Homecoming in Mossy Creek

by Debra Dixon

  Everyone got silent for a minute.

  Fists pushed deep into his overalls, Wolfman stared into the pot with a look of chagrin, like he’d finally realized his mouth moved faster than his brain.

  “I knew you played, but I didn’t realize you were in the game that night,” Del said.

  “Yeah, well. That was a long time ago.” I glared over the pot at Wolfman. “And some things don’t need to be rehashed.”

  Wolfman raised apologetic eyes to mine. “Sorry Hayden. I guess I forgot how that story ended.”

  Now, as I mentioned, Wolfman is one of my best friends, so I just grunted my agreement to the obvious as I shoved my feelings deep into my belly. Made no sense to stir things up more than they already were.

  Wished I could’a held on to that thought longer than a minute.

  Wolfman’s face brightened. “I know! I got just the thing to make it up to you.” He passed the ladle on over to Del and took off for his truck. We watched and stirred as he poked around inside the cab for a bit, then came back cradling something tucked into his jacket. He sidled back up to the fire, and then glanced over his shoulder at the house to be sure the girls weren’t watching from the window.

  “Come on, man, what’s the big secret?” Nail asked.

  Grinning, Wolfman pulled out a quart mason jar filled with a clear liquid. I didn’t need to be told.

  Moonshine.

  “I came across my daddy’s old still while cleaning out the back o’ the barn a while back and thought I’d see if the old girl had any life in her.” He raised the jar to his lips and took a swig. His eyes watered as he wheezed and coughed. Then he wiped his sleeve across the back of his mouth and laughed. “Turns out she does.”

  He handed the jar off to Nail who took a sip, then shoved it into Del’s hands as he tried to catch some air back into his lungs. Del raised an eyebrow and stared down into the jar like he was trying to decide how much he liked having a healthy liver. But being ex-military, he wasn’t about to be outdone by a couple of country bumpkins. I could see it in the way he pulled himself upright like he was about to salute, and took a bold drink. Wordlessly, he handed the jar off to me, sweat breaking out across his forehead.

  I stared Wolfman down. “Okay, one taste. Then you go put this back in the truck. I don’t want Tiny lookin’ out here at the bunch of us getting sloshed when we’re supposed to be helping her make apple butter. Besides, you know she doesn’t approve of drinkin’.”

  There was nothing tiny about Tiny’s temper. And I didn’t want to be on the backside of it.

  “Gotcha buddy.” He held his hand out as I tipped the jar to my lips. To say liquid fire streamed down my throat doesn’t do the word moonshine justice. Let’s just say that one sip was more than any of us needed to appreciate what it meant to breathe.

  Now what happened next will long be open for debate. I held the jar out to Wolfman, and whether it was his large clumsy fingers or the dark spots blocking my vision, I’ll probably never know, but we managed to fumble the ball. I mean bottle.

  Pure, white hot moonshine sloshed into Tiny’s batch of apple butter.

  I managed to snatch the jar from the air before it fell into the pot then glared at Wolfman. “What did you do? Wake up this mornin’ and decide ‘I think I’ll ruin Hayden’s day?’”

  Wolfman mumbled something about tryin’ to be nice and that’s when it happened. All this talk of football, all this Mossy Creek excitement over another Homecoming, all this fuss over a stupid stadium boiled up inside me and before I knew what came over me, I’d turned up the jar and poured all the moonshine into the pot.

  That’s right. Not just a taste, the whole darned thing.

  Every last drop.

  “I’m guessing that’s not in the recipe.” Del’s words cleared the fog in my brain.

  What had I done? My daddy’s words came to me. Son, don’t ever let your temper get the best of you—there’s hell to pay to get it back. Well, I don’t know if it was temper or not, but I reckon it felt a lot like spite. Either way, if Tiny found out, I was a goner.

  We all stared down into the swirling apple butter—amazingly, we’d managed to keep the spoon ladle moving—and mourned the loss, of the apple butter that is. Leastwise I did. I was sure I’d ruined a day’s worth of hard work and Tiny’s chance of impressing the Mossy Creek Booster Club and the Social Society. That taste of moonshine felt like it was starting to burn a hole in my belly.

