Homecoming in Mossy Creek

by Debra Dixon

  The phone was ringing when I walked into my apartment. I was so tired, I thought about letting the machine pick up, but it might be one of the parents I hadn’t been able to reach.

  “Hello?”

  “Did you see my package?” Peter’s voice held something of the grin he always wore.

  “Yes, I did.” So did everyone at the bookstore. “Great brochures.” I bit off my next words, afraid my fear and longing to dance would flavor my voice.

  Had I made the wrong choice in moving to Mossy Creek? It had been impulsive to quit and move here, but I knew my dancing days were almost over. I hadn’t wanted to end up in a second tier company, or teaching in one of New York’s many ballet schools. No way my inheritance would pay for more than a closet there, much less a building as nice as the one I had now.

  But this was a chance to dance again, to regain my place in the ballet world. I was glad I’d found Mossy Creek, but I’d probably have no trouble finding someone to buy the studio. My brain was awhirl as Peter chattered on, filling me in on the dance world. I was no longer plugged in to the gossip and I managed to concentrate on his voice enough to laugh at his tales of rivalries and petty misdeeds and backstage romance.

  He cleared his throat. “I got married.”

  I choked back laughter when I realized it wasn’t a joke. “Congratulations! Who did you marry? Do I know her? You can tell I’m not in on the latest news.”

  “Nobody is,” he said grimly. “I knew Jenny from back in Ohio. The dancers here are treating her like she’s some kind of hick. If you were here, you two could be friends.”

  Sudden realization swept over me. His remark reminded me of his less than pleasant traits. Manipulative, Peter had always been able to get me to choose the roles he preferred, do interviews when I just wanted to soak my feet.

  “Peter, you can’t just buy friends for your fiancée. Is there really a place for me at The Modern Dance Cooperative? I have a studio here. Students who count on me. I can’t just leave then pop back up here.”

  “Right. Five-year-olds who would do just as well learning from someone who’s never danced professionally. You should be dancing. And if you want to teach, the students here need a higher level of teaching, the kind you can provide. You’re wasted in Boggy Creek.”

  “Mossy Creek. And what makes you think there’s no dance talent here?” I hung up on him for the second time. I swear, he was bringing out my inner Yankee.

  Tater turned out to be a good teacher. He followed the girls around, pointing out when they weren’t in sync, and they loved the attention.

  The football team was thirty minutes late. Fred Mabry came in first, holding a little box, and with a laptop bag over his shoulder.

  Several men came in right after the coach. One of them held the door open with his back as the entire football team followed. The men looked around with what seemed to be equal parts disgust and interest. I’d seen some of them in town, but had never met any of them.

  The football players seemed just as sullen as the older men.

  My heart fell. I thought I’d made a good head start changing their attitudes toward ballet. Apparently, I’d thought wrong.

  I looked at Fred, eyebrows raised.

  “Seems some of the fathers have been razzing the guys about dancing. I thought it was time for some show and tell, so I asked them along.” He leaned forward. “Hope you don’t mind.”

  He plugged in a squat black box, then unzipped the bag and pulled out a dented blue laptop which he also plugged in, then popped open the screen came to life in the football team’s colors. He saw my questioning look. “You mentioned Lynn Swann, so I had one of the teachers put together a little presentation.” He moved the box, pressed a button and a bulb came on inside.

  “A projector.” I’d never seen one so tiny. A picture of Lynn Swann appeared on the whiteboard by the door, blank now that I’d decided to add classes and had to reconfigure the schedule usually posted there.

  My heart sank. Did he think I was so desperate for the help? Yes, I suppose I was.

  “Ms. Argie, I have two clips to show, then we’ll have a special guest come in.”

  “Okay.” I went to sit on the floor, in the middle of the boys. They scooted away to make room for me.

  Coach clicked on the presentation, and a picture of football star Lynn Swann appeared. He went through statistics of the famous football player, then played a short clip from a documentary about Lynn Swann.

  I watched the boys’ faces. They seemed only a little bit impressed. Definitely not persuaded.

