* * * *
I paced back and forth, waiting on Maggie to arrive at rehearsal. Evidently, she didn’t want to talk to me alone because she came in at the last minute, dressed quickly, and took the stage. My interrogation would have to wait until later. Because of a hectic schedule, we were doing technical checks and the final dress rehearsal all in the same day.
“Okay, people, listen up, please,” I called, hoping to get through this without strangling Waylon, Maggie, and myself. I was in no mood for Waylon’s bumbling, mumbling, ski-jumping portrayal of Bottom today. “I know this is tedious, but we’ve got to do it. We have an audience tomorrow, and they’ll be expecting magic on the stage. Let’s give it to them, shall we? Mr. Stage Manager,” I said to Hank Blackshear, who stage-managed four-footed dramas over at his vet clinic when he wasn’t involved in the theatrical kind. “We’re all yours.”
Hank stepped onto the stage and waited for quiet. “Okay, folks, we’re working cue to cue. Anna Rose is right. It’s tedious, but if we all cooperate, we can get through it without shedding blood. Places, everyone.”
A chuckle rippled through the cast as we all moved offstage to assume our places. There is nothing more boring than tech rehearsal. Working from one light cue or sound cue to the next, stopping, and starting over again, is the worst part of live theater. After weeks of rehearsal, incorporating the magical elements of sound and light cause a certain amount of tension after a while. But we managed to get through—as Hank said—without bloodshed.
“Okay, thanks everybody. Be back in an hour for final dress. I expect everybody at places, and we’ll run without stopping.” I turned to leave the stage, hoping to catch up with Maggie, but she was already gone. More than a little hurt, I turned out all the lights and sat alone on the stage, hoping for the magic, the ghost, the fairies, or the someone from the night before to help me make sense of it all.
But I was all alone.
* * * *
I had a case of opening night jitters like none I’d ever experienced before. There was something in the air, something different. I sometimes got premonitions, and now I was in the middle of a very strange one. I felt sure something earth-shattering was about to happen, something I would have no control over, and it would change my life forever. I’d had this premonition before—on the night Beau and I eloped.
“Places, everyone,” Hank said, as he passed through the backstage area.
“Where’s Waylon?” I asked, pacing.
“Still putting his donkey head into place.”
“He should be out of the dressing room by now!” I began to panic. Where was Waylon? Oh, God, he wouldn’t do this to me! What would I do if stage fright got the best of him and he bolted?
I’d have his ass, if he did.
The house lights dimmed, held at half, and then went out. I held my breath and prayed.
And the play began.
Suddenly, Theseus was on stage, yearning for the moment of his marriage to Hippolyta, Queen of the Amazons. Enter Egeus. Just like my father forbidding me to see Beau, Egeus had brought his daughter to King Theseus, who would order her to marry Demetrius instead of Lysander.
Instead of playing Hermia, as I had all those years ago, I was now Titania, Queen of the fairies. And, I was destined, due to a trick played by my husband, Oberon, to fall in love with Nick Bottom—a man with the head of an ass. But, true love it would be—until Oberon discovered what Puck had done.
True love. Hah!
Somewhere in the audience, Tag was watching Maggie onstage. He adored her. Somewhere nearby, Mayor Walker and her studly retired Lt.Colonel, Del Jackson, were no doubt holding hands. Hank’s wife, Casey, sat in her wheelchair lovingly watching the results of Hank’s behind-the-scenes stage-managing. Rob and Teresa Walker leaned close together in their seats with their little girl, Little Ida, grinning between them. True love was out there for everyone else, but not for me.
The path of true love never runs smooth, according to William Shakespeare. Mine never ran, period.
I made my entrance, praying Waylon—Bottom, that is—would be on stage waiting. He was. But I stopped and stared. Waylon? I said under my breath. My God! No. One look at the way Bottom filled out the rest of his costume and I couldn’t believe Waylon was under the donkey head. I squinted at him. The long floppy ears were the same, but the eyes peering out from the mask weren’t. And, the voice. Bottom was . . . acting. Orating. Speaking in a deep, melodic, breathtaking voice that lived in my heart and memory, in my blood and soul.
