—and right this second he’s noticing that the new welcome sign is gone.”
“So? He didn’t see us. He won’t see the rest of our gang, either. We did it, Ida!” He drove faster.
Rain began to fall in thick sheets, making it less likely that Amos would do much poking around the site or find any tracks if he did. I glanced at Del. “Maybe this is actually going to work.”
“Could be. I’d believe anything, right now.” Del pulled off his ski mask, and I removed mine. He grinned. My heart skipped a beat, which it didn’t often do. I laughed like a delighted girl. We headed for Atlanta.
We left the sign outside the gates of the Governor’s Mansion. By morning, news of it was on all the local stations. It even made the couch-chatter segment on the Today Show. Katie Couric laughed and said she wondered if we had a Hatfield-McCoy kind of feud going on in Mossy Creek.
We’re far more inventive than that.
Afterwards, I thought of Grandma. Beneath my jeans, I wore pink panties these days. Traditions. I had brought all my family’s traditions to bear, and I felt victorious.
I didn’t know it at the moment, but my monogrammed handkerchief lay in the grassy edge of South Bigelow Road.
Where Amos Royden picked it up.
I was sitting at a front table in the crowded banquet room at the Hamilton House Inn, enjoying the scent of the first spring daffodils in the table arrangements and pretending to listen as Chamber of Commerce President Dwight Truman went through one of his rambling, squeaky-voiced luncheon rants about late membership dues. I felt very alive and very self-satisfied—plus slim and sexy in a pale, tailored dress-suit. In short, I was as happy as the cat’s meow, which is what old Southern ladies say when a woman has reason to purr.
Until Amos Royden walked into the room and pointed at me.
“Mayor,” he said. “You’re busted.”
Little Ida asked me tearfully if I was going to prison. She was in tears over schoolyard rumors that her grandmother might end up in striped coveralls, forced to make license plates alongside women nicknamed Deadeye and Viper. Robert quietly, wearily told me he wished, just once, I’d ask his advice before I did something that upset the whole family. I apologized and felt ashamed. I secluded myself after that, took no calls, went nowhere, and spoke to no one, including Del, who left many messages. I worked in my gardens at Hamilton Farm, pruning roses. Regret called me to its thorns.
A week later I stood beside Teresa in the packed courtroom down in Bigelow, while Judge Blakely grimaced and shuffled papers behind his tall desk, picking over my record like an old crow nibbling on road kill. “You committed vandalism and a theft, and you dumped the goods on the grounds of the Governor’s Mansion,” he cawed, then peered at me above his reading glasses. “Why, Mayor, you’re a litterbug, in addition to everything else.”
I said nothing. Teresa, red-faced, clamped her lips together.
“But you know what’s even worse?” Judge Blakely went on. “You lied to the authorities—to your own police chief, Mayor. Because only a pie-eyed fool would believe you tore out that sign and carted it down to Atlanta by yourself.”
“I’ve been working out with weights.”
He slapped his gavel on his desk and scowled down at me. “Don’t you get funny with me again, Ida Hamilton Walker! You’ve caused enough trouble at taxpayer expense.” He held up a letter. “This is a resignation from your anger management counselor. He says he’s mentally distressed and blames you for ruining his class.”
Oscar had quit because of me? “Your Honor, I don’t know what to say. I feel very, well, very—”
“Regretful? Ashamed of yourself?”
“Proud. Mr. Seymour was a petty dictator. He was one step away from setting up his own army and taking over a small country.”
Teresa groaned. Judge Blakely pounded the desk. “Either you tell this court the names of everybody who helped you steal that sign, or I’ll right-now sentence you to two months at a state facility for women, and I do mean women, ‘mean women,’ not ladies.”
“I’ll fit in perfectly.”
“So be it!” He raised his gavel. Everyone held their breaths—the whole courtroom, the media, the gawkers, my friends and neighbors, Robert, who was sitting behind me, and me. Terrible silence and anticipation spread through the air. Dread thudded in my chest. Prison. I was going to prison.
“You’ll have to send us with her,” a deep male voice intoned. “Otherwise, she’ll charm the warden and scare the serial killers.” The words resonated through the breathless silence. Everyone turned toward the voice at the back of the courtroom. Del, dressed in a handsome gray suit, stood in the center aisle. Wolfman, Nail, and Geena stood with him. Del met my eyes with quiet promise, then looked up at Judge Blakely just as calmly. “Your Honor,” he said. “We’re proud to be Mayor Hamilton’s gang. We helped her steal the sign, and we’d do it again if she asked.” He paused, just the slightest hint of a smile cocking one corner of his mouth. “Because we’re The Foo Club.”
Down in the governor’s office at the state capitol, Ham, Ardaleen, and several advisors listened to a speaker phone on Ham’s huge desk. An aide reported directly from the courtroom chaos. “Judge Blakely just ordered a two-hour recess while he sorts this out,” the aide said loudly. “Governor, Asia Makumba from Channel Seven just ran by here yelling for her cameraman to set up a live network feed.”
