Summer in Mossy Creek

by Deborah Smith

  Inez took a step forward, then stopped, glancing at her brother. Arturo nodded once, though with obvious reluctance.

  I tried not to show my relief as Connie opened the back gate for Inez. “It’ll take me a few minutes to take care of your sisters’ bites and get breakfast on the table, Arturo. Why don’t you go ahead and clean up that rabbit?” For his own sake, I knew I needed to make him work for their food.

  “Si, Miz Opal.” He winced. “I mean yes.”

  “That’s all right, son. I know what ‘si’ means. Come right on in when you’re done. No need to knock.”

  “Yes, Miz Opal. And . . .” He visibly struggled with the words.

  “Si?” I prompted.

  His face relaxed into a smile. “Gracias.”

  THE GIRLS LOOKED around in wonder as they came into my house, as if it were a palace. Knowing it was no such thing, my heart went out to them even more. How had they been living, to consider this rundown, hundred-year-old farmhouse a wonder?

  But their awe made me look around with new eyes as I ushered them toward the medicine cabinet in the bathroom. I’d been feeling sorry for myself the past couple of years, but maybe I was richer than I’d thought.

  I quickly discovered that Inez was a little chatterbox, freely mixing Spanish words with English. I could mostly keep up with her meaning, though, and when I couldn’t, Connie interpreted.

  What I learned nearly broke my heart. After their father died on the job in Raleigh, North Carolina, their mother left, determined to return to her family in Mexico. They had an old car, which Arturo drove and kept running. Their mother had been sick before they left Raleigh, and the summer heat made her worse. Because they were not legal aliens, she feared what would happen to her children if they stopped to get help so she wouldn’t allow it. She died soon after they’d entered the mountains. Somewhere south of Asheville, as close as I could make it. They buried her there, deep in the woods, a crudely fashioned cross her only marker.

  Connie cried because her mother hadn’t received the last rites.

  Arturo had pushed them on the same day. The car died a few days later, on the lonely mountain road that wound its way around to the Suggs farm, then eventually down into Mossy Creek. They’d been living in the car for a week, with Arturo scrounging for food. He’d found my barn yesterday evening, and had led his sisters there after dark.

  My eyes filled with tears as I blew on Connie’s legs to dry the Calamine. Such hardships, for girls so young. I’d grown up poor, too, but nothing like them. At least I’d had the wealth of two healthy parents who put a roof over my head and food on the table three times a day.

  I hugged them both, then led them into the kitchen to make breakfast. I’d spent enough time soothing the girls’ bites that Arturo should’ve been there, but he wasn’t. Hearing a loud banging on the back porch, I opened the door to find him tacking up the screen that had come loose on the side.

  He turned guiltily. “I found the tools inside.”

  Suddenly, it was like the clouds had parted, allowing a beam of light to reach me from Heaven. I knew what my business was here on Earth. I knew why my sisters had provided me with money.

  To emphasize the point, a cool morning breeze wafted through the screen. As it tickled my ear, I heard Garnet’s voice whisper,’“Yes.”

  Overcome with enlightenment, it took me a moment to recollect my voice. “Good. I see you know how to use them.”

  He straightened proudly. “My father teach me. I help him sometime, on jobs.”

  “Exactly how good are you? I’ve got enough work around here to keep you busy for a month of Sundays, but some of it’s pretty involved.”

  His dark eyes lit up. “You have work for me? For wages?”

  I nodded. “Plus room and board for you and your sisters.”

  “Thank you, Miz Opal. I am so young, no one would hire me. And . . .” He looked down at the hammer in his hand. “I don’t have green card.”

  I placed an arm around his shoulder and hugged him. “We’ll see what we can do about that. Meanwhile, we’ll also see about the best way to get you to your grandmother’s.”

  He hugged me back, fiercely, like a boy forced into a man’s responsibilities but suddenly allowed to be a boy again. “Gracias! I mean . . .”

  “Don’t worry about it.” I winked at the girls watching from the door. “Now, let’s get something to eat.”

