Mossy Creek Part 19

I faced the audience. I looked at John, and at Willie, sitting beside him like a miniature shadow of his father. They were so much alike. I nodded to Great Aunt Livvy and suddenly understood what she'd been trying to teach me. Sometimes, respect for the dead means respect for the living. I stared at all the cool-faced Bigelows staring back at me. Even when they don't deserve it.

"Grandmother Muriel was a special woman who gave little pieces of herself to everyone. She's gone now, but she lived a good life-on her terms. I salute her, and I thank her for accepting me." I grinned at the racy portrait. "Miss Murial, wherever you are, I hope the music's loud, the food is good, and the men are buying you margaritas."

Almost every Bigelow in the audience scowled at me, but John and Willie smiled, and that was all that mattered. Afterwards, I left Willie with John in Bigelow while I drove Great Aunt Livvy up to Hattie's house in Yonder. But we had just stepped onto Hattie's front porch when Miss Ida dropped Willie off. Willie looked subdued. "If I hang around with Dad too long, I miss him more when I leave," he explained. "So I got Miss Ida to bring me home. I told Dad I had to find out if you were gonna say something weird at Cousin Hattie's funeral, tomorrow."

"I don't think so," I said, my throat tight. "I've been weird enough, already."

"Of course you are," Great Aunt Livvy snapped in double denture time. "What was appropriate for Murial Bigelow is certainly appropriate for Hattie."

I didn't argue. I'd learned enough about respect for a lifetime.

The hard dirt of Hattie's yard had been swept clean. It had become a parking lot filled with pick-up trucks and sedans around whose open doors gathered cl.u.s.ters of strangers.

"Now, what we do, Willie," Great Aunt Livvy explained, "is welcome the family members."

"Great Aunt Livvy," I remind her, "we are the family members."

"Then we let everybody console us." Her dentures clicked in somber step. "Then we go to the coffin and pay our last respects."

"And then we eat?" Willie asked, an old hand at funerals now.

I took Willie's arm, and we followed Great Aunt Livvy indoors, listening for tambourines. According to Great Aunt Livvy, viewing a body in the deceased's own living room isn't morbid. It's an excuse for a mini-reunion of old friends and family to share stories, a remember-when kaleidoscope of the past. So we politely allowed ourselves to be consoled, then we ate and listened to stories about Hattie's life as a young woman.

Hours pa.s.sed. People began to drift away until late in the afternoon it was just me, Great Aunt Livvy, and a few ancient neighbors. "She was the prettiest girl in Yonder," one elderly man confided. "I was sweet on her myself." His voice dropped. He looked around furtively, then whispered, "But she never had eyes for n.o.body but Ronnie Bigelow."

My ears perked up. I was glad Willie had fallen asleep in Hattie's bedroom listening to the latest rap CD on his headphones.

"Shush that loose talk, Bart Smith!" Great Aunt Livvy snapped, slapping her hand to her mouth to restrain her escaping upper plate. "Don't speak ill of the dead."

"Ain't nothing ill about my speaking. The only ill was that the Salter family kept them two apart. Just think what might have happened if they'd run off and got married before Ronnie went off to fight in the Big War."

I looked at Great Aunt Livvy with questions in my eyes.

"Nothing would have happened," she insisted. "And the Salter family had nothing to do with it. Hattie was a lot like Muriel Bigelow. She always went her own way. Doesn't matter, anyway. Ronnie died in Europe-Christmas 1942."

"Yeah," Bart said, "and Hattie spent the rest of her life alone-grieving for him."

That news sent me to the back porch, where I sat on the steps in the cold, staring up a small pinecone wreath Hattie had hung from the rafters not long before she died. It occurred to me that maybe she hadn't been celebrating Christmas, she'd been celebrating the man she secretly loved and lost.

I married a Bigelow and lived to regret it. Hattie didn't marry one and spent the rest of her life grieving. All because the Salter women were doomed to make bad choices, especially when it came to Bigelows.

