Angel at Troublesome Creek (13 page)
Read Angel at Troublesome Creek Online
Authors: Mignon F. Ballard
I
t’s always hot in Troublesome Creek on the Fourth of July.
t’s always hot in Troublesome Creek on the Fourth of July.
Today was no exception. Petunias growing in a tangle beside Miss Fronie’s narrow walk hung their pink and purple heads and shriveled in the sun. Heat rose in shimmering waves from the sidewalk. I wore the nearest thing to nothing I could find—shorts and a baggy, sleeveless shirt. A wide-brimmed straw hat kept the sun from my face as Kent and I walked the few blocks to Nathan P. Treadway Park where the festivities were to take place. Nathan P. Treadway has been dead for at least fifty years. He donated the land for the park to the city, fought in the First World War, and made a lot of money in the insurance business—although not in that order. A pudgy statue of him stands at the corner of the park next to the Civil War cannon. Aunt Caroline said he’s supposed to be thinking, but he looks like he’s picking his nose to me.
I had spent the morning cutting crusts from pimento cheese sandwiches just the way my aunt had taught me. I had a selection of fruits … well, okay … two different kinds of grapes and a couple of apples, and Augusta had baked nut-filled brownies. She’d eaten almost half of them, but there were still enough for my date and me to share.
Kent Coffey, cooler in hand, had turned up on my doorstep at a quarter till four, just as he’d said he would, and neither of us mentioned the awkwardness of the night before. Now we threaded our way through sweaty, red-faced bodies, hands almost touching on the handle of the wicker basket. A crowd had gathered around the old cannon, which was jammed with wads of newspaper and gunpowder and fired every July Fourth, causing elderly ladies to scream and jump, and dogs to run howling under porches. Last year the blast had cracked the plate glass window of
The Troublesome Creek Banner
, our weekly newspaper. Today, the editor, a Yankee who had come here from what Delia refers to as “up the road a piece,” stood out front waving a white flag on a stick.
The Troublesome Creek Banner
, our weekly newspaper. Today, the editor, a Yankee who had come here from what Delia refers to as “up the road a piece,” stood out front waving a white flag on a stick.
Delia Sims hollered to me from a bunting-draped booth where she sold cookbooks for the Culpeper County Humane Society. I know she expected me to drag Kent over so she could scan him with her built-in suspicious-person detector, but I pretended to be in a hurry. Actually I was. One spot remained in the shade of the tulip poplar on the other side of the park, and we claimed it seconds before a family arrived with purposeful intent from the opposite direction.
It wasn’t until we were almost eye to eye that I recognized Bonita Moody.
“Mary George Murphy,” I said, feeling a little sheepish about grabbing the only shade. I extended my hand and waited for her to introduce her family. She didn’t. “Look,” I said, glancing at the few inches of unclaimed space, “maybe we can all squeeze In … .”
“No. No thanks, that’s all right. I think I see a place over by the fountain … better hurry!” And off she went. Her eyes had warned me to keep my mouth shut. For heaven’s sake, was the silly woman still afraid to tell her husband about the secret piano lessons?
The cannon boomed with its usual deafening roar, spewing confetti across the grass, and the editor, his window intact, retired his flag of truce for another year.
Having staked our space in the shade, Kent and I wandered about the park making an effort to stay in the shadows. In the bandstand, pink-clad five-year-olds from Miss Lillian’s School of Dance shuffled dutifully to “The Sidewalks of New York” and the local gymnastics team bounced and flipped on a trampoline under the sycamore’s spreading limbs. Watching them, I had a peculiar feeling someone was staring at me, but the couple behind us were desperately scrambling to keep three unruly grandchildren under control, and the large woman on my right concentrated on eating her ice cream before it ran down her arm. Nobody paid the slightest attention to me. Still, the awareness persisted, and it made me uneasy. I wished it would go away. Even the statue of old Nathan seemed to glare at me—still pissed, I guess, from that Halloween night I’d rolled him with toilet paper.
Maybe I was becoming paranoid, but somebody
had
followed me to Hughes earlier in the week, and my apartment had been invaded while I was away. Still, I didn’t mention it to my date. This was supposed to be a fun day, sort of a new beginning for us, and I had a slight suspicion he probably thought I was nuts already.
had
followed me to Hughes earlier in the week, and my apartment had been invaded while I was away. Still, I didn’t mention it to my date. This was supposed to be a fun day, sort of a new beginning for us, and I had a slight suspicion he probably thought I was nuts already.
