Creola's Moonbeam (12 page)

“Another offer?”

“Nope, at least, not an offer to party. The gal said, ‘I heard your wife say you two was going to a wedding so I figured you might want to do some shopping. I could give you a
biiiggg
discount on a
veeerry
expensive clock. It just so happens that I have one in the trunk of my car, a real
Seth Thomas
. I
suppose
I could let you have it for, uhhh, say, twenty bucks?’”

“And your answer was?”

“I thanked her and said my wife had already sent a gift.”

Up drove
Metro Cab
. Halleluiah! We had maybe twenty-five minutes to get to the wedding. The cab driver not only managed to get us to the hotel but also agreed to wait and drive us to the church.

When we got there, we sat down next to my very anxious family. Mother was holding Daddy’s hand, trying to calm him. He’d been looking around the church for us for thirty minutes. She leaned over, patted her chest, and said, “We understood that you were coming early? Did something happen?”

“Nothing much, Mother, just a little car trouble. It’s fixed. You and Daddy look wonderful.”

“You look nice, too, Harriette. But a bit frazzled, I’d say.”
       

There was no question, my mother knew something was up. “Car trouble? How could you have car trouble with a rental car?”

“Must have been a lemon,” frowned Daddy. “Beau should have had me rent one for you.”

“Good idea, Daddy. We’ll take you up on that, next time.”

Beau rolled his eyes.

A hand tapped me on the shoulder. “So what really happened?” whispered Mary Pearle.

With my back to our parents I quietly replied, “Guess where we’ve been for the last three hours?”

“I give up.”

“Locked in Calvary Cemetery.”

“Did you say
locked in
Calvary?”

“
Shhhhhh
! I’ll tell you about it at the reception.”

The music started. The wedding was wonderful.

At eight the next morning, we returned to the cemetery in another
Metro Cab
to retrieve the car. We spotted the very same security guard from the afternoon before.

Beau turned to me. “One car in and one car out. How simple is that? Oh well, let’s get the car.”

The old guard never as much as looked up.

As we drove past the auto parts store, Beau said, “I should’ve bought that clock.”

When I called Beau from Florida, , I reminded him of the nerve-wracking trip to Memphis. As with many other events in our marriage, we could now joke about it. Beau mentioned the post 9-11 security guidelines, saying he couldn’t imagine what would have happened to us if those regulations had been in place when we arrived at the gate without our tickets. “Don’t you know,” he laughed, “that hostile ticket agent must be in her full glory, these days?”

For sure! By the way, how’s the roof job coming?”

“Let’s just say I’m not anywhere near laughing about this mess, just yet.”

I was even more delighted that I was out of town. I could almost hear the hammering.

After I told him goodnight, I walked out onto the condo’s balcony. The peaceful wash of the evening tide welcomed me.

“Poor Beau,” I said to Creola.

I could almost see her smile.

The next morning
I went for my walk. Now that I’d actually met Beatrice, I was enthusiastic about seeing her each day. I was also intrigued by some of the other familiar faces along my way. We humans tend to stick to our schedules even when we’re away on vacation, so I’d often come across some of the same folks. I figure this was either inborn or habitual from years of schooling, jobs, carpools, and all the other time commitments that tie humankind to ticking clocks.

There had been a good number of women walking solo that week. Like me, they wore hats, were gleaming with sunscreen, and more often than not, sported cover-ups. I wondered if their cover-ups were to keep the sun off or, like mine, were donned so the wearer didn’t have to hold in a protruding tummy.

Of course, there was always that one muscular, leather-skinned gal. Every beach has one. A show-off in my opinion, the bikini-clad woman ran like a cheetah at the water’s edge. She never, but
never
, wore a hat. A sun-worshiper for certain, she avoided all shade to the point of trying to dodge clouds. I imagined the athletic woman to be a former champion water-skier, maybe a Weeki Wachee Mermaid, or perhaps an aerobics instructor. Most likely, Leather Lady worked as a stripper.

Couples with small children came and went from week to week. I would see a family for just a few days, but to my regret, those vacationers tended to disappear by the next weekend. I always enjoyed seeing the children and yearned for the days when Beau and I, Mary Catherine and Butlar built our own sandcastles.

I also kept an eye out for honeymooners. I would offer an encouraging smile, but rightfully so, the two would be far too wrapped up in one another to notice my greetings.

The one thing I enjoyed seeing was the occasional dog. I specifically liked coming across the big black ones. Black dogs with red collars would always tug at my heartstrings. I would look into the eyes of any black canine who came my way, and remember my own beloved Nestle.

Leave it to me to name a dog after chocolate.

I hurried back to the condo to work on that story.

by Honey Newberry

It was a June night in 1995. Beau and I had enjoyed a quiet dinner out before Butlar’s high school graduation hoopla began. When we returned home, we expected Nestle to gallop through the kitchen and greet us at the back door with her traditional, tail-wagging frenzy. This night, however, the dog was nowhere in sight.

