Mossy Creek Part 21

"If Ham gets elected, Dwight with be his 'Director of Brown-Nosing,'" the chief said dryly.

Miss Ida laughed. "Maybe, but look at the bright side. I had a little talk with the governor. Ham will be paying all of Mr. Brady's medical expenses, plus repairs on the tractor."

"Good work, Mayor."

"So for now, let's just go have a little talk with Dwight. I want him to know that if I catch him helping Ham plot against Mossy Creek he'll need protection."

"No guns," the chief ordered.

"Oh, Amos, you have no sense of fun."

I muttered to myself as I heard Miss Ida, the chief, and Mutt walk away.

"Hey," I called out, "what about me? You're not going to leave me in this bed half-nekkid. Bring me my clothes. Do you hear me?"

n.o.body did. Or if they heard, they ignored me. A nurse scrawnier than Adele Clearwater came in, stuck something in my ear, grabbed my wrist, and shushed me so that she could take my blood pressure. "Dr. Champion'll be in in a minute to put a cast on that leg," she growled. "Now you calm down. Your heart's just racing." I could have told her it was racing, but she didn't give me a chance. Instead, she fed me a pill and left the room.

When Dr. Champion came in, he told me I'd bruised my shoulder and busted my leg. "I don't think you can use a crutch yet," he said, "and with a broken leg, you can't go home alone."

"'Course I can. I've been alone for over a year."

"Not with a broken leg. I've tried to get in touch with your son, but his office said he's skiing in Colorado."

"Champion, I'm going home. You can put that in your pipe and smoke it."

"Not until you can get around, Mr. Brady. You stay in this bed. If you don't, I'll have the nurse give you a shot that'll make you sleep for two days straight."

I grumbled at him but knew I was trapped. He set my leg, and that hurt like a sinner. Nurse Scrawny gave me another pill, and I dozed. When Miss Ida came to visit, I kept my eyes shut and listened to her talk to the Doc. "I don't know what to do with him," Dr. Champion told her. "He's acting like an old cuss, a regular Crankshaft."

After he walked out, Miss Ida leaned over me and said, "Stop pretending to sleep, Mr. Brady."

I opened my eyes. "Who's Crankshaft?"

"He's a character in a comic strip. A cranky old man."

"Suits me, then."

"Mr. Brady, I've been thinking. Miss Ellie already has a room at the nursing home. Dr. Champion says he can get you admitted temporarily, while your leg heals. They'll put a bed in her room for you. I know you don't want to move into the nursing home permanently, but would you mind staying there, with Miss Ellie, through Christmas?"

I fought the suggestion just long enough to make sure she meant it. Dealing with the U.S. Army taught me that trick. People always make sure you get the very thing they think you don't want. "Okay, okay, I give up," I said. Inside, I was so full of joy that my leg stopped hurting.

So, me and Ellie were back together again. The answer to my problem had come, and I didn't even have to think about it. Mutt agreed to check on the farm. Casey took old Possum home with her. I worried about Possum, him being a country dog and all, but Casey said he thought he was a cat and was mothering the kittens like it was his job. Reckon he needed one now that we were both too old to hunt.

For the first few days at Magnolia Manor, I deliberately lived up to my reputation as a cantankerous old man. At least that's what I told myself. But in the wee hours of the night, when the nursing home was quiet, I could hear a swallowed sob in the silence, and I admitted to myself that I was covering up my own hurt. Somewhere in that last secret part of my heart, I'd thought that Ellie would start recognizing me now that I was spending all day and night with her. But she didn't. The only thing she ever seemed to see was the Christmas tree across the hall. Once I even thought I heard her say, "Not ugly enough."

Outside the nursing home windows, all of Mossy Creek was making ready for Christmas. The square was covered in little white lights, and all the shops had jingle bells on their doors. I watched the Kiwanis and the VFW fellows string lights and hang ornaments all over the big fir tree in the park. Everybody would be coming into town for the tree lighting. Somebody had sure better decide to play Santa Claus, soon. I kept reminding everybody. There'd been a steady stream of visitors in and out of our room all morning. The visitors hadn't bothered Ellie, but they were sure pestering me.

"Mr. Brady," Mutt said, "we don't have another man in town who looks like Santa the way you do."