  When the film ended Fred smiled benevolently. “Ms. Argie, get the door. We have company.”

  I went to the door and opened it, wondering what he was up to. Tag Garner stood outside, grinning. He was accompanied by Win Allen, President of the Town Council, Mac Campbell and Police Chief Amos Royden.

  “You must be Coach’s special guests.” I stepped aside and they came in, making my studio look even tinier.

  Win stood to one side while Tag sent a penetrating glance around the team. “Boys, let me tell you what ballet did for me.”

  That got their attention. They all knew the owner of Figuratively Speaking, because he was the assistant coach for the team. They also knew he’d been a star quarterback for the Atlanta Falcons.

  “I warmed my high school’s benches for a year until I took ballet. It gave me the balance and footwork to be a starter.”

  “You danced ballet?” Tater’s jaw hung open.

  “Yessirree. And while you can’t play football and not get hurt, I never had to sit out a game because of an injury.” He smiled wryly. “Until that last one, of course—the injury that ended my career. But not even Mikhail Baryshnikov could’ve avoided those three linebackers coming at me from my blind side. I’ve seen the tape.”

  “Who do y’all think gave me the idea?” Fred asked.

  “Do Mr. Mac Campbell or Police Chief Royden look like sissies to any of y’all?” Tag pointed to the two men standing behind him.

  Amazed, everyone shook their heads.

  “Well, they took ballet, too. For football.” Tag glanced around the team. “Is there anything y’all wouldn’t do for football? For your team? For Mossy Creek?”

  Again, all heads shook.

  “All right, then. Listen to Coach.” Tag stepped aside.

  Fred smacked his hands together. “So if these strong men—town leaders—can do ballet, so can you. Will it make you good enough for the pros? Who knows? You heard how he warmed the bench in high school. We aren’t asking you to put on tutus and dance a recital with Ms. Argie.” His brows lowered. “Unless you lose to Harrington.”

  I laughed, then covered my mouth, afraid I’d offend someone, but the dads were laughing, too. The boys pretended to look outraged, which made their fathers laugh even harder.

  Fred’s mouth spread in that scary grin again. “So no more arguments, right, gentlemen?” He was looking at the row of dads, who shuffled from foot to foot. “Come on, Tag, I’ll buy you a coffee.”

  He paused at the door. “Argie, the principal asked me to ask you if you’d mind being a chaperone for the Homecoming Dance.”

  A chaperone. For a moment I stared at him, then turned to look out the window, where Valerie was back at work, carefully stacking corn stalks into a teepee, a wheelbarrow full of pumpkins behind her, turning the manure pile into a gorgeous garden. I fought back silly tears. “I’d love to.”

  He clapped a hand on my shoulder and the two men left. The minute the door closed, the boys jumped up, ready to work. Amazing what a couple of “old” guys talking about ballet could do to make a difference. So far I hadn’t motivated them to do anything. Pretty girls and tough old football players had done the trick.

  After class I went outside to help Valerie, but she was almo
st done. I stared, amazed, at the transformation. The messy clump of manure had been raked into rich black earth, spotted with tiny shrubs and elegant arrangements of greenery I didn’t recognize.

  A stack of pumpkins, a couple of bales of hay and the corn stalk teepee made Wisteria Cottage look festive. Impulsively, I hugged Valerie, startling her. “It looks so great, I can’t believe it.”

  She looked satisfied. “It came out all right. May I clean up inside? It’s almost time for Pilates.”

  “Absolutely. Want some tea?”

  She did, and I put the kettle on while she washed up and changed into her workout clothes, then I opened my mail. An envelope from Peter. Luckily, I didn’t see it before, or I wouldn’t have been able to sit through the ballet class.

  It was another brochure, this one with a sticky note on the cover. Peter had scrawled, “No pointe shoes, no blisters. Pure dance. You’ll love it.” I peeled it off, crumpled it up, and tossed it in the wastebasket under my desk.

  The brochure was good. A line of dancers, arms stretched behind them leaned forward, feet a blur.