  “SO YOU FIGURED it out,” Ruby said.

  I stood at the door of the room she once shared with Sapphire and me, watching Connie and Inez sleep on the double mattress. They looked so young, so innocent. I already knew they were sweet, and precious, and wonderful.

  I pulled the door to. “Hush, Ruby. You’ll wake them.”

  “Don’t be silly,” Pearl said. «You’re the only one who can hear us.”

  “And that only because I’m crazy as an old hoot owl,” I replied as I started toward my bedroom.

  “Owls are wise,” Garnet reminded me.

  “Especially the old ones,” Amethyst added. “That’s how they get to be old.”

  “Not so ready to die now, are you?” Ruby asked.

  I stopped in the doorway of my room. I glanced up into the empty air. “I usually hate it when you’re right, Ruby. But not tonight.” I smiled as I remembered the sweet, sleepy kiss Inez had given me before she’d crawled under the covers. “Not tonight.”

  THE WEATHER TURNED warm again over the next several days, during which I pondered the situation. I had no idea what all was involved in transferring orphaned children home to their grandmother in Mexico. I considered calling the sheriff to find out, but Arturo had had such a panicked response the one time I mentioned calling the authorities, I knew he’d bolt if he knew they were coming.

  The children had been with me a week when Amethyst suggested I call Amos Royden, the Police Chief in Mossy Creek. Since he had no jurisdiction way out here beyond the city limits, he was no threat to Arturo.

  I liked her idea, partly because of its good sense, but also because I’d had a special relationship with Amos ever since I’d been his English teacher the last year of Mossy Creek High School’s existence. The angst he felt trying to become his own man while at the same time trying desperately to please his Police Chief father came through in his essays. He and I had several long talks about it. I must’ve helped him, even if just a little, because he made a point of checking on me every now and then.

  Amos wasn’t in when I called. Before I knew it, Sandy, the operator, wheedled most of the information out of me. I cut myself off when I realized what she was doing, asking to please have him call me back. Instead, he showed up that very afternoon.

  The sound of a vehicle driving up my driveway was so out of the ordinary, I hurried to the front door to meet him, thankful that Arturo was in the barn trying to coax the tractor into running. Connie was helping Arturo, but Inez—bless her heart—wouldn’t leave my side.

  I watched from the porch as Amos unfolded from his Jeep and looked around carefully. He nodded when he saw me, scrutinized Inez, then started toward the porch.

  “You didn’t need to come all the way up here, Amos,” I told him. “I just need to ask your advice about something.”

  His sharp eyes examined the new spindles on the railing, where Arturo had replaced rotten ones. “Who did you hire to do this?” He glanced over the front of the house. “Hel . . . er . . . umm . . . Sorry. Looks like you’ve had a lot of work done.”

  “Arturo Sanchez,” I replied. Arturo’s work was one thing Sandy Crane had not tricked out of me.

  Amos’s bushy eyebrow lifted. “The Hispanic boy?”

  “The young man, yes.”

  Amos ran a hand along one of the spindles, then tugged at another one. “This is good, solid work.”

  “I know. But
that’s not why I called you. Come on in, and let me get you a glass of tea.”

  “Did he make this shutter?” Amos asked from the window at the end of the porch.

  “He certainly did.” I heard the pride in my voice, though why I should be so proud of the work Arturo had done, I didn’t know. But I couldn’t have been prouder if I’d done it myself. “He hasn’t painted it yet because we don’t have any paint. We’re waiting on the delivery from Mossy Creek Hardware.”

  Clearly impressed, Amos stepped into the house, removing his hat as he did. “Hate to be nosy, but do you have the money for all this work?”

  “Yes, Amos, I do.” I wasn’t about to tell him how.

  Inez and I took him back to the kitchen where I served him some tea and told him about the children’s predicament.

  As I finished, I heard the screen door open. A second later, Arturo stopped dead in the doorway. Connie bumped into him from behind, then peered around to see what had stopped him.