"Besides," his sister Sandy argued, "the kids are used to seeing you. Golly, Mr. Brady, it wasn't Christmas to me and my brothers until we saw you each year. Look, now, the volunteer fire department has got the old truck out, and I've been helping 'em clean it. It's polished and s.h.i.+ned up like you wouldn't believe. But it won't be the same without you on top."

"Nothing's ever the same," I said, wis.h.i.+ng they'd go away. "Ain't no use trying to make it so."

On the day of the tree lighting, Miss Ida walked into the room. She looked like a racy angel in a soft white pantsuit with a long white wool coat and a white furry hat to match. She liked to dazzle people, and she'd turned all her charm on me. "All right, Mr. Brady, it's time to talk straight, here." She dragged a hard-back chair to the side of my bed and sat down. "Ed Brady, you're a pain in the b.u.t.t, and you've got a problem. And I've got a problem. It's two hours until the tree lighting, and I still don't have a Santa."

"Yes, ma'am, well that's your problem. I've got problems of my own! I'm too blind to drive anymore! I'm old and useless!" And Ellie won't ever recognize me again, I added silently.

"This town needs you, Mr. Brady."

"For what? Somebody to practice bossing around?"

"Mossy Creek has always depended on you to bring a certain kind of magic to Christmas. And you've always come through."

"That was before Ellie got sick, and I lost my sight."

"I can't do anything for Miss Ellie, but I am going to take care of your eye problem." She smiled slyly and leaned closer. "The governor is paying for you to have cataract surgery by the finest eye specialist in the state."

I lay there a minute. I needed a mouth specialist to get any words out. Finally, I managed. "Thank you. But if Ellie can't see me, it don't matter much what I see. I'm thinking I just might let Casey Blackshear keep Possum and move in here with Ellie for good."

Miss Ida looked at me sadly, finally understanding. She stood and walked over to Ellie's bed, and stroked the soft gray hair back from Ellie's brow. "Everybody loves Miss Ellie. She had a special way about her, a look that could convince people into doing anything she wanted, and they didn't even realize she was doing it. She was so pretty, too."

"She's still pretty to me," I said. Ellie looked past Miss Ida at the tree in the recreation room. Her face changed, slightly, not much, just enough that I could almost see that special look of hers that always got to me, no matter how cantankerous or bull-headed I got. "Ellie?" I whispered. Then the look was gone. But I had seen it for just a second, and that was enough. "You know I never could resist that look, Ellie. If you want me to play Santa, just let me know."

I couldn't touch her with my hands, but I could touch her with my heart, and I reached out to her with all the love I felt. And as I watched, through the cataracts that were stealing my sight, I saw my Ellie blink. In the mid-afternoon light, her faded blue eyes looked moist, and I thought for a moment that she was about to cry.

"Ellie?" At that moment I understood. She might not have known yesterday, and she might not know tomorrow, but for right now, Ellie knew. She knew that it was time for me to play Santa, just like she knew that the recreation room tree wasn't ugly enough to be beautiful.

Sliding out of my bed, I hobbled over to her and took her hand. "It's Christmas, pretty girl. I know you're in there somewhere. Come back and tell me. Do you want Santa to get you an ugly tree?"

Finally, Ellie Brady nodded her head.

I turned toward Miss Ida. "Get me some helpers, Miss Ida," I said. I stumbled to a little clothes cabinet and pulled on my coat, b.u.t.toning it over my bathrobe. "I've got to go find my girl a Christmas tree. If I can do that, I'll feel like Santa, again."

"All right, Mr. Brady. That's a deal." She waved for somebody to come in. Mutt leapt to the door and caught me by the arm. "Just hold on a minute, Mr. Brady. I'll get a wheelchair. Then I'll take you wherever you want to go. We'll use the firetruck. Then we'll come back to the square. If we hurry, we'll be just in time for the tree lighting. After that, we'll bring Miss Ellie her tree."

Getting up on the firetruck bench wasn't easy, but I did it, with a little help from Jamie Green and Mutt. Letting Mutt drive the old fire engine along a logging road north of town was hard; that had always been my job.

"Are you sure this is legal?" Mutt asked. "I think we've just crossed over into national forest land. The chief won't be too happy if one of his officers gets arrested for stealing government property."