Ham punched the console’s mute button and said a half-dozen words that could have gotten him thrown out of Bigelow First Presbyterian. “Old Judge Blakely has lost his mind,” Ham thundered. “He’s let this public scalding get totally out of hand. Mother, you said he’d give Aunt Ida a lecture, add about a thousand hours of community service to her sentence, and let her go!”
“He never promised us,” Ardaleen admitted. “The old rummy.”
“She got his temper up, and he went right for her hamstrings!”
This unintended pun brought pinched looks all around. “Remember, Governor, no more ham analogies in your vocabulary,” coached a red-faced aide.
“Dammit, I did not want my aunt to be put on a pedestal of public sympathy and s
ent to prison! Can you all see the headlines? ‘Governor Lets Activist Aunt Stew In Prison. Ham Fries In Opinion Polls.’ Or how about this, someday, when I’m campaigning for President?” Ham stood and spread his hands wide, as if outlining a television screen. “Well, Cokie Roberts, what do you and the other commentators think of Ham Bigelow’s message of friendly leadership?” Ham turned to face an invisible person, and his voice rose to a comical female octave. “Why, Sam Donaldson, I just think Governor Bigelow’s a big hypocrite because he didn’t raise a finger to help his own aunt when she went to the slammer!”
Ham sank back into his plush, high-backed chair.
Ardaleen glowered at him. “We agreed that you should stand your ground and keep a low profile.”
“That was before my aunt called in her friends. Her Kung Foo Club, or whatever it is.” Ham thumped a page of notes his staff had quickly gathered. “Del Jackson is a veteran. He won medals in the Gulf War!”
Silence. Sticky silence. Visions of Governor Ham Bigelow being accused of a vendetta against military heroes and his own aunt danced like falling poll numbers in the cigar-tinged air.
Ardaleen snapped her manicured fingernails. “Get my son a helicopter,” she ordered between gritted teeth. “He’s going up to Bigelow and save his damned aunt.”
Ham arrived like some kind of one-man cavalry, telling every camera in sight that he intended to launch a mighty appeal on my behalf. “I don’t agree with my aunt’s politics,” he said solemnly, “but I certainly approve of her courage—and her choice of, uh, patriotic friends. There’s been a terrible misunderstanding.”
When Judge Blakely reconvened court after numerous aides of Ham’s conferred desperately with the old judge in private and promised him god-knows-what, probably an appointment to the state’s supreme court, Ham stood up and said, “If my aunt will agree to pay damages for the sign she and her … her Foos, Fuchsia … “
“Foo Club,” Nail called out. “Just Foo, Governor.”
Ham nodded. “Thank you, son.”
Nail, Wolfman, and Geena nodded back.
Ham cleared his throat. “If she’ll agree to cover the damages—” his voice rose grandly—”then I herewith promise to withdraw my well-meaning but misunderstood intentions. In short—no more new welcome sign.”
“Agreed,” I said instantly.
Mossy Creekites erupted in applause.
I looked at Del and the others with tears in my eyes.
“Foo Club forever,” I mouthed.
“We won,” I said to Del softly, in disbelief. He and I sat on the steps of my back veranda in the darkness, with a pair of my grandmother’s hand-crocheted pink afghans around our shoulders.
He smiled. “There’s strength in numbers.”
“The power of Foo.” We smiled.
The veranda ceiling lights glowed, along with the windows of my home. The house was full of people—an impromptu celebration, complete with champagne. Nail, Geena, and Wolfman were all inside, along with the town council and two-dozen neighbors. I heard Robert and Teresa laughing, and from the parlor, the muted sound of Little Ida banging out Fleetwood Mac’s Don’t Stop Thinking About Tomorrow on my baby grand. “I taught her that,” I said.
“I like Fleetwood Mac, too.”
“We should get to know each other. Maybe by doing something that doesn’t involve stealing road signs.”
“I agree. We should talk about a lot of things now that we’re going to be seeing each other.”
“Seeing each other? Is that an invitation, or an order?”
“Depends on how you take it, Mayor.”
“I’ll think about it and let you know.”
“How long will this thinking take?”
“I’m not sure. I’ve been using my brain a lot lately. It may need a vacation.”
He leaned closer to me. “I know something we can do that doesn’t require any brainpower.”
“You’re going to be trouble, aren’t you?”
“Stand up right now if you don’t expect to be kissed.”
I smiled. “Ain’t going nowhere, and don’t want to.”
“Mother, you won. Again.” Robert stood beside me on the roadside where the sign had been. He sighed, exhaled, then admitted, “You know, I’m proud of you. It’s just that I can’t be like you. Or like Dad was. I just don’t have the imagination.”
“You’re fine the way you are. I’m proud of you, too.” Frowning, I smoothed the grass with my hiking boot. “If I knew a more diplomatic way to keep Mossy Creek safe from the Ham Bigelows of the world, I’d use it. Ham is going to run for President a few years from now. This sign business was just the start. He wants to whitewash anything that might embarrass him or make his family look funny, and that includes Mossy Creek.”