Beau and I called for her. No pup.

We walked around the block shouting her name. No response.

We got in the car and drove around searching, whistling, and shouting, “Nestle, Nestle. Here, girl.” Nothing.

Nestle could always be found in one of three places — on the deck, on the family room rug, or wherever in the house I happened to be.

I phoned the neighbors. No one had seen her.

Although Beau attempted to reassure me, and I him, we both became more and more frantic as minutes ticked by. Nestle had never been more than two or three houses away, and that was always with one of the family members in sight. It was getting very late, dark as pitch, and our dog was still missing.

Butlar came in happily talking about a neighbor’s graduation party. “We had so much food! Everyone was there. It was awesome!”

He called for Nestle. He suddenly noticed my tear-stained face. “What’s wrong, Mom?”

“Oh, Butlar!”

Beau told him that our dog was gone. Reacting exactly like we did, our son bolted from the house to look for her. Like his parents hours before, Butlar searched first on foot, then from his car. Our son had loved Nestle since the sixth grade, when he had picked her from a litter born next door in the neighbor family’s tool shed.

No one in the Newberry home got a minute’s sleep that night. Just after the sun came up, Butlar was sitting at the kitchen table pushing scrambled eggs around his plate. Unable to eat a single bite, he dissolved into tears, “Mom, I don’t care about my stupid graduation. All I want is Nestle.”

We were shocked. Since the Christmas holidays, he’d counted down the days until he graduated. He’d thought of little else.

Had someone stolen her? Not a chance. Had she run away? Never, not unless something had really frightened her. Nestle was terrified of fireworks. Had there been some that night? The answer was yes. Fireworks were shot off at the neighbor’s graduation party. Butlar blamed himself.
  

For two days our search continued. By that time, Mary Catherine arrived home from college and joined in the search efforts. We contacted the humane society, the pound, and our veterinarian. The doctor’s staff alerted other vet’s offices all throughout the area. We put up signs with Nestle’s picture and name and our phone numbers. Night after night, we searched. Night after night, we grew more and more discouraged. The temperature climbed well into the nineties. On the front walk, our family’s yellow cat, Tasmania, stood sentry for his lifelong companion. In his opinion, the big dog was his mother.

Day three, in desperation, I phoned a lady I hardly knew.

“Mary, Mary Hannah?”

“Yes.”

“I’m not sure you’ll remember me, I’m Honey Newberry. Our daughter Mary Catherine went to school with your twins.”

“Um, hmm.”

“A couple of months ago, you kindly stopped your car to ask if my dog needed help. We were over by the country club entrance sitting under your neighbor’s tree. We must have looked pretty pitiful!”

The woman hesitated, “I think maybe I remember.”

“I explained it was terribly hot and that Nestle and I were just resting. You mentioned that our dog reminded you of your two Labs.”

“Yes, I definitely do!”

“Well, this time, I’m afraid we actually do need your help. Nestle does. She’s lost. We figured out that she was frightened by our neighbor’s fireworks a couple of nights ago. I’m hoping she’d wandered over your way.”

It was a stab in the dark. Mary’s neighborhood was a car ride of some seven miles from our home.

The kind lady tried to encourage me and promised to keep her eye out for our dog. Even so, two days had passed and the temperature was hovering near one hundred degrees. Water? Food? Would our dog’s intimidating size keep people from trying to get near her? Probably.

Day four, I returned home to find a message on the answer machine. “This is Mary. I may have spotted Nestle! Call me right away!”

Shaking, I could hardly push the telephone’s buttons. Mary answered, “Yes, I think it was, at least, I hope it was your Nestle. This big black dog was wearing a red collar.”

I grabbed my purse and crashed headlong into Beau and Butlar. “Back in the cars! Someone’s spotted Nestle!”

“Mom, I’m going with you,” said Butlar, jumping in my car. Mary Catherine hopped into the front seat of Beau’s.

We wound through the quiet neighborhood, around a golf course, street after street. We stopped, quizzing anyone we saw. Fifty-five minutes later, there was still no sign of our dear dog. No one had seen her. At the traffic light onto the four lane, traffic-filled Peachtree Road, I turned to Beau. “Think she tried to cross?”

“Maybe, Mom. Go for it!”

I anxiously scanned the busy street fearing I would see Nestle’s furry black form laying dead in the gutter. No body. Whew. Relieved, I gunned the gas pedal and wheeled left into heavy traffic. Unexplainably, I believed we were going in the right direction.

On the other side of the street, two ladies were taking a walk. I screeched to a halt and all 6’2” of Butlar jumped out of the car.

Gesturing wildly, he likely terrified the women as he shouted, “Excuse me, have you seen a big black dog with red collar?”

“Yes, we have!” The taller of the two turned to point. “We did see a dog like that down that way. You might know the area. It’s near those new condos on Roxboro Road. You’d better hurry though, the dog we saw seemed disoriented and extremely weak.”