"The kind of tree I'm lookin' for ain't worth nothing to the government, boys. Stop! Over there." I pointed to a lop-sided scrawny pine with a large bare spot in the middle. "Just cut out the top, the part that's leaning."

"Are you sure? Mr. Brady, that's the worst-looking tree I've ever seen."

"Yep." I smiled. "That's the one I want."

My mind flew back to the first ugly tree I'd cut down. That was the year Ellie was carrying our son. She was due within a week, and the doctor had forbade her to go into the woods. Afraid to leave her for too long, I chopped down the first tree I came to and carried it home. Proudly, I nailed it to a wooden plant base and carried it into the living room, where Ellie started to laugh.

"I'm sorry, Ellie. I know it's the sorriest tree you've ever seen. Birds probably wouldn't nest in it. I'll get another one."

"You'll do no such thing," she'd said. "It's Christmas. When we get through with it, it will be beautiful. You'll see."

And it was. Ellie went into labor that night. She delivered our son at home, in the bed where I was born and where we'd conceived him. Afterwards, I unwrapped my gift for her, a cradle-sanded and stained, though a little uneven.

"Just like our tree," Ellie had said. We laid Eddie in the cradle beneath the pitiful little tree, and suddenly it became beautiful.

Every year after that, the most beautiful woman in the world had helped me pick out the ugliest tree in the woods. This time I did it alone, but all for her.

The children didn't notice that the small tree Santa carried atop the firetruck beside him was crooked, with missing branches on one side. Before I knew it, a half-dozen people had climbed up real quick and decorated the tree with lights and bows. I held it up on the seat beside me, with Mutt's help. The kids of Mossy Creek couldn't see the cast on my leg; it was covered with Santa's brand-new, custom-made, fake-fur-trimmed robe. They couldn't see my uncombed hair. It was covered by a handsome new Santa hat. They only saw a happy old Santa who waved at the crowd and led the countdown until the switch was pulled and the big fir tree in the park burst into light.

I was Mossy Creek's Santa once again, and I'd brought the magic back. Miss Ida read an announcement that said Santa's friend Governor Bigelow wished everybody in Mossy Creek a very merry holiday and how he would help make sure the town always kept the spirit of the season in its own special way. n.o.body believed a word Ham Bigelow said, but we were glad we forced him to say it.

The Mossy Creek church choirs began singing Deck The Halls and ma.s.sing a parade. The whole town fell in behind the firetruck. The truck rounded the square and started up North Bigelow to the nursing home, coming to a stop outside Miss Ellie's window. The firemen lifted me to the ground and into a wheelchair. As I looked up at the window, it started to snow.

"Take the tree to her, Mr. Brady," Miss Ida said softly.

Mutt rolled me, still dressed like Santa Claus and carrying the little tree, inside Magnolia Manor, down the corridor, past the grinning patients and into Ellie's room.

"Open the window, Mutt, so Ellie can hear the carols," I said. He did that, and the songs poured in. He propped the tree against the wall near the foot of Ellie's bed. "Anything else, Mr. Brady?"

"No, thanks. Just close the door as you leave."

For a moment I sat, looking at Ellie's blank face, and listening to the whole town sing to her. Then I rolled the chair close to her. "Here it is, pretty girl. One ugly Christmas tree. Do you see it?"

With the notes of "O Holy Night" floating through the window, I pulled myself to my feet and plugged in a cord. The lights on the little tree came on, turning the room into a myriad of reflected color.

I hobbled to Ellie's side and leaned down to kiss her. As I pulled back, she smiled and looked up at me with love. Ellie never spoke, but for one moment she came back to me. Her ugly tree was never more beautiful, nor was my pretty girl.

We had Christmas together in Mossy Creek.

The Mossy Creek Gazette 215 Main Street * Mossy Creek, Georgia From the desk of Katie Bell, Business Manager Lady Victoria Salter Stanhope Cornwall, England Dear Vick, Now you tell me! Isabella and Richard disappeared a second time after leaving their baby boy with Richard's family in England? You mean there's more to the world travels of Isabella Salter Stanhope than either you or me can figure out? All right, I agree then, we'll just have to keep writing to each other until we solve this mystery.

