Creola's Moonbeam (18 page)

“How come you do that, Creola?”

“My dear, it’s so you girls can see what’s just ahead. I choose to be in the last place so I can see what’s behind,” instructed Creola. “You never know what might be catching up to us.”

Mary Pearle was getting old enough to understand the real reason, but I never questioned the seating arrangement. To me, Creola was the source of how best to plan everything. Mainly I enjoyed riding way up high and considered little else. I liked to look down into the cars stopped at traffic lights. “Makes you feel real big,” I pointed out to Mary Pearle. Mary Pearle felt plenty big enough already and much preferred the front seat of an automobile.

As well, my sister got irritated with me for frequently embarrassing her. That day, as a case in point, just on the outskirts of Humphrey, I stuck out my tongue at a little boy in a car stopped beside the bus. The boy just happened to be in Mary Pearle’s class in school.

In response, he put his thumb in his ear and made a face at me and at Mary Pearle, too. Mary Pearle was simply appalled by the whole incident. It was bad enough that her younger sister called the classmate’s attention to their sitting in the Greyhound, but it was even worse that she’d acted like such a little brat.

Creola came forward, shaking a finger. She spoke to me for starting the disturbance and to Mary Pearle for acting stuck up. “I’ll tell you something else,” Creola concluded, “that little boy would likely give up his week’s allotment of cookies to be coming along with us.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Creola returned to the back of the bus.

The rain had become but a gentle mist as we ran to the zoo’s ticket window. Each of us pulled Creola by a hand.

“Do slow down, young ladies, or you’ll be out of energy before we go inside!”

“The lions first!” squealed Mary Pearle.

“No, the elephant,” I argued.

“He smells too bad. Let’s go to Monkey Island.”

Taking her hands from us, Creola intervened, “Don’t you know, girls, the black bears will be the most excited of all this day?”

“Why’s that, Crellie?”

“It’s as simple as this. Bears just love the damp weather. It reminds them of the days they roamed free in the Smoky Mountains. The mountains are washed with rain nearly every day, and the bears miss that refreshing wetness. They will be frolicking to beat the band on this soggy morning.”

“Let’s go to see bears!” Off we skipped. Creola followed behind, chuckling and scurrying as fast as her feet would carry her.

Just like Creola said, the black bears ran and rolled around on their backs and climbed up and down their tree. It was a fake tree, one anchored to the stone floor of their pen. Those playful bears didn’t seem to mind.

“Why is it that the bears had to be taken away from their mountains, Crellie?” I asked. “Don’t they get awful homesick? Aren’t they missing their families?”

I always remembered Creola’s answer.

“My Moonbeam, I’m sure they do miss the other bears. I’m pleased to hear that you care so much. But you mustn’t concern yourself.” She put arm around me and said, “Listen to old Creola, now. I believe these bears are willing to sacrifice for you and for all the other children. The good Lord gives them courage so you and your sister and the other visitors can enjoy seeing them and learn about their ways. They’ve likely gotten accustomed to their new way of life, and you know they get lots of good food to eat, too. Just watch them. Look! Didn’t that small one up in the tree just smile at you?”

“I guess so.” I wasn’t convinced, but I hoped Creola was right about the bears being content.

Mary Pearle took my hand and said, “Harriette, I’ll go see the smelly old elephant if you really want.”

Creola smiled. “You’re a sweet girl, Priceless Pearlie. Priceless, too, is my little Moonbeam. Yes, Lord, there’s much about my own way of life that I have grown accustomed to. Maybe I’m just like that grinning bear who climbs the cement tree.”

Why I hadn’t written about Creola before now was beyond me. The time has a way of making my plans for me. But I could hardly hit the computer’s keys as fast as memory dictated. Oh heck, I’ll admit it, Creola was ready for me to write, and she was whispering in my ear, cheering me on.

Most heartwarming of all, I was reliving the joyful time of being Creola’s Moonbeam.

Happily lost in the 1950’s, the phone’s ringing was like a slap in my face. I despised being interrupted when I was on a roll. Still, it could have been an emergency involving Beau or one of our children, so I answered.

“Hello,” I said flatly.

The voice on the other end greeted me with a cheery, “Good morning, sleepyhead. I missed you this dawn.”

Had it been anyone else at the beach, I would have begged off saying I was busy with my new book. The caller, however, was Beatrice.

“I’m truly happy you called. You’ll never believe it, but your inspiration was the very tonic I needed. I’ve begun a story and am two chapters into a full-blown book!”

“I’m not the least bit surprised. I could see the light coming into your eyes yesterday.”

“Did you?”

“Of course, I did.”

I wondered if my friend could be my guardian angel in disguise, but I immediately dismissed the idea. I realized that the angels I’d known about hadn’t been married an undetermined number of times. Besides, my angel’s job had already been taken by Creola.

“Now, my productive author-girl, you must ignore my untimely interruption and get back to your passion. My news shall wait. I’ll call you in a day or two. No, even better, you call me when the time is right.”

“No, ma’am, I shall not! You’ve got my curiosity going now.”

