The Hideaway

Neighbors came by and called throughout the morning, all of them offering their support. Mr. Crocker from the farm up the road shyly approached the house just as I was closing the door behind Norm Hammond, the town barber. Mr. Crocker said Mags had let him and his wife stay at The Hideaway for a long weekend soon after the birth of their fifth child.

“We needed some time away from the demands of the farm, not to mention the kids, but we didn’t have an extra dime in our pockets. The next thing we knew, your grandmother was on our doorstep telling us to pack our bags. She knew we’d had a tough year with the drought and adding an extra mouth to feed, and she wouldn’t accept payment from us. Not in money, anyway. I left her fresh milk and eggs every morning for a month after that. That was forty years ago and I still haven’t forgotten. Your grandmother was a gem and this house was a lifesaver.”

Later, Mr. Grimmerson stopped by and told how after Hurricane Lorraine blew through in the seventies, Mags’s home was one of the only places that didn’t lose power—something about being on a separate power grid. “I had supplies in my store that people needed, but no one could drive anywhere downtown with so many trees down. Your grandmother rode her bicycle all the way to my store, helped me load supplies onto a wagon she pulled behind her bike, and then brought it all back to The Hideaway. This became my temporary outpost. She opened her doors to people who needed a place to stay or just needed batteries and flashlights. She was always helping people in the most unexpected ways.”

During a lull in the action, Crawford pulled down the driveway with sausage biscuits from the diner for everyone in the house. “I figured you’d be busy, being famous and all,” he said to Dot and Glory as they helped him clear the dining room table of newspapers so he could set out the food.

“Famous isn’t what we want to be,” Glory said.

“Yeah, but ‘not homeless’ is,” Major said. “So if it takes Mr. Crowe and the Mobile Press-Register drumming up support for the house, I’ll take the fame. I’ll be upstairs shaving if anyone needs me.”

“No one’s coming to take your picture, Major,” Glory called as he left. She turned to us. “I’d better go talk some sense into him. He’ll be down here in his Sunday best before long.” She hurried up the stairs behind him.

With the room blessedly empty, Crawford pulled me to him. “I’ve missed you,” he said into my neck, his lips tickling my skin. He put his hands on the sides of my face and kissed me.

“You’re in a good mood for someone whose hard work may be about to meet the wrecking ball.”

“Not gonna happen. I have a feeling for these things.”

“Oh, you do?” I asked.

“Mm-hmm. I also have a feeling we need to get out of here soon. I love your roommates, but—”

Bert rounded the corner from the hall, his gaze down on yesterday’s mail, and walked right into us. “Don’t mind me,” he said, disentangling himself. “I’ll be out of your hair in a jiff.”

“See what I mean?” Crawford whispered.

He kissed me again, soft and quick, then called out to Bert. “I brought enough food to feed an army, Bert. No need to run off.” He handed me a cup of coffee, but before I could take a sip, the doorbell rang again. “No rest for the wanted,” he said. “Better see who it is.”

I was just starting back up the front steps after chatting with a man from the Baldwin County Preservation Society when I heard a rustling in the azalea bushes at the side of the house. Clark Arrington pushed his way through, carrying a pair of loppers in his hand.

“Oh, hey,” he said when he saw me. “I always tried to keep these bushes from growing too tall for Mrs. Van Buren. I just figured I’d keep cutting them back until someone tells me to stop. But if you’d rather me not . . .”

“No, it’s okay.” Before, I probably would have told him we could take care of the bushes ourselves, but in light of everything that had happened, I appreciated Clark’s desire to continue this trivial means of keeping The Hideaway in shape.

“I’m sorry about what’s happening to this old place,” he said, his hands busy in the bushes along the edge of the porch. “Sammy’s been talking about it for a while, but I didn’t think he’d actually go through with it.”

So this was what Clark had been dropping hints about on the dock. And I’d just thought he was being a nuisance.

“Thanks,” I said.

“Yeah, I’ve been doing some work for him here and there over the last year or so. He wanted me to help him on this deal, but I just couldn’t do it. Not if it meant tearing down your grandmother’s house. I kind of liked the old bird.”

I laughed. “I’m glad to hear it, Clark. I wasn’t sure, to be honest.”

“She was nice to me. She used to pay me in vegetables for my work around the yard. And if they ever had any leftover pie, she’d bring a slice across the street and leave it on the steps leading up to my apartment. She always covered it in plastic wrap to keep the ants away.”

Clark bent down to pick up the branches he’d cut, then without saying good-bye, retreated through the space in the azalea bushes.

By lunchtime, a banner had been erected at the end of the driveway facing Highway 55. “Sweet Bay Supports The Hideaway!” it said. Several smaller, homemade signs dotted the grass: “Protect Our Town!” “Go Away, Sammy!” and “Save Sweet Bay!”

The flood of neighbors and well-wishers slowed in the afternoon. I sank down in a chair at the dining table next to Bert, who was folding dish towels. “I can’t even wrap my brain around what’s happened today,” I said.

“It’s been a big day,” Bert agreed. “I think it’s been successful though. Maybe Sammy will pull the plug on the whole deal.”

“Sammy won’t do it, but if the mayor fears he’s angered too many people, maybe he’ll back off.” I reached over and grabbed a towel to fold. “I never thought people in Sweet Bay cared anything about this place or even liked Mags that much. So many people made fun of her. I can’t believe they’re stepping up now and giving us—giving her—support.”

“You don’t have it quite right,” Major said from the kitchen. He walked into the dining room. “If you hadn’t been stuck inside that teenage head of yours all those years ago, you might have figured that out.”

I opened my mouth, but he continued. “I’ll be the first to say Mags was a little odd—she wore strange clothes, never picked up a mop for as long as I knew her, and she had a strange affinity for sitting in the garden late at night—but she left her mark on Sweet Bay, and people won’t soon forget that. Take me and Glory. We arrived here in south Alabama at the height of the sixties—two black faces in a whole town of white. She didn’t bat an eye about opening her doors to us. Not only that, she talked us out of leaving when we thought we’d overstayed our welcome. She was a strong woman a step ahead of the times.

“Sure, some people made fun of her—small-minded people will do that. And kids—kids laugh at anything different from them. But most of the adults in town knew she was a necessary part of life here in Sweet Bay. A necessary part of our lives, for sure.”