Watermelon Days and Firefly Nights: Heartwarming Scenes from Small Town Life (17 page)

B
Y THE NEXT
S
ATURDAY
,
Crow had raked, piled, and bagged his own yard, front and back. It was amazing how much tidier a place could look with only a day’s worth of cleaning up. He still needed to dig up his beds, but that could wait until he got Bessie’s leaves raked.

“Coffee before you get started?” Bessie asked from her porch. She was looking pretty as a picture.

“Naw. I already had a whole pot. If I drink any more I’ll have to . . . ”
There I go again!
Crow grimaced and wiped at his mouth.
What is wrong with me? Why, if my daddy was alive, he’d kill me dead for discussing such things around a woman . . .
“I’m fine. You go on inside. Let me get to work.”

“Suit yourself.”

Crow raked all morning. Even in the chilly air, he worked up a sweat. By noon, the sun had come out, and he shed his jacket. “Bessie,” Crow asked after he’d finished the good lunch that she’d delivered, “I got off without a hankie this morning, and I need something to wipe my brow with. Sweat’s stinging my eyes. Have you got some old rag or a bandana I could use?”

The pink washrag she got him worked just fine. He folded it up and tucked it into the loose-fitting waistband of his pants. The rag came in handy, and he used it several times.

Bessie had more leaves in her yard than Crow had first thought. By 3:00 his back was complaining, and he took her up on the offer of a cold cola on the back patio. They sat in lawn chairs and looked at what he’d gotten done so far. “Almost finished,” he reported after a long swig. “All that’s really left is that big gully up next to the fence.”

“Wind’s blown a bunch of ’em up in there. It’s pretty deep,” observed Bessie. “You best be careful. Could be snakes in that ditch. Copperheads’d be my guess. You know, I saw on the nature channel that copperheads like nothing better than to curl up under damp leaves so as to go to sleep for the winter. I don’t reckon it would be a good thing to wake up some cranky ole reptile. You wearing gloves?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Well.” Bessie rose to her feet. “I’ll be getting back to my ironing.”

“I’ll get back to those leaves.”

“You don’t know how much I appreciate you doing this for me, Crow.”

“Show me.” Emboldened by fatigue, he asked, “Bessie, will you go with me tonight to eat at the café? This is Friday, isn’t it? Rochelle’ll be serving catfish. All you can eat.” His heart palpitating at what he’d gone and done, Crow held his breath. This was new territory. He and Bessie had never been out on a . . . on a date. Would she go?

Bessie stood looking up at the sky for a moment, then said, “Okay.”

“Okay, then.”

Crow got so excited at the thought of enjoying Bessie’s company over coleslaw and hush puppies that he went back to his raking with renewed vigor. Inspired perhaps, too, by the thought of dining on seafood, he, who couldn’t sing a lick, caught himself humming the theme from
Love Boat.

It was not until Crow got deeper into the pile of leaves that his vigorous raking and shoving of leaves into plastic bags slowed. Mixed in with the leaves were a lot of twigs and branches, long-dead weeds, and twisted vines. Seeing those vines, Crow couldn’t help but dwell on what Bessie had said about snakes. He hated snakes. His cousin got bit by one once. The snap of a twig made Crow jump. He hoped Bessie wasn’t watching through the window.

Crow took to cautiously turning the leaves over a time or two with his rake before reaching down with his hands to scoop them into the bag. Even though he had gloves on, Crow reasoned that a snake could probably bite right through.

An hour of turning and churning the dead vegetation resulted in only a few spooked spiders, some sleepy-eyed lizards, and a startled pair of brown toads.

No snakes. At least that he saw.

Well, Crow never did see one. No, he felt it. Inside his right pant leg. Soft, kind of loopy, just below his knee, but not moving at all. Crow stood stock-still.

It moved.

Crow froze.

It eased down to his ankle.

Crow’s heart pounded. Sweat broke out on his head. He tried to scream, but nothing came out.

Finally, Crow threw his rake down and charged in the direction of Bessie’s front door. Every few steps, he’d pause, shake his leg, and wildly try to get shed of his pants. Not until he was right in front of Bessie’s picture window did Crow manage to get a hold of himself long enough to kick off his shoes and pull off his pants.

Bessie, a retired nurse, had seen just about everything on a man that there was to see. But when she stepped out into the yard to shake out a rug, she drew in a startled breath when she saw Crow, in his green undershorts, poking at his pants with a stick.

“Crow?”

He motioned for her to stand clear. “Snake,” he panted, his eyes not moving from the bulge in his dungarees that now lay on the ground. “In my pant leg.”

“Oh my goodness!”

“Bessie, have you got a hoe?”

“Of course. I’ll go get it. Are you all right? Did you get bitten? Should I call 911?”

“Nah. Just get me the hoe.”

Once Bessie handed him the hoe, he proceeded to chop his pants to smithereens. Only after a good dozen hacks did he think it safe to have a look.

“Stay back,” he cautioned Bessie. “He may not be dead yet.”

Bessie covered her eyes. “Tell me when it’s safe to look.”

Crow hooked the end of Bessie’s hoe through a belt loop in his shredded pants, raised the pants high, and gave them a gentle shake.