But had I made a bad choice? I was a Salter who'd felt out of place at Muriel's services, but I suddenly felt even more out of place at Hattie's. I missed John's arm supporting me, and the feel of his hand on my back. I'd watched Willie with his dad today and felt his pain when he had to leave him. For years, I'd told myself Willie wasn't being damaged by our strange marriage. Now, I wasn't so sure.

The back screen door opened. I knew who it was even before he spoke.

"You know," John said, "Hattie was just as tough as you are, Suzy. And, so, I'm beginning to think, was my Grandmother Muriel."

"What are you doing here?" I said that softly, not accusing.

"I came to show my respect for your family. The Salters don't have a corner on the respect market. May I sit down beside you?"

No! I wanted to say. We'll only make more mistakes, and hurt each other, again. But I couldn't. Something had changed, and I wasn't sure what. Instead, I whispered, "Yes."

He carried a paper cup and a plate full of Jesus cake, balancing it on one hand as he lowered himself next to me. He licked some icing off his fingertips. Neither of us said anything for a moment, as if he were waiting for me to set the terms of his encampment. "Tell me what you know about Hattie," I finally said. "I just found out she was in love with a Bigelow."

He nodded. "Here's another secret-something Great Aunt Livvy says I can tell you, now." He hesitated. Then, "Ronnie and Hattie got married the night before he s.h.i.+pped out."

I gaped at him. "Married?"

"Yes. She inherited his share of the Bigelow Banking Company, despite every effort his family made to take it away from her. She used part of the money to build the Faith and Forgiveness Baptist Church. She gave the rest to other charities. The Bigelows could have killed her." He smiled. "Wasting money like that."

"How long have you known this story?"

"Grandmother Murial told me not long after you and I separated. She said Salter women are stubborn and proud-but they don't stop loving a man, once they've chosen him."

My throat worked. "Did you believe her?"

"Not right away. Too much Bigelow in me." He smiled wearily. "Too much pride."

"What do you think would have happened if Ronnie had come back from the war? Would he and Hattie have been caught up in the old feuds and differences? Would the Bigelows have disowned her for being from Mossy Creek?"

He jutted his chin forward as he always did when confronted with a problem. "I don't know. I'd like to think he and Hattie would have made a go of it, but I don't know. What do you think?"

"I think they would have. She married the man she loved, and he loved her, and that would have been enough."

"Why do you think that?"

"Simple. The name of the church she founded with his money. Faith and Forgiveness."

"I never thought about that, before. But it occurs to me that my grandmother was right about Salter women. You don't need the Bigelow name and money. You've been determined to make it on your own. And you have." He paused. "But does that mean you can't be my wife? And that I can't take care of you?"

I cleared my throat, and then, trembling, I asked him the hardest question I'd ever considered, one that dogged the back of my mind for five years. "John, did you have something to do with my business loan to buy the Mossy Creek Gazette?"

Slowly, he nodded. "Don't be angry. I wanted you to have a chance to prove yourself. And I knew it was the only way you'd stay in Mossy Creek."

"And you wanted me to stay?"

"I did. John, Junior-sorry, I mean Willie-is my son. Our son. I wanted him close by. And, I wanted you close by. You don't know how much I missed you, Suzy. How much I still miss you." That statement shocked me into silence. He straightened, and stared out into the night. His throat worked. "But I won't give you a hard time any more. If you still want a divorce, I'll give it to you."

After all this time, his offer came as a surprise. Finally, I managed to ask, "Why are you saying all this, now?"

"Great Aunt Livvy convinced me."

"I don't understand."

"She says maybe the star-crossed love affairs between Salter women and Bigelow men should end with us. Maybe she's right."

From somewhere in the forest came the cry of a fox, followed by the joyous call of its mate. Star-crossed love affairs? I answered him the only way I could. "You know I can't let you off this easy."

There was a long moment before he said, "Do you mean about getting the divorce or being mad about the business loan?"

"Either one. I'm a Bigelow because that's my son's name. But I'm a Salter, too. I'll always pay my own way, but unless you want a divorce, I think I'll leave things the way they are."