Besides, you're a Creekite now.

Look at us-we met way back at the start of the year as strangers, and now the year is almost over, and we're good friends. That's the magic of Mossy Creek. You've become an invisible member of the community. Kind of like Elvis. We believe in you and expect to see you someday. And we're glad to have you on our side.

This was a watershed year in Mossy Creek, and the trouble's just getting started. Is Ham Bigelow really going to run for President a couple of years from now? Could we Mossy Creekites and our stubborn ways be such a worry to him that he'll try to tame us? Could Mossy Creek end up preening in the national spotlight-or be defeated and forgotten? On top of all that intrigue, there'll be the usual dramas around here-love affairs, feuds, and what-have-you.

Here's to Isabella's mysterious past and our interesting future, dear friend!

Your fellow Creekite, Katie Mossy Creek And A Prosperous New Year Del and I stood in the dark on the front veranda of the Hamilton Inn, him looking handsome in a black tuxedo, me as sleek as a cat's meow in a snug and glittery ball gown just one shade darker than the pale gold of fine champagne. Above our heads, the veranda rafters twinkled with tiny white lights. Every pillar of the big, rambling Victorian hotel's wrap-around porch was decorated with aromatic cedar boughs streaming silver and gold ribbon. The windows glowed. Cool winter moonlight s.h.i.+mmered on the Inn's front lawn and gardens. The Inn stood at the southeastern corner of the town square, with all of downtown Mossy Creek spread out peacefully before us. It was a perfect night. The muted sounds of music and conversation from within heralded Mossy Creek's annual New Year's Eve party.

"What a year it's been," I said. "All's well that ends well, at least."

"It's not over yet, Ida." Del flattened one hand in the small of my back, pivoted me on my toes and looked down at me with a provocative gleam in his blue eyes. I felt a little guilty for escaping Mossy Creek's biggest annual dress-up party to make out. Fifty-six years old and playing the ol' smooch-and-tickle in dark corners. How undignified. I wrapped my arms around Del's neck. "You're a bad influence on a mayor."

He kissed me. I kissed him back.

Smiling, we strolled back into the inn's ballroom, which ordinarily served as its restaurant. Several hundred guests munched hors d'oeuvres, chatted, sipped their drinks or danced on a central dance floor. The room vibrated with the raucous country music of our all-female band, The Screaming Meemies. Rainey was their temperamental lead singer, which said a lot. Thanks to her, the band members all had big, bleached hair.

Six Good Women With Bad Att.i.tudes, the Meemies billed themselves.

While Del fetched me a Scotch, I surveyed the crowd. Ham commanded a large group of family, friends, and toadies in one corner of the ballroom. Another fifteen minutes and he'd be on his way to another party in another part of the state, shaking hands, making promises, forging a political base-and plotting ways to dam up Mossy Creek before we gave him any more black eyes in the news.

We had our work cut out for us.

Dwight Truman stood in Ham's circle, furtively making nice while avoiding the glares of his townsfolk. Sue Ora was watching him like a hawk with her husband John Bigelow beside her. Sandy and Jess Crane stood nearby, with Sandy giving Dwight and Ham an evil eye that said she'd like to do a thorough cleaning on both of them. On a gentler note, I was pleased to see Ed Brady sitting in a circle of old friends, willing to celebrate a new year. As I watched, Ham went over and shook his hand. Then Ingrid Beechum and Jayne Reynolds stopped by to sign Ed's leg cast. Jayne's pregnancy was very obvious, now. Ingrid pampered her like a future grandmother.

Clamped under Ingrid's left arm, Bob the Chihuahua-dressed in a furry white collar, a Santa hat, and tiny white diapers-growled at Ham.

A bevy of waving guests caught my eye. Nail, Geena, and Wolfman grinned at me. I waved back. The Foo Club was on patrol. At a table nearby, Hank and Casey Blackshear cuddled like newlyweds. I watched old Millicent Hart slip up behind their table and reach out to filch Casey's sequined purse. Tag Garner, who had proven himself a fine gentleman, caught Millicent artfully. He tucked her sneaky hand inside the crook of his tuxedoed elbow and led her back to Maggie, who smiled at him.