“Is it dead?” Bessie asked from behind her cupped hands.

“Don’t know. Still in there.” Crow gave his pants another shake.

“What about now?”

“Uh . . . ”

“What kind of a snake is it?”

“It’s uh . . . not exactly . . . uh . . . ”

Curiosity got the better of Bessie and she uncovered her eyes. Too far back to see the snake, she eased over toward the pants. Uncertain, she stayed behind Crow for protection, took hold of his arm, and leaned forward to take a look.

“Crow?”

She pushed up her glasses.

“Yes.” He looked for someplace to duck.

“That’s not a snake.”

She had that right.

“That’s my pink washrag. Chopped to pieces.”

Who would have guessed that a sweat-soaked washrag sliding down from one’s waistband would feel exactly like the creeping of a dangerous reptile? Suddenly, like Adam in the garden, Crow became acutely aware of his pantsless state.

“Crow?” Bessie said, politely averting her eyes. “Want me to drive you home so you can put on some pants?”

Crow nodded his head and tried to hide himself behind the rake.

“By the way, the yard looks real nice.”

“Thanks,” he said, staring at the ground.

“Crow?”

He looked up just in time to catch her wink.

“My mama raised a conservative girl. Though those are some attractive green undershorts you’ve got on, if it’s all the same to you, do you think you could keep your pants on when I’m around?”

C
ROW TOLD NO ONE
about what had happened to him over at Bessie’s house. No one, that is, save his granddaughter, Angie.

“Aw, Gramps,” said Angie. “I wouldn’t worry about it. Besides, it really could have been a snake. You could have been bitten. And if it had turned out to be a poisonous snake, why, you could have died or at least gotten really sick.” She pushed her hair out of her eyes. “Come on, Gramps,” she said. “There’s a bright side to everything.”

Yeah, there was. That was the point. There was a bright side, all right, and Bessie Bishop had gotten a good look at it!

11

W
ISE
W
OMAN

E
VERY SINGLE
T
UESDAY
,
Faye Beth Newman receives a bouquet of flowers from her husband, Harvey. Sometimes she gets daisies, other times it’s red roses or pink carnations. As soon as the florist delivers the new batch, Faye Beth tosses last week’s flowers in the garbage. She displays the fragrant arrangements on the corner of her desk at the Chamber of Commerce, where she has worked for the past seven years. Though Faye Beth throws the old
flowers away, she saves the vases. Harvey doesn’t know
it, but to help him out, every month or so she gathers the vases up and takes them down to the florist so that they can be used again. Harvey gets a discount because of it.

Since the Chamber of Commerce shares a building with Tawny’s Quick Tan, a lot of folks come in and out of the building. Faye Beth’s flowers always draw attention.

Last Tuesday an arrangement of lemon-yellow daylilies graced her desk. The flowers caught the eye of Janet Evans, who had stopped in to fuss to the mayor about some potholes in front of her house. “You’re still getting flowers every week? Harvey’s so romantic. I’m lucky if my Ray remembers to send me a single rose on our anniversary. Last year he got me a weed whacker and a new pair of garden gloves. Now, does that make a gal’s heart go a-flutter or what?”

“You get flowers every week? For how many years?” asked Rochelle Shartle, who had just come in to tan.

“Eleven.”

“I’d say that man of yours is a keeper,” said Rochelle.

“I didn’t always think so.”

“Come on! You and Harvey? Why, you two act like newlyweds! Harvey was bragging on you just the other day,” said Janet. “He told Dr. Strickland that you get up at 4:30 in the morning just to fix his cereal.”

“At 4:30?” said Rochelle. “Why?”

“Harvey works the early shift. He has to leave the house at 5:15,” explained Faye Beth.

“And he can’t pour his own bowl of Fruit Loops?”

“Harvey likes his cereal soft. I get up when he does so I can pour the milk on it for him while he’s in the shower. That way it’s ready to eat when he gets out,” said Faye Beth, as if that explained everything.

Rochelle’s jaw just about hit her chest.

“It’s not so bad. Once I’ve got it fixed, I go back to bed.”

“Girl! You have got that man spoiled!” exclaimed Janet.

“Some people are just made for each other,” said Rochelle. “I suppose you and Harvey have never had a cross word.”

Faye Beth snorted loudly and some of the diet Pepsi she was drinking came out of her nose. “Honey, have you ever driven by my house?”

“I don’t think so,” said Rochelle.

“You, Janet?”

“No, I haven’t. Don’t you and Harvey live way out down some little road past the cemetery?”

“We do. In a double-wide trailer. Harvey bought it
before we were married. If you ever come out to see me, you’re gonna see that we’ve got a pretty little place. Lots of trees and flowers. Our trailer’s real nice too. The week before
we were married, Harvey built a free-standing raised
roof—set on steel poles—over the top of the trailer so as to make it safer for me. Harvey was proud as could be of that roof.
He planned it, designed it, and set, framed, and shingled
it himself. You know, a trailer isn’t the safest place to live, but it was what Harvey and I could afford. He said that roof would offer protection should a storm or something come up.”

“Good idea.”

“Would be, except it’s got a big piece of it all tore up.”

“Big wind?”

“You could say that,” Faye Beth laughed.