Mossy

By Kamela Runion Edwards

Mossy hitched up his workpants and sat on a flat root of the live oak that grew right up from the river’s edge. He loved this tree. Even named it. “Joleen,” just like the country song. He pulled out his phone. The screen made a glow like a lightening bug. He tossed his head to see if there were any out tonight. A few, a ways off up the bank where the sour grass grew. Not like when he was a kid. They were thick in the evening then. Swoop a quart mason jar through the air and you’d have a bundle just like that. Capped, punched with holes.

He dialed Cindy’s number. Stared over the river rolling by in its sad, inky way. Night was quiet on the river when all the boats had docked, people gone to town for fish fry and beer, and only the lapping against the muddy shore to let you know the water was even moving.

She picked up straight away. “Hey. You off?”

“You could say that.” Mossy reached in his shirt pocket for his Winstons. Shook one into his mouth.

“Well, I did say that.” Cindy’s tired voice. Mossy scraped the match against the tree root. It flamed up and he breathed in the sulfur and tobacco mixing as he lit the cigarette. A tango of smells. “You coming for supper?”

Mossy wondered how an invitation could sound like a kindness and a threat all at once…