We both knew what I was trying to say. His eyes warmed, and relief washed over me.

"Well, Suzy," he said softly.

Laughter broke out in the house behind us. It was obvious that Great Aunt Livvy had been right; this wasn't a time to mourn but a time to share good memories. Stories about families, their joys, their sorrows, the very pain and laughter that held them in this place. Stories that didn't change, even as life moved forward.

"Want some Jesus cake? It's pretty good."

He held out the plate. He'd managed to carve out the Jesus in purple icing. From inside the house came the sound of a tambourine and a banjo. I knew I was teetering between my old ways and the new. Arguing with my husband to stay married when I wasn't sure where we were headed wasn't fair to him. Still, Salter women don't give up.

"Sure. I'll have some cake, but only if we warm up with moons.h.i.+ne while we eat it," I said, my teeth chattering in the cold. I sounded like Great Aunt Livvy.

"Brought that too," he said and held out the paper cup.

As I reached for the cup, I looked up at Hattie's little wreath. You kept loving him, and you survived. John took a bite of the cake then held it to my lips, and I took a nibble, too. We looked at what was left. The Jes was missing from Jesus. All that was left was us.

I raised the cup of moons.h.i.+ne. "Here's to the Salter women and the men who are crazy enough to marry them."

John nodded. "And here's to you and me, Suzy. I only hope our Willie will learn from us and get it right."

"He can't miss," I said. "It's in the genes."

John and I spent the most wonderful night together, and went to Hattie's funeral together, the next day. We realized we shouldn't try to live together-at least not anytime soon-but we're happy enough, just visiting. I decided to start a new hobby.

"Hey, Great Aunt Livvy," I called this morning, across the cold December yard between our houses.

She opened her kitchen window. "Eh?" she called back, as she ate her breakfast cereal next to the radio at her table.

"Are we still alive?"

She gave me a thumbs up.

"Then let's start planning lunch."

The Mossy Creek Gazette 215 Main Street * Mossy Creek, Georgia From the desk of Katie Bell, Business Manager Lady Victoria Salter Stanhope Cornwall, England Ho, ho, ho, Vick!

Do you want to know what I believe about Isabella and Richard? I believe they ran away to save Mossy Creek. If they'd stayed, the feud would have gone on for years and hurt a lot more people. Isabella knew there was no other way around Bigelow revenge and Mossy Creek pride, so she gave up her home and her family forever. How n.o.ble she must have been! How homesick she must have felt for the rest of her life!

I like to think she knows we never forgot her, especially at Christmas, when Mossy Creek celebrates its memories. Christmas is when all of our traditions seem to gang up, draw a line in the dirt-or snow, depending on the weather that year-and dare us to change a one of them.

Mossy Creek Elementary has a Christmas program that n.o.body misses. Every kid in the school is in it. Forget the three wise men, the three kings, and the three shepherds. The Mossy Creekite kids decided if three was good, a dozen would be better. If our herd of paper mache stage camels ever gets loose, they'll clean out every fruit stand from the mountains to Atlanta.

Christmas in Mossy Creek is a little over-the-top, but we like it that way.

That's why it was so sad this year, when we almost lost one of our best traditions. Ever since I can remember, a local farmer named Ed Brady has played Santa and Ho! Hoed! all the way around the square. Mr. Brady has always been the perfect Santa, right down to the white hair and beard. He works magic on the kids. They're convinced their wishes come true because of him.

But even Santa can't make every wish happen. And what do you do when Santa himself needs a miracle?

Under the mistletoe, Katie.

Ed.

The Ugly Tree.

The room is cold. The house is always cold now. And there's no reason to get out of bed anymore.

Except for Ellie.

And she doesn't know.

Possum, my hound dog, is getting restless. I can hear his toenails clicking on the bare floor as he moves around. For most of my seventy-eight years, I've opened these tired old eyes in this same room in the same farmhouse in Mossy Creek. Never left but once and wouldn't have left then, except for the Big War. Figured the folks in Was.h.i.+ngton knew what they were doing when they sent us to France. But I won't be surprised if one day some smart fella says otherwise. Back then though, I believed.

