Creola's Moonbeam (9 page)

“Thank you, Miss Moonbeam. You’ve always been the more positive of the Butlar girls. I love you for that.”

“I love you, too, but listen, lady, Beau is going to give me his cell phone lecture if I stay on much longer. Tell you what, let’s talk on Sunday afternoon. Will you be home?”

“We’ll be up to our elbows addressing the wedding invitations, and it would be lovely to have a break. Wait, I may be going out to dinner, so call me early.”

“Out to dinner? With whom? Susan?”

“Ask me no questions, I’ll tell you no lies! Bye, for now.”

“Wait!”

“Gotta go. Love you!”

After my sister hung up her telephone, I stood holding mine and wondering what she was keeping from me. Curious, it wasn’t like her to be so evasive. I finally dismissed the thought. My sister was overwhelmed with Susan’s wedding and had a million things on her mind.

Pouring a glass of wine, I went out on the condo’s balcony. Thus far, I’d made the most of my break. I’d enjoyed much-needed quiet time, alone. Meeting Beatrice had proven to be a blessing. What had she said? That creative people need to be fed? Beatrice was a stranger, yet intuitive about my needs, and she was right on target.

My mind flipping about, I wished Beau were with me.

Our favorite area restaurant is adjacent to the local marina. I’m not sure it has an actual name. Beau always calls it “The Hole in the Wharf.” A quaint, rickety-porched place filled with locals, it is legendary for shrimp and oysters. We always sat at an old, whitewashed picnic table topped with red and white checkered oilcloth, set with a candle that flickered in the water’s breeze. The two of us would talk and peel fresh, boiled shrimp as we watched fishing boats dock and unload their day’s catch.

It was there I first spotted the pelican that looked like Beau. Once, when I went to the restaurant alone, the friendly bird paddled around and around the marina as if to make a promise to me:
Just to let you know, Honey, I’ll be here to watch out for you while he’s back home in Georgia
!

Even when Beau couldn’t come to the beach with me, I felt comfortable and safe. I liked the condo, mostly because of its view. I delighted in the gorgeous vistas of water and the magnificent sunsets. I loved the sounds of waves crashing beneath the bedroom window. How gently the waves lulled me to sleep each night. I could even justify the scrumptious meals of seafood; almost guiltless was I because I could counter the calories with swims in the condo pool and long walks by the water.

But it was time for me to get something accomplished. I decided to go to the grocery store. I was out of everything. I parked my car, grabbed a buggy, and began to gather fresh produce. I noticed a boy who looked oddly familiar to me. He was staring at me, just as I stared at him. How strange. I felt as if I’d known him from some place. It felt like an
uncomfortable
place.
Get a grip, Honey, he’s just a kid
.

The boy began to poke at his mother, who was intensely reading the labels on frozen diet meals. His mother was my kind of cook.

I figured that I must have seen them around the beachside community and that’s why her son seemed familiar. Yet I still couldn’t shake my feeling of dread as I looked at the boy. Harry Potter, he looked like Harry Potter. With shock, I remembered.
That’s the kid from the middle school
!

I ducked around the frozen food aisle. It was too late.

Here came his mother. “Mrs. Newberry, please forgive the interruption, but my son has talked so much about you and your visit to his school. You know, his school in Atlanta. Henry tells me you are down here writing your new novel.”

“Yes, and I really must be getting back to work,” I said sheepishly. Another lie. I had hit an all time low. Not only was I lying to schoolchildren, but I was also lying to their mothers.

“My son is not the only member of our family who is a fan of your work. I’ve read several of your books, Mrs. Newberry, the ones geared more for adults.”

“That’s lovely to know. Thank you.”

“Why yes, in fact, my book club has reviewed your novels. We girls always identify with you, and I, for one, love the way you make us find humor in the most human of things, particularly concerning our families.”

“Oh, dear.”

“Yes, indeed. Doesn’t everyone have an eccentric aunt? You make us feel, well almost normal!”

“I wish I felt normal.”

“We don’t mean to keep you, but there is just one more thing. Henry, here, is something of a writer himself. Perhaps you would enjoy reading some of his work?” Before I could utter a single word, she went on, “In fact, Henry, go out to the van right this minute and gather up your theme papers. I’ll chat with Mrs. Newberry while we wait.”

Henry wouldn’t budge.

Good boy.

“Henry? Go on, dear,” warbled the mother, as she attempted to push her son from behind. “Oh dear, you know how children can be. Henry is a bit shy, you understand.” Ever hopeful, the woman raised her chin, and, pointing her eyes toward the parking lot, she urged him with her head.

He didn’t yield.

Thank goodness.

I jumped in. “Yes, of course, I understand. I have two grown children. It really might be a good idea to let Henry share his work is his own good time.”

“Perhaps you’re right.” By then, she was frowning at the boy.

I wanted to embrace the young man with gratitude, but decided it was best not to give away my relief at being let off the hook. Reading theme papers was not my favorite form of recreation.

“Mrs. Newberry, my son and I do wish you the best of luck on your next book. We’ll both look forward to reading it.