By the time Kent and I had watched the watermelon-eating contest and the last of the costume parade tottered past, it was getting time to eat. The couple behind us were about two thighs and a drumstick into a carton of fried chicken, and nearby somebody cooked burgers on a portable grill. The aromas dueled for attention. Kent rubbed his hands together and smiled. “Well,” he said, “let’s see what we have. I can hardly wait.”
“Yes, you can,” I told him. I opened our basket and came face-to-face with the bland white triangles that would be our meal. A plump shadow ballooned over us, and I jumped, thinking the mysterious person who’d been following me was making a move at last.
“So here you are!” Fronie Temple stood before us, resplendent in floral shirt and pants, her bright hair held back with a pink terry cloth band. Like an offering, she bore in front of her on a paper plate something that resembled hair balls that quivered and glistened with grease. Now she shoved this disgusting mound before us. “Squash morsels, made’m myself. Didn’t come out quite the way they were supposed to, but they taste okay. Thought you might like some.”
I’ve seen road kill that looked more appetizing. “Why, thanks, Miss Fronie,” I said, not daring to meet Kent’s eyes. It was easier than refusing and we could bury it when she left. I offered my hamper. “Care for a sandwich?”
“My goodness, no, thank you, dear. Have to watch what I eat. Besides, I’m due to help out at the Women’s Club tent. We’re having a bake sale, you know.”
Kent and I covered the offending plate with a paper napkin shroud and delved into the sandwiches as soon as she was out of sight. I don’t ever remember them tasting as good.
I was on my second brownie when I heard a man’s loud voice. “Why in the world did you do that, Bonita? I’ve told you—”
“But I didn’t mean to! Look, I didn’t know she was—” Bonita Moody must have realized she was raising her voice because she didn’t finish what she was going to say. Obviously her husband wasn’t pleased with something she had done. I wondered if it had anything to do with taking piano lessons from my aunt.
The Moodys had abandoned their spot by the fountain when I strolled by a few minutes later, leaving Kent napping in the shade. Guilt for ignoring Delia was beginning to nag at me, and I looked for her at the booth where I’d seen her last, but she wasn’t there. I bought a cookbook from the Humane Society and a pink geranium from the Future Farmers and stopped to watch a group of children chasing one another around the bandstand while the blue grass group tuned up for the concert. The sun was still hot, but shadows were growing longer and a small breeze lifted moist hair from my face.
I’m sure I must have yelled when a firm hand clamped suddenly on my shoulder. “Why’d you run off like that, Mary George?” Delia shouted in my ear. “I couldn’t take off and chase after you, and there’s somebody here looking for you.”
“Huh? Who’s that?”
“Some young man, didn’t give his name. Said somebody told him I’d know where he could find you.”
My first thought was that someone had found Hairy Brown. “Where did he go? Did he say where he would be? Did he mention anything about my dog?”
“No, just said he’d try to get back in touch if he didn’t find you. Never said what he wanted.”
That didn’t sound so good. That must be why I felt I was being watched, but why didn’t the man say something? Introduce himself? “Delia, what did this guy look like? Do you see him anywhere around here now?”
I must have grabbed her arm, because she made a point of rubbing it as she frowned at me. “What’s the matter with you, Mary George? If I were you, I’d be more concerned about that Kent person you came with. I asked Fronie about him, you know, and she knows absolutely nothing about the man—or so she says. Acts like she’s keeping something back if you ask me.”
“You didn’t tell her you knew about the painting? Delia, you promised!”
“Oh, of course not! Shh, wait a minute now. The quartet’s fixing to sing.”
We listened to the foursome sing that rendition of “Elizabeth” the Statler Brothers made popular, and I started looking around for Kent. Apparently Delia didn’t find this stranger particularly threatening, but after all the things that had been happening lately, I’d feel more secure if Kent were around.