And I spent enough time fighting on foreign soil to learn that there was no dirt like the dirt my daddy plowed. After the war, I came home, married Ellie and plowed that same dirt. Grew tobacco then, just like my daddy. Never thought to apologize for what we grew. By the time the world decided that tobacco was bad, I'd already quit farming. Now the soil is worn out, and so am I.

Still wearing my socks and winter underwear from the day before, I slid out from under the bedcovers and into my overalls puddled on the floor where I dropped them last night. They were stiff like me, and unforgiving. There were no dying coals of heat in the fireplace. Haven't been since Ellie left.

Poking my feet into my work boots, I stood, pulled the overalls up to my hips, then reached my arms into the corduroy s.h.i.+rt hanging on the bedpost. As I latched the suspenders on the overalls' denim bib, it surprised me to see how much the pants gaped, even after I fastened the waist b.u.t.tons. When had I had lost all that weight? Ellie would fuss, but cooking takes more effort than I'm willing to expend. The only real meal I ate anymore was breakfast with Ellie, and if I was going to get into town in time to feed her, I'd better hurry.

I let Possum out the kitchen door, then filled his bowl with those little chunks of what the commercials say is real meat. If the picture on the box was right, that meat's been somewhere for longer than I'd want it to be before I chewed it.

I saw myself in an old mirror hanging on a back porch post. Nothing I could do about my ragged beard and mustache. Ought to just shave them off. Never would have let them grow anyhow if it hadn't been for Ellie coaxing me to play Santa Claus every year. "n.o.body else looks like Santa except you," she'd say every December, and send me to the barbershop to get prettied up for the children in town.

I didn't look like Santa Claus anymore. To me, the old man in the mirror looked more like Scrooge.

Didn't much matter. Ellie wouldn't know. Setting a stained, green John Deere tractor cap on my head, I headed for my truck. My, "Bah Humbug!" sounded like I meant it, and I did.

A blast of December wind almost knocked me down. I went back for a jacket. Ought to get me some gla.s.ses, too. I hated the wind now. It made my eyes water. I left the back door unlocked. n.o.body's gonna steal anything. They'd be welcome to whatever they need; none of it matters.

The faded green truck under the shed had once belonged to the National Forest Service. They replaced a fine-running truck with a sports utility vehicle. I bought it back in ninety-one. It was already ten years old then. You can still read the Forestry Service letters on the doors. Ellie fussed some because I bought something already worn out.

This morning the engine grumbled about starting, sputtering before it caught. I patted the dash. "Me and you are a lot alike these days, old buddy. We're slow to get up and cantankerous about moving."

Sleep crusted my eyes, leaving a patchy film that made it hard to see. Course, it didn't matter about the road to town. I could drive it blindfolded. Squinting helped me focus, but the painted centerline seemed even more blurred than usual this morning. The wind, I told myself. But the truth was, it was cataracts. The only good thing about cataracts is they keep me from seeing the run-down condition of the farm, the peeling paint and the way the barn droops at the front corner. I must have a dozen pairs of gla.s.ses. They don't help me see better, just like medicine don't help my arthritis. Just like the once-a-month call from Ellie's and my only son, who lives out of town, don't stop the loneliness.

There was only Ellie, and I was late.

By the time I got to South Bigelow Road, the old Ford was warmed up and purring. Satisfied that n.o.body was coming from the direction of Bigelow and n.o.body was headed out of Mossy Creek, I pulled onto the highway. As I drew near the big Hamilton Farm, I glanced up at the corn silo and grinned. One of the few things I could still read were the words at the top: Ain't going nowhere, and don't want to.

Mayor Ida was upholding the town real well, I thought. Her and the younger crowd were just flat determined to keep everything the same. I could tell them that wouldn't work, but they wouldn't listen. Change came, no matter what. People got sick, and old, and died. New people forgot them. I pulled out my handkerchief and blew my nose. In that second, a horn honked. I didn't take my eyes off the road, but I realized I'd crossed the centerline.