After the Storm

To his credit, however, Dr. Sloane had cleaned up and sobered up with record speed. And the man didn’t seem to have a problem walking the half-mile distance to Alisha’s cabin.

“Been walking this mountain since I learned how to walk,” Dr. Sloane had informed him as they skirted their way past deep rutted puddles and fallen limbs. “Walking is good for your health,” the doctor had reminded him.

Jared hadn’t lost the irony of that reminder. He wanted to retort with, “Well, alcohol is not good for your health or for anyone living on this mountain who needs your help.” But something had stopped him. Something in Dr. Sloane’s demeanor set Jared to wondering why the man did drink. Jared decided he couldn’t be cruel to someone who was willing to go out after a storm, with a hangover, to help another human being. Maybe Doc Sloane had some redeeming qualities after all.

And then there was Miss Mozelle. If she had a last name, no one had bothered to give it to Jared. Even though she had to be older than the doctor by twenty years, she didn’t look as old and wizened as Dr. Sloane. But then, Jared didn’t think anyone could top the doctor’s sallow, sunken face.

The midwife had skin the color of a rich mocha coffee, and eyes as brown and rich as tree bark. She wore several knitted shawls and scarves, a bright red one on her braided head, a green-and-yellow one around her shoulders and another longer thick black one for warmth. Underneath them, she had on a long denim gathered skirt and sturdy hiking boots. And she carried a large tapestry bag, her walk proud and queenlike. She also stood at least a half a foot over the shrunken Dr. Sloane.

“I was born and raised in that house,” she told Jared as she pointed to her large square gray-washed house with the long wide front porch. “My great-grandfather was a full-blooded Cherokee. He married a freed slave woman and they had seven children. My father was a hardworking, proud man who farmed the land down in that small valley beyond our house, and my sweet mother was a school-teacher to the black and Native American children on the mountain.”

Miss Mozelle was obviously very proud of her mixed Native and African-American heritage. Interesting African masks were hanging on the porch walls, mixed in with Cherokee artifacts that seemed to depict a story of some sort. The colorful masks, broken arrowheads and shiny beads, all strung and hung with leather, glinted and swayed as the weak sun tried to break through the cold, dark skies.

Not knowing what to say to the intimidating woman, Jared nodded toward the mountains off in the distance, past a plummeting drop-off that fell to a deep gully and flowing stream below. “You have a splendid view.”

“Gets even better this time of year. Like being smack in the middle of a flower garden on top of the world,” she said, her laughter as thick as dripping syrup. “Right up here close to the good Lord. I like it that way.”

Dr. Sloane snorted his disapproval then, and he was still arguing and snorting now, as they stepped up onto Alisha’s cabin porch. “You can stay right here until I call for you, woman,” he told Miss Mozelle with a lift of one bushy brow.

Miss Mozelle stopped to catch her breath, her keen eyes centered on the doctor. “I aim to go in there and tend to Alisha.”

“Not if I don’t need you, you aren’t.”

“I don’t care about you or what you need, silly man. Alisha done told me she wanted me by her side when that baby comes. And that baby done come, and I’m going in there to see to both the mother and the child. Now go on in, or step aside.”

Dr. Sloane stood up ramrod straight, that faint glint of rage back in his eyes. “Why, you—”

“Uh, excuse me,” Jared said, getting between these two very stubborn forces. “Could we concentrate on Alisha and the baby? I’ve been out all morning, trying to round both of you up, and I’m worried about her being in there all by herself. Can we go inside, please?”

Both of them turned at the same time and ran into each other.

“After you,” Dr. Sloane said, his words stretched with sarcasm and annoyance as he gave an elaborate bow to Miss Mozelle.

“Why, thank you,” Miss Mozelle replied, sweeping past him like a regal queen dismissing a lowly subject. Then she opened the door and hollered, “I’m here, baby. Miss Mozelle gonna take care of you, precious.”

The doctor snorted and scowled, but he hurried to catch up. “That woman thinks she knows everything there is to know in the world, especially about mothers and babies. And considering that she never married and had any, it’s a puzzle as to why these women around here trust her at all.”

Jared shook his head, wondering what kind of time-warp he’d walked into, and wishing he’d had the travel agent book him a safe, cozy cabin in Vail or Aspen, or a nice warm spot on an exotic island, instead of here in the North Georgia mountains. These people didn’t live by the rules and standards of the outside world. Here on this remote mountain, they seemed to live in a world of their own. And they seemed determined to keep the real world out of their affairs.

Very tight-knit and closemouthed, these villagers.

When he entered the tiny cabin, he saw just how tight-knit. And just how suspicious. The room was full of people, mostly women and a few men looking uncomfortable and closed, while the women fussed and gushed and fluffed and shifted. But all of that stopped when Jared walked in. The room went silent as all faces turned to him. Jared nodded a greeting then looked around.

There was food everywhere. Bread, cakes, pies, soup, a pot roast, a big batch of chocolate chip cookies—Jared couldn’t believe the amount. Alisha would never be able to eat all of this.