I found him eating the last of the brownies and washing it down with what had to be lukewarm beer. He didn’t seem to notice I’d been gone. And then I saw he was talking with someone; a tall, sandy-haired man in blue denim shorts stood leaning against the tree. He wore a T-shirt that said I Brake for Food on the back and he had on the rattiest-looking moccasins I’ve ever seen.
Kent grinned when he saw me and licked a chocolate crumb from his fingers. “Mary George, I’ve been talking with an old friend of yours here—”
Just then the guy in the T-shirt turned, and the first thing I saw was a decal of an enormous hamburger on the front of his shirt, then above that, his face. An open, good-natured face with a light scattering of freckles, pond green eyes, and a wide mouth that smiled at me. I smiled back.
“Mary G., I’m Sam,” the man said. He started to stretch out a hand, then changed his mind and held out his arms.
“I know,” I said, and walked right into them, held on tight. I think I cried, and for a minute I closed my eyes and felt myself soar free: away from the hot, crowded park, the amplified sound of guitars, to a brown path by a quiet creek. I took a deep breath, liking the way his shoulder felt beneath my cheek. He smelled like chili and onions.
“How did you know where you could find me?” I asked when I could talk.
He held me away and looked at me, then hugged me again. “My old teacher, Mrs. Thompson. You gave her your address, remember?”
“Yes, but how did you know I was here—in the park?”
Sam laughed, and he looked about eight years old again. “Don’t tell me you’re that forgetful already, Mary G.! You left a note on your door.”
But I hadn’t. Had I? I glanced at Kent who sat watching us with a puzzled smile. “Did I? Did you?” He shook his head. Maybe Miss Fronie had put it there in case someone answered my ad in the paper.
“I heard about your aunt’s death,” Sam said. “I’m sorry, Mary G. What an awful thing to happen!”
If only you knew,
I thought. “She was the only mother I remember,” I said. “Everybody loved Aunt Caroline.”
Everybody, that is, except for one.
I thought. “She was the only mother I remember,” I said. “Everybody loved Aunt Caroline.”
Everybody, that is, except for one.
Sam joined us on the blanket and ate the handful of grapes left in the basket. “I’ve tried and tried to find you,” he told me. “I can’t believe this is really you, that we’re actually sitting here together. Your friend Delia told me you were pretty, Mary G., and darned if she’s not right. Guess I was expecting a tall, skinny kid in braids.”
I laughed. “Are you trying to tell me I was an ugly duckling?”
“No, you were a short, skinny kid in braids. To be honest, I had a hard time recognizing you. Wasn’t sure I had the right one until I worked up enough courage to ask Kent here.”
“Please tell me you’ve been watching me all afternoon,” I said. “Then maybe I won’t feel so spooked.”
Sam finished the grapes and hunted for more. “Okay. I’ve been watching you all afternoon—well, off and on. Wanted to be sure you were the Mary George Murphy I used to know. Sounds like a line, you’ll have to admit: ‘Pardon me, but haven’t we met before? Like about a million years ago in another lifetime?’”
He told me about his teaching job in Salisbury and the volunteer work he was doing at the camp. “We’re really shorthanded out there if you have any time to spare,” Sam said. “Of course, when you get down to it, we need money more than anything else—and somebody who knows what to do with it.”
I grinned. “I know what to do with it … I think. I’ve just never had a chance to find out.”
“Mary G., you wouldn’t recognize the old place,” Sam said. “You oughta come out and see it.”
I wasn’t about to tell him I already had. “I think he’s trying to put me to work,” I said to Kent, who wasn’t looking all that pleased with the situation, and I couldn’t blame him. I was about to ask him if he was ready to leave when Delia wandered up carrying a box of leftover cookbooks, which she dropped with a thud.
“Ah, I see you two found each other,” she said with a sly little grin. She made it sound like something out of a cheap romance novel. I introduced the three of them, trying my best to remember my manners in a sticky situation. I’d like nothing more than to spend the rest of the evening talking with Sam, but it wouldn’t be fair to Kent. I had to do something.
Delia’s eyes widened. “This is Sam?
The
Sam?”
The
Sam?”
If she would just read my look, she’d know I’d like her to cool it with the
the
Sam bit, but apparently Delia was look illiterate. Now she opened her mouth to continue.
the
Sam bit, but apparently Delia was look illiterate. Now she opened her mouth to continue.
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