"Miss Ida?" I turned at the sound of a familiar, bird-like voice. Eulene Watkins, Mossy Creek Elementary's oldest living teacher-emeritus, was draped in a black crocheted sweater with fake-diamond b.u.t.tons, a silver blouse, and a long silver skirt. With her white hair and pooched little face she resembled a graying sparrow caught in a black crochet net. She peered at me through small, round, steel-rimmed bi-focals. I took her outstretched hand. She had been old when I was a first grader in her cla.s.s.

"My announcement," she said. "It's time for my announcement. It's nine o'clock and past my bedtime. I've had two gla.s.ses of champagne, and I'm giddy. I might take a nap, or I might dance a jig."

I gently led her to the center of the dance floor as the Meemies finished a loud, up-tempo rendition of "Crazy." Rainey could really wreck a nice old ballad. When she saw Miss Eulene, she squealed, pushed electric guitar cables aside on the band's raised dais, and adjusted a microphone. "Lor' Miss Eulene, don't you look pretty!"

"I give your music an 'F' on behalf of Patsy Cline."

Rainey laughed as she and I helped the elderly teacher step up on the band's platform. Everyone in the ballroom stopped talking and waited with affectionate respect.

Miss Eulene tapped the microphone expertly. Not for nothing had she presided over hundreds of rowdy elementary school a.s.semblies. "Next year," she said in a somber voice, "we'll celebrate the fiftieth reunion anniversary of Mossy Creek Elementary." Everyone applauded. "We'll have a whole weekend of get-togethers and events at the Mossy Creek church campground and elsewhere in town. We're sending out invitations to all the alumni, and we're expecting the reunion to bring back dear, sweet former residents of Mossy Creek whom we haven't seen in many, many years."

More applause. Miss Eulene pushed her gla.s.ses up her nose and peered into the audience. Tears glittered in her eyes. Everyone who knew what was coming ducked their heads in sorrowful expectation. I found myself doing that, too. Miss Eulene cleared her throat. "And we'll also be commemorating-" her lips trembled, and she struggled for a moment-"we'll also be commemorating the twentieth year since Mossy Creek High School burned to the ground."

The facts surrounding the loss of our beloved town high school were few and vague. The truth was submerged in a wild night no one had ever been able to sort out. The state had refused to rebuild Mossy Creek High, and ever since, Mossy Creekites had been forced to send their children down to the big county high school in Bigelow. The loss of our own high school was a blow Mossy Creek would never forget.

I darted suspicious looks around the ballroom, watching people's faces, hoping for a guilty twitch, a nervous smile, anything that might begin to solve the old mystery. But I saw nothing.

Miss Eulene took a deep breath. "Now children, that's enough moping. Life goes on. Before you leave tonight, stop by the door and buy your tickets to help fund the reunion expenses. I'll be sitting there collecting money. And I don't want to hear any excuses. Thank you."

The applause rose loudly. I went to help her down from the bandstand, when suddenly the ballroom's double doors swung open with a clatter. I turned, startled, along with everyone else. We stared at a pair of burly men dressed in the uniforms of a well-known s.h.i.+pping company. But we stared more at the enormous box they guided between them on a dolly. It was the size of a phone booth, looked st.u.r.dy, and was wrapped in gaudy Christmas paper with a giant red bow on top.

Amos, Mutt, and Sandy immediately strode over to investigate. "Stop right there," Amos said. "Let me see some I.D."

"Look, we're legit, and we're just here to deliver the box," one of the men answered. He and his coworker opened their jackets, displaying the delivery company's employee badges on their s.h.i.+rts. "We were paid to wait until the old lady got up to tell everybody about the reunion. That's all we know. You can call our supervisor if you want confirmation. Okay?"

"Okay, but leave the box right here. And wait while we open it."

"Sure, whatever." The man pulled a small clipboard from his back pants' pocket. "But somebody's got to sign for it." He shook his head in amazement. "Whoever sent the thing didn't put a recipient's name on the address. It just says 'Hamilton House Inn, Mossy Creek, Georgia,' and this." He held up an invoice and read loudly. "To Anybody Who Has The Courage To Find Out The Truth."

"I'll sign," I said. "I'm the mayor."

Del blocked me. "We don't know what's in that thing."