“Hello,” he heard a timid voice say from just inside the hallway toward the bedroom. “You must be Jared.”

Jared turned from the stares and nods of the people gathered in Alisha’s cabin, to find a young, blond-haired girl staring up at him. A very pregnant, young, blond-haired girl. Thinking he sure wasn’t ready to assist in yet another delivery, Jared could only nod. “Yes, that’s me.”

“Well, what took you so long?” the girl asked, one skinny hand on the hip of her baggy jeans.

Jared took off his cap, then unbuttoned his jacket, suddenly hot and stuffy. “I…I had to find the doctor and Miss Mozelle and, well, it’s still wet and messy out there.” Not used to having to make excuses or give explanations, Jared grew silent and went into a staring war with the defiant young girl.

“We’re glad you’re here now, mister,” another feminine voice said from the kitchen.

Jared looked up to find an older replica of the pregnant girl staring at him. The woman’s hair had probably been blond once, but it was now a wash between gray and gold, and pulled up in a haphazard bun around the top of her head. Her clothes looked old and washed-out, too. A faded polyester dress printed with huge cabbage roses covered her sunken frame. In spite of her plain, wrinkled face, her smile was fresh and sincere.

“I’m Loretta Wilkes, and that’s my daughter, Rayanne,” she said, waving a hand toward the hovering girl. “Rayanne, quit staring and go see if Alisha needs anything.”

Rayanne shrugged and turned to head toward the bedroom.

The woman’s eyes swept over Jared’s face again. “We just came straight here from the church services.”

“I heard the singing as we were walking back,” Jared replied, remembering the sweet, clear sound of “Shall We Gather by the River.”

“In spite of the storm and the cold, we had a good turnout for Easter Sunday.” She laughed then, pushing at loose strands of hair, one hand going out to a man who approached with a plate of pie. “Reverend Stripling, this is Jared Murdock, the man who helped Alisha last night.”

The jovial young-looking reverend pumped Jared’s outstretched hand, balancing his pie with the other hand. “Nice to meet you. We sure appreciate what you did for Alisha.”

“Well, it’s nice to meet you, too,” Jared said. “Both of you.” Then he extended a hand to Mrs. Wilkes. “I guess I need to get the key to my cabin from you.”

“Yes, got it right here,” Mrs. Wilkes said, digging into a big blue vinyl tote bag that stated I Love Quilting on its side. Producing the key, which was attached to a white furry rabbit’s-foot keychain, she said, “We don’t get many visitors this time of year when it’s still chilly out. Most folks like to come in late spring or during the summer—family-type outings.”

Jared saw the curiosity in the woman’s hazel eyes. “I don’t have family,” he said, his tone hesitant.

“That’s a shame,” Loretta replied. “Me, I got family to spare. I’m kin to most of the people on this mountain.” She laughed again, the sound like a soft melody.

“And it looks as if a lot of them are here with you today,” Jared said as a small boy of about seven whizzed by him, a blue plastic Richard Petty Nascar race car in his hand.

Loretta grabbed the boy without batting an eye. “Robert, slow down there.” After giving the boy a stern warning, she turned back to Jared. “Yes, sir. Sorry I had to bring along the two younger ones. Can’t leave them with their older brother. They fight too much.” She motioned around the room. “That’s my husband, Tate. He’s holding our boy, Joshua. And I think you know Mrs. Curtis from the store.”

Mrs. Curtis smiled brightly, but didn’t bother to carry on any conversation. When Jared smiled back, the older woman quickly averted her eyes.

“And Langford and Dorothy Lindsay—they run the Hilltop Diner, across from the store.”

Trying to be polite, Jared waved and spoke to the big-chested black man and his petite, smiling wife as they lifted their hands and nodded toward him, their direct stares intimidating and obvious. Jared felt as if he were being put to some sort of test. They didn’t like having an outsider among them.

But in this case, they couldn’t turn him away. Jared had helped Alisha. And since the whole mountain seemed to love and admire Alisha Emerson, these people had to be grateful and courteous to him.

For now, anyway.

The rest of the day went by for Alisha in a blur of shapes and sounds. Visitors came and went, careful not to linger too long or get too close to the tiny newborn baby.

Dr. Sloane examined her, then declared she was doing okay, all things considered. And he pronounced little Callum as being near perfect—no problems there either that he could tell. He seemed to want to linger, his eyes centered on the baby, his expression solemn and quiet, even though his hands shook. Alisha could clearly see that he had a hangover. Again.

Then Miss Mozelle gave Alisha another examination, using her own unique brand of medicine—part folklore and old wives’ tale, part prayer and healing, and always, always, with the firm belief that God was in complete control.

Jared walked in just as Miss Mozelle lifted Callum out of his tiny cradle and held him to her heart. Amazed, Alisha watched as the woman gently rocked the baby back and forth, cooing to him in some ancient dialect that had a soothing rhythm to it. Jared shot Alisha a puzzled, questioning look, but remained silent and respectful. Miss Mozelle had that kind of effect on people.