A sensation flowed over me like a soft mist of kisses.
I calmly let Bottom take me in his arms and kiss me. The passion that shimmered through that embrace made my knees weak. I looked up into his eyes, murmured my lines and swayed.
“Beau,” I whispered.
The audience stood up and cheered.
* * * *
Somehow we finished the play without too much ado and took our bows to thundering applause. I was far too stunned to appreciate or not to appreciate it. My mind was numb; my body was numb. I had to get away. Somehow, Beau and I had to get away from everybody and talk.
Maggie caught my hand and whispered, “He’s been upstairs at my place. Planning this surprise.”
Instead of removing my costume when we left the stage, I dashed out the side door and ran toward the same haven I’d sought before, with Beau following me. I reached the creek and snuggled into the cradle of the tree trunk. For the first time, I related the wild thyme in my sheltered bower to the bed of thyme in the play. The scent of it reached me as I inhaled and exhaled steadily to calm myself.
Before I could slow my hammering heart, I heard a noise. “Damn. Briars and vines tripping me up.” I heard the splash of Beau’s feet hitting the creek. “Still cold!” he said. “I’m freezing my ass off.” He made his way to me and dropped Bottom’s empty head beside me.
I started laughing. It was so dark I could barely see the white shirt he’d worn in the play. The moonlight glanced off his face and his wonderful, mesmerizing eyes caught mine.
“Here, let me help.” I stood and tried to stop laughing, but couldn’t. Extending my hand, I braced myself to keep from falling in. “The least you could have done was to take off that ass’s head before following me.”
“I think it fits.” He grabbed my hand and tried to step up on the bank. His hand slid from mine and he fell backwards, splashing water all over me. I began to laugh again.
“Funny, is it?” He slung his hair so that a string of jeweled droplets of water caught the moonlight, spun off and disappeared into the forest. He reached up, pulled me down into the creek with him and kissed me. “Sorry I’m a little late,” he whispered.
“No. Right on time.”
We both took a deep breath. “I know the truth about Hermia,” he said gruffly. “Maggie told me last week.”
I bowed my head against his. “I’m sorry I lied to you.”
“I’m sorry I left you.”
“Forgive me.”
“Forgive me.”
“Stop, Beau. It’s too late.”
“It’s not too late.” He rose to a sitting position, stood, and lifted me into his arms. He made his way to my secret bower, as if he’d been there many times before. Had he? “It’s never too late. I’m moving back here. I love you, Anna Rose. I always have, and I always will. We’ll find a way to explain everything to Hermia. About me. About us. From what Maggie tells me, she’s a smart girl. A strong girl. She’ll understand.”
I nodded, but a tear slid down my cheek, dropping onto my filmy, wet costume. Beau brushed back my hair and stared at me for a long moment. “It’s never too late, little Anna Rose. Never too late for us.” He leaned down and kissed me again.
The world stood still. I looked up at him. “We would have been married twenty years, today.”
“As far as I’m concerned, we’ve just said our vows, again.” Suddenly, a light flickered in the distance. And then another. And another. Ordinary firefli
es.
No. Fairies. But I had to believe.
“Looks like the fairies are giving us their blessing,” I whispered.
He looked at me tenderly. “Whatever you say.”
I was at home in his arms. Explanations could come later. Beau and I were together. On our anniversary.
The dream had come true.
MICHAEL AND HANNAH
Librarians and bartenders both know what it mean to get drunk with joy over ideas.
MICHAEL AND HANNAH
Katie Bell Nabs Two More Victims For Her Survey
What do reunions mean to me, Michael Conners, aka ‘Father Michael’ and owner of O’Day’s, the notorious Mossy Creek pub, scene of the annual rowdy dart tournament between Mossy Creek and Bigelow?
Ahhh. Reunions are in an Irishman’s blood, even when he was born and raised in America, like me. Nothing better than gettin’ together with the far flung arms of the family for a few pints, some merry old stories and, when opinions—usually political or sports related—get crossed, a punch or two. The stories are the best part, if you ask me. Reunions seem to bring out the liar in us all, and there’s nothing better than a grand tale that everyone knows is a crock of . . . well, you know what I mean. If the truth were to be found at the bottom of a glass, pubs like mine would be empty, and there would be reformed Irishmen all over the world.