  Wolfman jogged over to his truck and back, disposing of the incriminating empty jar.

  Nail offered up a spark of hope. “Won’t all the alcohol just burn off if we keep stirring?”

  “I don’t know. That moonshine is pretty powerful stuff.” Wolfman poked out his lips. Guess he was mournin’ the loss of all his hard work as well.

  “It’s worth a try.” I grabbed another log intending to stoke up the fire.

  “Hayden! What are you doing?”

  Remember now, I’m not a small man, or timid by nature, but a chill ran up my spine right then at the sound of Tiny’s voice. Sure enough, I’d been caught. I turned to find the women marching across the yard toward us and dread filled my heart as I braced for the look of disappointment in Tiny’s eyes.

  She placed her delicate hand on my arm and I realized I was still holding the piece of firewood. “Hayden, honey, it’s been almost eight hours. It’s time to put out the fire.” She smiled and handed me the basket I hadn’t noticed she was carrying. “But first, I need to be sure the apple butter’s done.”

  She rifled around in the basket, while I held it for her, struck dumb. She hadn’t seen us after all. I looked over the top of her head at the guys. Wolfman and Nail turned to stare off into the distance, Del winked at me. They had my back. Suddenly I felt like a silent member of the Foo Club—but that’s another story.

  Tiny pulled out one of her grandmama’s china saucers, plopped a spoonful of apple butter onto the center of it and held it upside down. I held my breath, not knowing how the moonshine was going to rear its ugly head. The apple butter held firm for several seconds and Tiny declared it done.

  Real quick we took up shovels and began moving the hot coals out from under the copper pot. All the while my guilty conscience kept thoughts churning over and over in my mind. Thoughts like, she’s gonna know as soon as she tastes it, or somebody’s gonna smell liquor on our breath and we’ll be found out. I should stop and ’fess up before she wasted anymore time on this ruined batch.

  But coward that I am, I held my tongue.

  Once all the hot coals were moved away the apple butter stopped bubbling, and Tiny began pulling spices from her basket. Soon the scent of cinnamon and cloves, and I don’t know what all else, filled the air. It actually smelled pretty good. Maybe the apple butter wasn’t ruined after all and she’d be a huge success.

  That’s when the light dawned. Tiny’s apple butter was never a huge success. So what if it tasted kinda funny? Most folks didn’t expect much different. My good luck was holding after all. I was off the hook.

  My sense of relief was short-lived though, when I realized I’d be consoling another broken heart in a couple of days.

  The ladies busied themselves setting up an assembly line of sorts. Del and I worked from opposite sides at one end of the picnic table, dipping out the hot apple butter with small saucepans and pouring it through funnels into sterilized jars. The girls placed the canning lids and rings, and wiped the pints clean, while Nail and Wolfman boxed them up. In no time we had all 320 pints ready for the Booster Club bake sale.

  I did have quite a scare when some apple butter dripped onto the back of Tiny’s hand and she paused to lick it off. All activity came to a halt as me and the guys waited for her reaction. I was preparing to duck and run when she looked up.

  “It’s got a little bite to it this time.” She sh
rugged it off. “I’m sure all the flavor will come through when it’s had time to cool.”

  Homecoming and autumn had a firm grip on Mossy Creek. Fall colors mixed with Mossy Creek High green and gold all over town. Someone had even decked out a nearby scarecrow in green trousers and a gold sweater, a pitchfork in one hand and a school pennant in the other. Pumpkins, hay bales and bushels of gold mums were scattered among the tents and booths.

  Mouth-watering aromas of roasting hot dogs, buttered popcorn, hot apple cider and the like floated past on a cool breeze. Running, laughing children dodged around the older folk ambling down the street. Seemed like everyone had turned out for the Booster Club festivities. Excited, smiling faces were everywhere.

  I was miserable.

  I’d spent the last four days going back and forth trying to decide how to tell Tiny about the moonshine. You see, we don’t keep secrets from each other, ’least none that I know. But every time I started to say somethin’ I looked into those excited, hopeful blue eyes and knew I couldn’t steal her joy. It would be bad enough when things went as usual at the bake sale. Why spoil it for her now?