  Amos started to stand, but luckily, I was close enough to press a hand on his shoulder.

  I watched as shock was rapidly succeeded by panic on Arturo’s face. A checked movement told me he considered running. Probably the only thing that stopped him was that his sisters wouldn’t be fast enough. Finally, his gaze settled on mine with confusion and more than a little accusation.

  “Arturo,” I said with forced confidence. I didn’t think Amos would hand the children over to immigration, but I hadn’t yet had time to make certain. “This is the Police Chief from Mossy Creek, Amos Royden. He’s here to see what we can do about getting you home.”

  “Come over here, son,” Amos said.

  Arturo set his chin, then walked stiffly over to the kitchen table.

  Connie scurried around the kitchen table to my side. I put my arm around her shoulders.

  Amos stood slowly, then held out his hand. “Nice to meet you, Arturo. You do real good work, for one so young.”

  Arturo’s eyes widened. “You not going to take me in?”

  “In where?” Amos asked patiently.

  Arturo glanced at me, his dark eyes wide with confusion, then back at Amos. “Jail?”

  “Have you committed a crime in Mossy Creek?”

  “I never been to Mossy Creek, sir,” Arturo answered.

  Amos lifted one of his broad shoulders. “Then I have no reason to lock you up. Shake my hand, son. My arm’s getting tired.”

  Arturo shook Amos’s hand, but didn’t relax until Amos sat back down. Amos asked Arturo to sit, then began questioning him about where his grandmother lived. Arturo didn’t have an address, just knew the town in Mexico where his mother had said she was from. He and his parents had left Mexico when he was five, and he had no clear memories of his birthplace.

  Amos wrote down the information. At one point, he glanced sharply at me.

  “What was that?”

  “What was what?” I asked.

  “You didn’t . . . ?” With a frown, he peered around the room.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked.

  Amos shook his head. “Nothing. I thought I heard . . . something, is all. Couldn’t have, though.” He ran his little finger around his left ear as if it tickled. “Now, Arturo . . .”

  Several minutes later, Amos stopped writing again. After a moment of stillness, he looked at me.

  “Your TV on?”

  “No,” I said.

  “Radio?”

  I shook my head, my eyes narrowing. Were my sisters talking to Amos? No. They told me no one could hear them but me. Still, I watched Amos closely as I asked, “Do you hear something?”

  “Must be the wind.” His eyes swept the room again. “Although . . .”

  “Yes?”

  He shrugged.

  “Nothing.” He clicked his pen closed and folded his pocket-sized notebook. «I’ve got enough to start asking questions.” He stood.

  Arturo stood, as well. “How soon, sir? I still have work here, for Miz Opal.”

  Amos paused a moment to study Arturo’s anxious face, then he peered over at me. I still sat at the kitchen table with a black-haired girl leaning against each side, my arms around them both.

  Amos’s face relaxed into a smile. “I have no idea how long all this will take, son. But I do know that the wheels of the federal government turn real slow. Go ahead with your work. And if you finish with Miss Opal’s, then I’ve got a few things around my house that I can’t seem to find the time to get to. You interested?”

  “Si, Mr. Royden, sir.”

  Amos smiled at Arturo’s enthusiasm and shook his hand. Then he gave me a brief salute. “Don’t get up. I’ll let you know what I find out. Probably take awhile.”

  “All right. Thanks, Amos.”

  “Meanwhile, you might want to think about getting these kids in school.”

  I blinked. “Can I? They’re not citizens of the United States, much less Mossy Creek.”

  “Consuela and Inez born in America,” Arturo said. “I am the only illegal.”

  Amos placed a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “That’s the first thing we’ll fix. But we’re not going to deport you as long you’re here supporting your sisters. And doing a da . . . er, real fine job of it.”

  “Have you children ever been to school?” I asked.

  “Consuela and Inez go to school in North Carolina,” Arturo said. “But I help Papa.”

  I nodded. “Perhaps I’d better home school them for awhile. Until I see how far along they are.”