The spring wind rose softly, and I gazed up at the old corn silo, then at the mountains I had known all my life. “Do you think I’m getting too old to feud with Bigelows?”
“You? Never.”
“A good answer. Maybe I’m not old, yet, but I’m like the corn silo. I’m losing my original paint job. Getting down to the real finish.” I paused. “I keep thinking that if I can just keep everything in Mossy Creek the same, then nothing can ever change the places and people we love. But it doesn’t work that way.”
Robert pointed. “Look at the mountains. They’re going to bloom with wild rhododendrons this spring just like they have for years.” He pointed to the old silo. “The corn silo will always be right beside the road here. And so will Mossy Creek. Ham isn’t going to ruin anything about our town. Because you won’t let him.” He put an arm around me. “So do what you have to do, Mother. And I’ll be right behind you, paying your bail.”
I lifted my head proudly and couldn’t help smiling at a patch of pink clouds that had just drifted into sight above the blue green spring mountains. “Look,” I said softly. “there’s your Great-Grandma’s proud pink butt.”
“I hope to shout,” Robert said.
And we did.
The Mossy Creek Gazette
215 Main Street • Mossy Creek, Georgia
From the desk of Katie Bell, Business Manager
Lady Victoria Salter Stanhope
Cornwall, England
Dear Lady Victoria,
Things have settled down a little since the sign incident, but there’s a lot of talk about the future. Ham Bigelow made it clear he’s out to tame our town so we won’t cause him any trouble when he runs for President. What can you expect from a man born of a Hamilton and a Bigelow? It’s like mixing a wildcat and a Persian: The offspring look good, but you better guard your ankles.
You say you like our town motto? Good. Our grammar’s improved, but the sentiment is still the same. You see, Mossy Creekites don’t run when trouble comes—except for Isabella and Richard, but that was an extenuating circumstance. Our women are usually the first line of home defense. They have guns, and they know how to use them. They are also keen on keeping their hair nice. Big hair and guns are a Southern tradition, you know. I can’t say quite why Mossy Creekite females are fascinated with weaponry, except it never hurts to be armed around Bigelowans. At any rate, I doubt Sandy Crane’s shoot-’em-up trip to the beauty shop will ever be forgotten. Read on, your Ladyship.
And by the way, no Chihuahuas were actually harmed in the writing of this story.
Your big-haired friend,
Katie Bell
Sandy
A Day in the Life
All I wanted was a haircut. Really.
See, I heard from my brother Mutt in early May that there was about to be an opening in the Mossy Creek Police Department for a dispatcher—Cindy Fuller being seven months along with twins, if you can believe it, and the doctor telling her she needed to start training her replacement now if she didn’t want to spend the next two months flat on her back in the hospital (which was probably sounding pretty good to Cindy right about then, come to think of it), not to mention the fact that she was getting so big she co
uld hardly fit behind the desk. The job paid $8.00 an hour, which isn’t bad for Mossy Creek, 8:00 a.m. to 6:00 p.m., with an hour or an hour and a half lunch break, depending on how busy they were—which most of the time, wasn’t very busy at all. Not much happens in Mossy Creek, Georgia, population 1,700. If you don’t count Miss Ida shooting the new welcome sign a couple of months before. Now that had been some excitement.
Anyway, I figured working as a police dispatcher would be a lot better than cleaning houses, which is what I’d been doing for the past two years, and before that working customer service at Mountain Telephone down in Bigelow. Talk about your stress. Let me tell you, a couple of drunks duking it out at O’Day’s Pub or a mayor shooting the stuffing out of a state road sign is nothing compared to the kind of trouble I used to deal with on a regular basis at the telephone company, which is why I figured I was as qualified as anybody else to take over the dispatcher’s job.
Not that I didn’t like cleaning houses. Good honest work, as my mama used to say, and I like keeping people in order, freshening up their lives and letting the sunshine in, so to speak. The money’s all right, too, especially when the summer people come up and open their big houses. In the winter, though, money gets a little scarce, which is why I recently decided to reconsider my career options, you might say.
My husband Jess, as fine a man as God ever put on this earth, talked about going to work over at the candle factory. But that would mean giving up his part-time job at the Mossy Creek Gazette, and it wouldn’t leave him any time at all to write his stories, so I put my foot down about that, yes, sir. Jess is going to be somebody with his stories, some day. He writes as good as that Stephen King, and that’s a fact. Me, I can’t hardly write a postcard without scratching out every other word, but Jess has got a real talent, and that’s something the good Lord didn’t give everybody. So I figure the least I can do is my part toward supporting the family—which at this point consists of me, Jess, a Ford pickup and two yard cats—until the people at the big publishing houses in New York realize what a prize they’re passing up. Besides, I really like reading his stories.
