A Piedmont Lantern Story

Oh, Tim Sawyer had been warned about Piedmont.

His cousin, Tom, had told him it was a place where nothing happened out loud, but everything happened eventually, and usually to you. Tim, being young and foolish and convinced geography couldn’t outwit him, had laughed and boarded the train anyway.

That was how he came to live with Aunt Mozelle Burgess.

Aunt Mozelle was elderly in the way of people who had outlived their patience. She ruled her house from a high-backed chair near the window, issuing judgments the way other folks issued blessings. Her hearing came and went, but her suspicion remained sharp as ever.

Because of her age, Aunt Mozelle employed a girl.

Her name was Ophelia Hitchcock.

Tim Sawyer hated her on sight.

Ophelia Hitchcock returned the favor with interest.

This was unfortunate, as they were now required to share a house, a hallway, and Aunt Mozelle’s expectations, which were many and varied.

Ophelia believed Tim Sawyer to be lazy, underfoot, and possessed of a smirk that ought to be slapped right off his face. Tim believed Ophelia Hitchcock to be bossy, humorless, and in need of taking down a peg or two.

Their first conversation set the tone.

“You can’t leave them boots there,” Ophelia said, pointing.

Tim looked down. “That’s where they stopped.”

She stared at him like she was memorizing his face for future testimony. “Aunt Mozelle don’t like clutter.”

From the next room, Aunt Mozelle called out, “Who left them boots there?”

Ophelia did not hesitate. “Tim did.”

Tim opened his mouth.

“Boy,” Aunt Mozelle snapped, “move them boots before I trip, and somebody gets a good taste of my leather strap. Don’t let me catch them there again. You hear me?”

Thus began the war.

It was a cold war at first. Polite words spoken with sharp edges. Instructions followed with malicious compliance. Tim folded laundry wrong on purpose. Ophelia corrected him loudly. Tim fed the cat early. Ophelia fed it later. The cat learned to play both sides and grew fat.

Piedmont noticed.

They always did.

Mrs. Landry across the street began lingering at her window. Mr. Dobbs timed his walks to coincide with raised voices. Even the mailman slowed down.

One afternoon, Aunt Mozelle announced she was taking a nap.

“If I wake up,” she said, “and anything’s broken, somebody’s gonna explain it real slow.”

The house fell quiet.

Too quiet.

Tim and Ophelia found themselves alone in the kitchen, standing on opposite sides like duelists without pistols.

“You ever done anything useful?” Ophelia asked.

Tim considered. “Once. I did something good for Aunt Polly. It was by accident, though.”

She sniffed. “Figures.”

At that precise moment, the old refrigerator gave up.

It did not break politely. It sighed, rattled, and released a sound like a ghost being swallowed. Water pooled across the floor, creeping toward Aunt Mozelle’s sitting room.

Tim and Ophelia stared at it.

Then at each other.

Ophelia grabbed towels. Tim grabbed a mop. Neither commented on the other’s competence. They worked fast, silently, desperately. Tim wedged a chair leg under the fridge to tilt it back. Ophelia cut the water and blocked the door with towels just as Aunt Mozelle shifted in her chair.

“What in tarnation’s all that bloomin’ racket?” she called.

“Nothing,” Ophelia said brightly.

“Absolutely nothing,” Tim added.

The refrigerator dripped one final drop and went still.

Aunt Mozelle snorted. “Sounded like teamwork. Don’t let it go to your heads.”

Tim and Ophelia exchanged a look.

It was not friendship.

But it was… recognition.

Later that evening, as Piedmont’s gossip engine sputtered in disappointment, Tim found a plate of cornbread set beside his supper.

Ophelia did not look at him. “You saved the floor,” she said. “I reckon that counts.”

Tim nodded. “You’re… adequate in a crisis.”

She smiled despite herself. Just a little.

The war did not end.

But from that day on, it became more interesting.

And that, in Piedmont, is how most adventures begin.