What is the one thing that happened to me in high school that made me the person I am today?
You know, then, that high school is a very important time in a man’s life. I’m sure it’s the same for the women as well, but we men have a bit more hormone overload and, at that age, a tad less maturity to handle the crush. Anyway, mostly we think about the opposite sex, and then sometimes when the opposite sex isn’t around, we bash our heads together in one form or another of manly recreation. Basketball was my game, and I spent most of high school perfecting my chops, hoping to gain fame and fortune—or at least a girlfriend. But then, as usual I’ve gotten off the subject. Let’s see, the one thing that happened in high school?
Well, besides my sophomore English teacher who threatened to fail me for flirting with my female classmates by reciting risque poetry instead of Tennyson, I would have to admit it was meeting my first love—Laura Riley. She was a senior, an older woman you might say, and as pretty as my Irish-American eyes could withstand.
As to how it changed me, just let me say this . . . she taught me more about what it means to be a man than basketball, or any teacher before or since.
And that’s enough said about that.
* * * *
What do reunions mean to me, Hannah Longstreet?
As a librarian, I see the best reunions in the Mossy Creek Library every day. People bring their children in and find themselves bonding over The Secret Garden or The Black Stallion, or introducing their kids to funny new stories such as Bunnicula. A personal favorite of mine, I think, because I love the idea that something as harmless as a bunny—or a small town librarian—could have a wild fantasy life. Watching from behind my staid desk I see people smile when their chldren reverently reach for Little House On the Prarie or The Hobbit.
As for Mossy Creek High, I remember being so sad for the wonderful library the librarian had built. The books that didn’t burn were ruined by the fire hoses. All those old friends. I spent a lot of time in the library my freshman year—right before the school burned down. Actually, I hid in the library.
I wasn’t really old enough to be in high school, but my mother and my grade school teachers had pushed me up to that level fast. Too fast. I was only twelve when we moved to Mossy Creek from Tennessee, and I entered Mossy Creek High looking like someone’s kid sister who’d made a wrong turn at the playground. So I was new to town, the youngest student at the high school, with no friends and no training bra. Mother wouldn’t let me wear one—a decision that became the bane of my existence when I found out that in high school girls have to dress-out for gym.
A lady coach showed us a horrible room of little gym lockers, sinks, and shower stalls with no doors. I’m guessing they just built the girl’s locker room to the same plans as the boy’s. Coach seemed oblivious to the fact that girls of high school age have enough problems with body image without having to parade around an open room while trying to dress and undress. There isn’t a woman in America who can honestly say she’s perfectly happy with her shape. Hips, thighs, butt, tummy, chest, feet, cheeks, nose. . . you name an area, and there’s a woman who bemoans the sorry state of her genetic material.
Being twelve, I was the poster child for Stick Figures of America.
After the fire, we all transferred down to Bigalow High. I hate to say it, but I was so happy. The gym facilities over there were made for shy girls like me, and the library had a little nook in the back that no one used. In fact most of the books looked like they’d never been read. It was a very lonely library. You could almost feel it perk up when I started haunting it.
Mother never has understood why I became a librarian. She wanted a rocket scientist. I’d have made a lousy rocket scientist. She doesn’t understand that it’s lovely to be the woman who can unlock the world for people. She doesn’t see the patrons faces light up when they find the research they want or get the new bestseller before anyone else. She doesn’t see me light up when my library’s full of people wanting to talk to me. She has no idea how much I know about the people in Mossy Creek or how many people send me Christmas cards.
Katie, don’t print all of this. I’m getting too sentimental and the last thing the world needs is more sentimental librarians. I’d rewrite it, but I have a ton of new fiction to catalogue and get out to the shelves. So, just print about the books burning and me being sad that we lost those books. Thanks.
P.S. That book on the secret language of symbols is finally here. What did you want that for, anyway?