  I knew exactly how to achieve that pose, and what dance it came from. It was part of Paul Taylor’s amazing Promethean Dance. Unable to resist, I ran back and forth, arms stretched up and behind me like wings, twisting and turning. I laughed as I danced the steps I remembered from a college performance. Sinewy, earthy. I could do this. Peter was right. I still had years of dance left in me. Who needed an audience?

  The Pilates class straggled in, and I took aside the mayor, Ida Hamilton Walker, as she entered. “You said you wanted to take ballet, but I’m afraid it might put too much stress on your joints. But look at this.” I showed her the brochure. “I can teach you this dance.”

  I showed her the steps I’d danced only an hour before. “You can do this, too, with practice.”

  Cries of “I want to try that,” followed me as I raced around my studio. I stopped, a little breathless. “Well, who’s in? Modern Dance is what the class is called.”

  Hands shot up, and I grinned. I knew what I wanted to do, and it was energizing.

  “How are the boys taking the ballet lessons? Are they working?”

  “Well, it’s a little early to tell. However, Coach said he was going to make ballet part of the regular football schedule. But I think I’ll incorporate some Pilates in there, as well.” I smiled at Jeff, who was hobbling through the door. “That class will be all guys.”

  He waved. “Count me in.” He blushed at the good-natured laughter.

  “Is it working for you?” Katie Bell was eyeing his foot.

  “My physical therapist says I’ll be able to play Homecoming tomorrow, if I keep it taped.” He shrugged. “But I’ll probably be on the bench most of the time. Coach says he doesn’t want to risk it.”

  I wasn’t going to make a big deal about it, but the minute I was done with this class, I’d make an appointment to cut my hair. Hopefully Rainey could fit me in tomorrow. I wanted to look sassy and chic for my chaperone gig on Saturday night.

  I was going to take a hint from my new garden and thrive in Mossy Creek.

  PART THREE

  The Great Time Capsule Caper

  Louise & Peggy, Friday morning

  “Yoo-hoo! Louise! Peggy! Wait up!”

  “Oh, Lord,” Peggy whispered, but turned to Katie Bell with a smile on her face, muttering beneath her breath, “It’s too early in the day.”

  Mossy Creek’s ace reporter tottered up to us on red baby-doll pumps with five inch heels. If I wore those things I’d be in the hospital with a broken leg. “What are you two lovely ladies up to this glorious morning?” She leaned close and whispered conspiratorially, despite the fact that we were standing in the middle of the sidewalk so people had to walk around us. And stare. “You can tell me.”

  I would not tell her the sun rises in the east unless I expected the information to show up in a headline in next week’s Mossy Creek Gazette. I had no idea, however, what I could tell her that would put her off the scent. Next to her nose, the average bloodhound is nasally-challenged.

  Peggy jumped in. “I’m researching a monograph for the North Georgia Historical Society. Louise is tagging along so we can have lunch after.”

  “Monograph on what?”

  “The effect Bigelow County’s original zoning regulations had on the prices of row crop and grazing land in the eighteen nineties.”

  “Oh.” Katie Bell deflated visibly. Then she waved a hand at us. “Well, carry on.” She tottered off down the street to ambush some other unsuspecting Creekite.

  Once we were inside the building, I turned to her. “Did Bigelow have zoning regulations in the eighteen nineties?”

  “I have no idea. Probably not.”

  “Are you always that quick with a plausible lie? That’s scary.”

  “I,” Peggy said, lifting her chin, “am an academician. I can be an Olympic caliber bore when I have to.”

  “Well, you got Katie Bell off our tail. For the moment.”

  “Un-huh. Probably not for long.” She sighed. “Bless her heart.”

  We walked arm-in-arm down the stairs to the basement where the Assessor’s Office was located.

  WMOS Radio

  “The Voice of the Creek”

  BERT: Hey, Sports Fans! This is the Ram It Home Sports Hour on WMOS Radio. Our first caller is Mike from Bigelow.

  MIKE: Hey, do you losers up in Mossy Creek really think you have a football team? I hear they been going to ballet class. What a bunch of sissies! They gonna show up on our football field wearing tutus?