  “You’re certainly more than qualified.” Amos grabbed his hat. “I know the way out.”

  THAT NIGHT ANOTHER storm broke as I pulled my cotton nightgown over my head. Thunder had been rumbling around the mountain for several hours, growing ever louder, agitating the evening air. It was a relief to finally hear the rain.

  Smoothing the tiny handmade tucks down the batiste bodice as the hem settled below my knees, I wandered to the window and watched as lightning streaked across the sky. Storms seemed so much more violent in the mountains. Daddy used to say it was because we lived closer to Heaven.

  “I don’t want to go to Heaven,” I shouted at him once, “if it’s full of thunder.”

  I was terrified of thunderstorms then, and remembered scampering into this very room during the worst ones, burrowing into bed between Mama and Daddy.

  “Heaven is the calmest, most peaceful place you can ever imagine,” Daddy had replied to my outrageous comment. “But you can’t know what peace is unless you know the opposite. So Heaven is surrounded by thunder. Otherwise, you won’t appreciate how marvelous the love and peace is when you march through the Pearly Gates.”

  Daddy was the wisest man I ever knew. He was a supple willow that contrasted with Mama’s rock hardness. Yet somehow their differences complemented each other, and made our family strong.

  “No matter what any of us children needed, one or the other—or both our parents—could provide it,” Garnet whispered.

  I wiped away a tear that slowly found a path around the wrinkles in my cheek. “I miss them . . . and y’all, as well.”

  “But you’re not alone anymore,” Amethyst said.

  “No.” But my brief smile quickly faded. “At least, not at the moment.”

  “You know . . .” Garnet stretched out the second word. “You don’t have to send them back to Mexico.”

  I started, and reached out to catch myself on the dresser. “I don’t? You mean I’m supposed to raise them? How in tarnation? I’m almost eighty. I’ll be dead before they even finish—”

  “Oh, hush up,” Ruby said sharply. “You’re strong as an old mountain goat, and just as stubborn. You aren’t going to die anytime soon, and you darn well know it. Heck’s underbritches, Opal, you’re gonna live until you�
�re—”

  Several voices shushed her, but not nearly the chorus I’d heard in the past weeks. “How many of y’all are here?”

  “Just us three,” Garnet replied.

  I realized then that I hadn’t heard from Pearl since the kids showed up, or from Sapphire in the last several days.

  “They’re not babies,” Amethyst pointed out, bringing us back to the subject. “They’re strong, healthy children who will soon be adults.”

  “Strong enough to take care of you in your declining years,” Garnet said.

  I sniffed. “As if I’m not on the downhill slope now.”

  “You’re only as old as you feel,” Garnet said. “And young people make you feel young.”

  “Besides, I would never take those children in just so I’ll have nursemaids when I’m old. The very idea!”

  “Of course you wouldn’t,” Garnet said.

  “You’ll take them in because they need you,” Amethyst said. “Desperately. And not just the money we provided. They need you.”

  “And you need them,” Garnet added.

  “What about their grandmother?” I asked.

  “Miz Opal?”

  Startled by the physicality of sound waves from actual words being spoken, I turned to see Inez standing in the doorway, one arm around a ragged sock monkey I’d made over thirty years ago, the other hand gripping the doorknob. Even in the darkness, I could see that her dark eyes were wide. Had she heard me talking to my sisters?

  “Yes?” I asked. “What is it, sweetheart?”

  “I . . . Miz Opal, I . . .”

  I could see the white cotton nightgown—a legacy from one of my sisters—shaking around the young girl’s ankles. “Are you afraid of the storm?”

  With a sob, she bolted across the room and threw her arms around my waist. “When will it stop?”

  I hugged her close. This one, the youngest, was so much like me. “Probably not for awhile. Would you like to sleep with me in my mama’s magic bed?”

  She went still, then drew back to look up at me. “Magic?”

  “That’s right. Lightning has never struck this bed. Not once. Ever.”