ROB, RAINEY, AND HANK
ROB, RAINEY, AND HANK
I Heard the Elephant Call My Name
The offices and boardroom of Hamilton’s Department Store are in a lower level just above the basement, where the old furnaces still roar and grumble. Not only that, but the hundred-year-old joists, handcut stone, curlicue plaster cornices, and fancy pink-marble tile of the whole three-floor building creak and groan and shush and tremble. It’s like the building has twitchy memories in its bones. As owner and president of Hamilton’s, Inc., Rob planned to renovate as soon as he got the old store back into black ink. In the meantime, I squirmed in an upholstered conference chair, listening to the store’s whispers.
“We all know why we’re here tonight,” Rob said quietly.
Across from me, Hank nodded. His wife, Casey, looked up at Hank gently but clutched the armrest of her wheelchair.
Rob’s wife, Teresa, seated next to him at the head of the long, handsome conference table, sighed with a lawyer’s sympathy for justice and looked at Rob with real love. I’d never been able to hate perky, brunette Teresa for being a sophisticated college woman and winning his sophisticated love.
Lor’, I’d tried.
I looked at the empty conference chair next to me. Where are you when I need you? I asked of the husband I didn’t have. Rob and Hank had told their dearly beloved mates the whole truth—at least, as much as we knew and remembered—about the night of the fire. But I had no one to tell. My dearly beloved sat at the head of the table, unaware, with his wife.
“We all know why we’re here,” Rob said again. “It’s time to tell the whole town what we did.”
Hank nodded wearily. “All these years, I’ve tried to convince myself it wasn’t our fault. But we’ll never really be certain.” He looked at Casey and her wheelchair tenderly. “I’ve learned a lot about personal courage since then. I’m willing to risk the consequences.”
“Oh?” I squawked. “Everybody will hate us. All our old friends and neighbors will call us cowards and deceivers for keeping quiet so long. It won’t matter that we were just kids twenty years ago and we didn’t
mean to cut the elephant loose. People will just purely hate us. I don’t mind confessing the truth, but I sure don’t want to be an outcast and lose all my customers and all my friends. I don’t want to have to move my salon down to Bigelow or even way down to Atlanta, somewhere. What good am I going to be down in the flat-land suburbs? I do mountain hair. Big hair. Hair designed to survive cold winters and high winds and hard, mineralized well water. I’ll be nobody outside my styling market.”
Casey made a soothing sound. She was good with animals, kids, and upset hairdressers. “Rainey, no one is going to blame you and Hank and Rob for an accident. Don’t forget, you three didn’t kidnap the ram and set him on fire. That’s what spooked the elephant and caused the trouble. Obviously, someone knows who kidnapped that ram.”
Teresa nodded. “That’s right. Whoever kidnapped Samson is the primary suspect, here. That someone wants to be caught. That someone has to be the person who sent the Ten-Cent Gypsy back to Mossy Creek as a taunt. He or she is returning symbolically to the scene of the crime. It’s a classic example of guilt syndrome. Guilt by association.”
“Guilt by association?” I muttered. “With a plastic carnival hoochie? I don’t think so.”
Rob shook his head. “Regardless of the Ten-Cent Gypsy, what it means, who sent it, and who kidnapped Samson that night, I’ve decided to tell what part I played in causing the fire. That doesn’t mean I expect you, Rainey, or you, Hank, to break your silence. I don’t want either of you blamed. I was the oldest. I was the leader. You both trusted me, and I got you in trouble. So I’m the one who has to take responsibility.”
My heart broke with appreciation and lost dreams.
“No.” I stood. “Rob Walker, you just forget about sacrificing yourself alone. I said this twenty years ago, and I’ll say it now, it’s all for one and one for all.”
Hank stood, too. “I agree with Rainey. We’ll all confess together. I say we do it at the reunion ceremonies in November. Wait until then. Tell the whole town, all at once, what we did on the night of the fire. Take the consequences.” He looked down at his wife. “Casey, it may mean the end of my vet practice here. We may have to move if people won’t forgive me.”
Reunion at Mossy Creek Page 21