  I know. I’m a coward. We’ve already established that.

  So come Thursday afternoon, there I stood smack dab in the middle of Town Square, piling pints of apple butter onto the tables covered with bright checkered cloths. Nearby tables were already loaded down with pies, cakes, preserves and every other dessert known to man. I’d rather be anywhere else, doin’ anything else, but I guess I figured helpin’ out was a form of penance to ease my guilty soul.

  Eventually passersby started picking up a pint of Tiny’s apple butter here and there. I think they didn’t want to hurt her feelings, as most of the other preserves and what-not appeared to be more popular. But my Tiny is a trooper and she opened a pint and started offering tastes to anyone willing.

  Then a funny thing happened. People who’d already been by came back for another taste. Then they’d buy not one, but two pints, sometimes more. Before long we had to open more cases and restock the table.

  Tiny was just about giddy over the experience.

  At one point Mayor Ida Hamilton Walker and Sheriff Amos Royden dropped by. Of course, they managed to make it look like it was just happenstance that they were there together. Mayor Walker bought a pint without even tastin’ it. But Sheriff Royden reached for a spoon. A funny look came over his face as he rolled the apple butter around in his mouth before he swallowed. Then he stared at me—hard.

  I held my breath.

  “Hayden.” He tipped his head at me and I thought I caught the hint of a smile in those steely nothin’-gets-past-me eyes. But he wasn’t askin’, so I wasn’t sayin’.

  And wouldn’t you know that old snooty Adele Clearwater, leader of Mossy Creek Social Society and Eustene Oscar eventually wandered on over to see what all the fuss was about.

  “Hello Miz Adele.” I nodded. “Miz Eustene.” I could be sociable for Tiny’s sake. I offered them the plate with little spoons of apple butter. “Care for a taste?”

  “Why thank you, Hayden. Don’t mind if I do.” Eustene didn’t hesitate to try a spoonful then raised her eyes heavenward. “Oh, Adele. You really must have some. It’s so smooth, with just the right bite. There’s something different, but I can’t put my finger on it.”

  Hesitantly, she reached for another taste as I pushed the selection closer. “Shall I ring up a pint?”

  Eustene pulled out her wallet. “Oh, my. Yes.”

  Out of the corner of my eye, I watched Adele reach for a spoon as I bagged Eustene’s order. Her eyebrows shot up and what I guess could pass for a smile crossed her face. I turned back to them as she picked up a pint in each hand.

  “I’ll take two,” Adele said.

  Tiny practically danced over after Adele and Eustene left. “Thanks, Hayden. I was too busy packing up an entire box for Jayne. Imagine that, she’s going to serve my apple butter in her coffee shop.” She tipped back and forth on her toes. “I can’t wait for the Bigelow County Fair next year.”

  Now you could say all this was good news. And under normal circumstances, it would be. But there was nothin’ normal about it. Now I had a new problem doggin’ my heels. I was goin’ to have to spike Tiny’s apple butter every dang year. How was I gonna manage that and not be found out? I reckon my good luck had finally deserted me.

  By late afternoon things started to slow down as everyone closed up shop and made their way home to get ready for tonight’s play put on by the Mossy Creek High Drama Club.

  I’d had enough of Homecoming, so Tiny agreed to skip the play. But flush with success, she wanted to help cheer on the boys over in the practice field at the school on our way home. I guess this was my week for acting strange because over the years I’d managed to avoid many a high school game but before I knew what I was sayin’, I’d agreed to go along.

  Funny how one little decision can have such a big impact.

  Coach Mabry and Tag Garner, his assistant coach, were really putting the boys through their paces. Turns out the same scout that was courtin’ me all those years ago, also recruited Tag. He’d quarterbacked for the Atlanta Falcons before he retired and moved to Mossy Creek.

  I managed to sit through a few plays before I started to get antsy, so I leaned over to Tiny. “I’m gonna walk around a bit, okay?”

  Her blue eyes studied me for a minute, but she just nodded her understandin’ without sayin’ a word. She was good at things like that.