Beatrice hesitated. Then, “I did want you to come by. But I certainly didn’t mean to halt your progress, particularly now that you’re generously giving me the credit for breaking the evil spell.”

“Exactly, Beatrice. That spell would still be holding me hostage had it not been for you. I’ll be right there.”

After saving the story on the computer, I hopped on my bike.

“Faster than a speeding bullet?” said Beatrice as she opened the door. “Oh, I see, you came by wheel. Do come in.”

She offered me a diet drink and reached for something on the mantelpiece. Turning around, Beatrice handed me another one of my books. “Would you autograph this one for me, please?”

I was all too happy to sign the book, but was also somewhat puzzled. “Where did you get this copy of
Spinster’s Petticoat
? It’s been out of print for years.”

“Oscar found it for me.”

“Oscar? Who’s Oscar?”

“He’s an old Scottish fellow, a dear friend of mine.”

“A member of the famous group of ‘Dear Ones’?” I asked.

“The dearest,” Beatrice replied.

I could only speculate what that must have meant. “I see.”

“Oh no, you don’t see!” Beatrice laughed. “He’s a darling man, but his red hair keeps him out of the sun most of the day. As a result, the dear fellow haunts all the local merchants, the book store being his favorite spot. You may recall, I mentioned that a friend was in the shop when you came by looking for summer lodging?”

“Ah, so that was Oscar?”

“Quite so. Sonny and Oscar. Each had a hand in telling me about you. Anyway, following my
faux pas
concerning your Aunt Harriette, I immediately dispatched him to find your Aunt Harriette’s story. After my impertinent comment, I felt compelled to read about the somber woman! There’s little wonder Auntie Harriette never married.”

“You didn’t find it funny?”

“Well, I suppose I did snicker a time or two. How about the chapter where the nearsighted fellow came to call on her and mistakenly attempted to escort her bewildered mother out the front door instead!”

“The truth is, the young man would have had a much better time with Grandmother than he had with my aunt. It was such a shame Granddaddy stopped him!”

“Dear, dear, had I but known about maiden Harriette, I could have given her one of my husbands!”

“Really? Which one?”

“Now, Mrs. Newberry, you are in dangerous territory.”

I desperately wanted Beatrice to talk about her marriages but that subject was clearly taboo, beyond her wry references here and there. I smiled at her. “I should go down to the bookstore. I really owe Sonny and Oscar a word of thanks.”

“Nice idea, dear,” said Beatrice. Her mind seemed elsewhere.

“I need moral support when I visit a bookstore. I have an ongoing nightmare where I come across my books in a front window with a sign on them: ‘All books on this table $1.00 ... or will take any offer for multiple purchases for books written by Honey Newberry.’”

Beatrice laughed loudly. I nudged her arm. “Say, Beatrice, won’t you come along? We could have a bite of late lunch. I’ll gladly go and get my car, if you’ll join me.”

“Thank you, but I’m afraid it’s too late in the day for me to venture out. Besides, the bookstore is only open Thursday through Sunday, so I’m afraid you’ll have to wait, as well.”

“Actually, Beatrice, that’s good, because I don’t want to lose the momentum with my story. I’ll go by Sonny’s on Saturday.”

“Excellent plan.”

“Oscar sounds like an amenable fellow. Have you been friends for a long time?”

“That’s one question too many, young lady,” she said as a tease, but one framed in authority. “Do you have time to tell me about your new book?”

“I’ll take time, Beatrice. After all, this is due in large part to you.”

“Don’t you dare give me credit, Honey. It’s the beach and your own talent that are doing the writing. Go on, what’s your topic?”

“All right, Beatrice,
if
you insist, you shall remain credit-free.” I mimicked Beatrice’s accent as best I could.

“You’re a brat!”

“So I am. Anyway, it’s entitled
Creola’s Moonbeam
and is about the nanny who watched after my sister and me. Creola Moon was a wonderful, magical, loving lady. She named me ‘Moonbeam’ or ‘Miss Moonbeam,’ when the notion struck her, and my sister was her ‘Priceless Pearlie.’”

“
Creola’s Moonbeam
. What an intriguing title,” exclaimed Beatrice.

“I like it, too. ‘Crellie,’ I often called her, was a glorious woman. The story will be about Crellie from my point of view as a child and also looking back at her with an adult’s perspective. I will gear the book for children and adults, which broadens its appeal.”

“Marvelous idea! I can hardly wait to read what you’ve written thus far.”

“Now, I’m the one with a resounding ‘No
’
to
you
! I never, but never, let my friends read anything until it’s finished.”

“Oh fiddle.” Beatrice feigned disappointment. “Then let me ask you something else. Does this burst of energy mean that you also plan to work on those funny stories you’ve brought up from time to time? You know how I love to laugh. So will other readers, my dear.”

“Heavens no, Beatrice. I pitched the entire manuscript in the trash, kit and caboodle, before I came down here.”

“So they’re gone?”

“Well, a few of them are still in my computer, but —”

“Deary me! Since you won’t allow me to read
Creola’s Moonbeam
I automatically assumed you’d let me peruse your other stories. Such a shame.”