  BERT: Hold on, there, cowboy. I think you’ll find a few people in Mossy Creek who disagree with you. Wolfman, you there?

  WOLFMAN: You know-nothing, low-life Bigelowan scumbag. Do you know how many famous football players have taken ballet?

  MIKE: Name one... that anyone gives a toad’s fart about.

  WOLFMAN: Hershel Walker for one. Chad Johnson for another. Lynn Swann. Vance Johnson. Randall Cunningham. Aklili Smith—

  MIKE: Sez who?

  WOLFMAN: Look it up on the ’Net, you moron. Y’all do get the internet in your backwater town, don’tcha? All kinds of athletes take ballet ’cause it helps with injuries or somethin’. And they don’t wear tutus!

  MIKE: Oh yeah? Well, you wear a tutu!

  WOLFMAN: No, you wear a tutu!

  MIKE: No, you wear a—

  BERT: Thank y’all for that riveting and enlightening discussion! Now a word from our sponsor, Goldilock’s Nail, Hair & Tanning. They’re open late all week to accommodate every Creekite wanting to look their best for Homecoming!

  New Guy in Town

  We cannot live only for ourselves.

  A thousand fibers connect us with our fellow men.

  —Herman Melville

  Coach Fred Mabry, Wednesday

  I swore I’d never be that guy. You know what I’m talking about—the new guy in town who’s so friendly you just know he’s covering up for something. Well, there I was, nearly two months living in Mossy Creek and still grinning and glad-handin’ around town, trying to make a good impression like I was hidin’ some god-awful skeletons in my closet—which I was not. Not really.

  The firestorm my arrival had caused was still pretty obvious. Winning six of the first seven ballgames of Mossy Creek High School’s first football season in over twenty years had helped a whole lot, but there were still a few hard-core folks who wanted somebody else—anybody else—to coach Mossy Creek’s boys in the grand ole game of football.

  I’m Fred Mabry, one of the best offensive coaches ever to work between The Hedges. For you folks who don’t understand that lingo, that means I was an offensive coach at The University of Georgia, working under the best coach who ever walked on a football field, Vince Dooley. B
ut my time had come and gone on the college circuit. I never made it to head coach, never coached in the pros, but that didn’t matter much. What mattered to me was that I’d coached some of the finest players in the game, players who went on to become the best quarterbacks, running backs and receivers in the NFL. And about 99.9% of those boys became good men.

  Some of those players became lifelong friends. Like Tag Garner. Fine boy, he was. Seemed more like a son, not just a player. I’ll tell you honestly, it was a shame about his career ending because of a bad knee, but it happens. And everything happens for a reason, I always say.

  Through the years, we kept up with each other, had dinner together sometimes. I always looked forward to that. And now he’d pulled me out of retirement to coach the Mossy Creek High School football team, promising he’d hire on as my assistant. At first I didn’t want to do it. And then the weirdest thing happened. I heard about the commotion created when he suggested me to the school board. Man, I’m telling you, tempers ran high.

  And so did mine. Even though I didn’t really want the job (or so I thought at the time), I can’t tell you how it ticked me off for people to judge me without even talking to me.

  I’d never inspired much conflict through the years, so I didn’t exactly understand what the problem was. Still don’t. I guess some folks just wanted some hot-shot young coach, bein’ as how it was a new school and all. Mossy Creek High School was just ending its first year of existence. ’Course, there used to be a Mossy Creek High School way back when. Burned down is my understanding. Something about some pranksters from Bigelow High put some sparklers in the wool of the school mascot—a ram—and let it loose at half-time. Spooked a damned elephant, if you can believe that. All hell broke loose after that when the ram and the elephant both got into the school and set it on fire. Talk about a boyish prank gone bad. That sure was one.

  Turns out that our illustrious governor, Ham Bigelow, nephew of Mayor Ida Hamilton Walker, was involved in that boyish prank. Might even have been the instigator. Imagine that! Talk about skeletons in your closet. To divert attention away from all that, he promised to find money for a new school in Mossy Creek. Which meant a new football team and a new coach.