  I caught sight of Wolfman near the fence and started to make my way over so we could discuss my moonshine predicament. On the field, Harvey Angus’s boy, playing wide receiver, made a pretty good catch and tried to run the ball but defense nailed him good at the 40-yard line.

  Not that I was paying all that much attention.

  I glanced over to see some of the men from Mossy Creek had gathered near Wolfman to watch the practice and offer commentary on which player had the best arm, who had the best speed. I almost turned back to join Tiny up in the stands.

  Don’t ask me why, but I didn’t.

  All thoughts of apples and moonshine disappeared from my mind as instead, I stepped closer to the playin’ field than I’d been in twenty years.

  Had a knot in my gut the next half-hour or so, tryin’ not to think about the last Homecoming game I took part in. But then I got caught up in the enthusiasm and team spirit of the Mossy Creekites standing around me and the hard-playin’ kids on the field.

  Some of these boys were gonna go places. I had no doubt I’d see their names on the back of pro jerseys one day. Their lives were gonna change in a big way. And that got me to thinkin’. I wasn’t jealous, like I’d half expected to be. I was excited for them.

  I’d had my glory days. Now it was their turn.

  I waved up at Tiny sitting on folding lawn chairs with her friends, and she blew me a kiss. I liked my life just the way it was. If I’d a gotten that full ride to UGA, who knows, maybe Tiny and I wouldn’t be together. It wasn’t until after my accident that I’d worked up the nerve to tell her how I felt about her.

  Maybe gettin’ hurt on the field that night wasn’t losin’ after all.

  After practice ended, I hung back to let the small crowd clear and watched as the boys packed up their gear and headed home. Tiny found me on the field and took my hand. “You okay?”

  I pulled her against my side. “Yep.” Sometimes you just don’t need to say more.

  She leaned up on tip toe and whispered in my ear. “Do you think Wolfman would be willing to give us more moonshine?”

  I pulled her around in front of me and stared down into her smiling face. “You knew about that?”

  “Of course, silly. Do you really think I didn’t see you pour that whole jar into the pot?” Her smile broadened. “Great idea, by the way. Wish I’d thought of it.”<
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  I threw back my head and laughed. Then I picked her up and swung her around.

  “Hayden Carlisle!” She laughed. “Put me down this instant. What will people say?”

  I pulled her close and kissed her, right there on the 20-yard line. “They’ll say I’m a lucky man. A very lucky man.”

  PART TWO

  The Great Time Capsule Caper

  Louise & Peggy, Thursday afternoon

  As we climbed into my SUV in the parking lot behind the police station, I asked Peggy, “Aren’t you the least bit interested in what kind of dirt Janey put in the box?”

  In the back seat, my two Bouviers woke from their naps and crooned at us.

  “I probably don’t know half the people whose secrets are in the box,” Peggy said.

  “Well, I do. I feel like I raised most of them. My daughter’s younger than Amos, but she dated some of those boys. Lord, there could be something about her! Bud would have a conniption if there was scandal about Margaret in that box.” I took a deep breath. “Not to mention Charlie. Fathers never like to admit their daughters are grown women, even after they have children of their own.”

  “What about you?” Peggy said. “Aren’t you worried?”

  I waved a hand at her. “I knew she was a hellion, sneaking out to parties and dating the wrong boys. Things she’d kill her boys for, but to the best of my knowledge, she never did drugs or got pregnant or had a police record.” I handed her the copy of the letter Amos had run off for us. “Read the relevant parts out loud.”

  Peggy sighed, but took the letter.

  You took the time to be nice to me when you realized I was around, but most of the senior class had their noses so high they wouldn’t have noticed me if they stepped on me. Well, I noticed them, and I always had my little camera and notebook, so I wouldn’t forget. If people leave stuff lying around, they can’t complain if somebody else finds it, now can they? When you open your precious time capsule, you’ll find a few ‘additions’ I snuck into the box before it was sealed. Do you have the guts to wash everybody’s dirty linen in public when the box is opened? Or will you chicken out and clean it out to spare everybody’s tender feelings? Nobody spared mine, but I guess it doesn’t matter now.