The boy piped up. “Are you coming to my school, again?”

“If I’m invited,” I chirped.
He likely wants another free period; anything but algebra
.

I felt like the biggest fraud. I thanked the endearing mother but couldn’t look her straight in the eyes. Henry extended his hand. His long, dark eyelashes swept the back of his glasses.

What a nice kid he is, I concluded. I, on the other hand, was an absolute jerk.

His mother sighed. “Thank you for your offer to read Henry’s work. Maybe he’ll be more enthused when next we meet.”

“I’m sure he will be.”

As I hurriedly gathered groceries and pushed my cart to the check-out line, I felt lower than dirt. First a liar, now a hypocrite. I reviewed our conversation in my mind. Should I have explained to the mother and son that I simply have very little to say
just now
? Nothing is worse than writing simply because you think you should. Yes, that’s what I should have said. I could have sounded lofty and profound.

Why is it that one always thinks of a perfect response five minutes after the opportunity passes?

I loaded my supplies in my car and drove from the parking lot.

The truth was, it was well past time for me to get back to writing, if for no other reason than to please Henry and his mother. A sudden clap of thunder rallied my attention.
Drat
, it was looking as if I would be stuck inside the condo for a while. Or was God Himself now speaking to me? Was He sentencing Honey Newberry to a writer’s prison? Perhaps He was. For whatever reason — the Lord, Henry and his mother, Beau’s absence, Beatrice, or my sister’s prodding, I decided to pay heed.

Creola, I hope you’re pleased, too
.

I opened the closet door. Somewhere between the extra towels and my just-in-case winter sweater, I reluctantly dug for my laptop. Found! I plugged it in. The blue screen came into focus. Admittedly, there was something exhilarating about my computer’s booting up.

I opened my files. “Short Stories.doc” jumped out at me. Here were some stories I’d never quite finished. They might end up in the landfill, too, but I might as well give them a chance.

Go on, Moonbeam, work on that story.

All right, Crellie, all right.

I began to type.

by Honey Newberry

We needed to put a new roof on the house. Immediately. I could tell that from my vantage point in the middle of our bed. Beau was in Chicago on a business trip. It was close to midnight and I was holding an umbrella in one hand and the telephone book in the other. Rain soaked our comforter. I balanced the umbrella’s handle with my chin and shoulder as I fumbled to put on my glasses.
Roofing contractors
. I dialed.

The roofers arrived two days later. The crew was made up of one of the most outrageous bands of people I had ever encountered. They didn’t just arrive, no; they rolled in like a gargantuan human tumbleweed. Their pickup truck looked as if it may have turned over a few times on the way to our house.

Don’t be judgmental, Moonbeam
.

They headed my way.

One tattooed, bearded beast with a well-cultivated beer belly burped with every step he took. Another was stick-skinny. His fingers were magnetically drawn — almost in a rhythm — from his nose to his groin and back to his nose. I wondered how he’d manage to free his hands long enough to nail the shingles.

A third was neither man nor woman. Its face was pointed toward mine. Was it ogling me? I couldn’t decide. One eye faced east, the other west.

More judgmental stuff. Just quit.

Then I saw the most curious person in the group. He was a small ragamuffin of a boy with a mop of carrot-red hair. He leapt out from the cab of the truck. He picked his nose with the enthusiasm of the thin man. Ah hah, I figured, those two were related. I worried that the boy would ultimately turn into one of these frightful men. Inevitable. Sad.

I watched through the kitchen window as the crew prepared to start the job. Shingles, black gunk, hammers, and boxes of nails were unloaded. Experience told me that this project was going to make a major mess.

I couldn’t get my mind off the little boy. It was quite early on Saturday morning. Our children were sleeping comfortably in their beds. There was this little guy being dragged along with those horrible men. He was destined to sit in the increasingly hotter sun — all day long. Oh, my heart.

I awakened our children. “Come on guys. We’re going out for breakfast!”

“Oh boy!”

“Mom, what’s all that racket?” asked Mary Catherine.

“Just the roofers. This is going to be a noisy day.” I started to explain that this meant it wouldn’t be raining in Mom and Dad’s room anymore, but that wasn’t much of an issue for grade-schoolers. However, I did say, “I’m going to invite someone to come along with us.”

“A roofer man! Great! Can I climb up on top of the house and watch him work when we get back?” pleaded Butlar.

“No! No climbing on the roof! And, it’s not an adult who may go with us. It’s a little boy. He must be eight or so. He’s with the roofers. I think the little guy deserves a treat.” I tried to encourage the children to reach out in kindness to other people.

Butlar looked concerned. He had a soft heart. He was, after all, his father’s son.

“Does this kid stink?” Mary Catherine asked. She was more like her Aunt Mary Pearle.

Going outside, I looked for the person who was in charge to see if it would be all right to invite the boy. The boss man shouted loudly up to the rooftop. The nasty nose-picker replied. He was the child’s adult cousin. He immediately gave his enthusiastic, “I reckon.”

Our children charged out of the kitchen door, ready to go.