Mystic Mississippi

“WELL,” SAID CAMERON Russell to himself, “it could be worse. Could also be better.”

The young man hoisted the final box from the half-dead Trans Am and smiled. Not at the old Trans Am, but at thehousebefore him. The gem before him was actually his, financed with his own money, a product of his genuine attempt at a reasonable credit score, and all he wanted to do was…

“I hate being an adult,” he muttered to himself as he considered the perks of falling asleep now or later. The mattress was upstairs, calling his name, but he had a lot to do, a little time to do it, and his energy levels were running low. He needed a large pizza, and he needed it now. Too bad this place didn’t come with a live-in chef.

Cameron half-carried, half-kicked the final box up the stairs to the typical Southern front porch, where a cream-colored swing was hanging by a chain, suspended in air. The boards needed painting and he’d probably fall through the wood into some sort of torture chamber, but the house was there, and he’d afforded it. He smiled again.

The entryway was smelly and ugly, the consequence of years of abandonment. He’d need buckets and buckets of paint to cover up the dirty walls, but it would be his project. Most definitely a lengthy project. And really, it would distract him from his little baby, also known as his attempt at the Great American Novel.

Realizing what was in the final box, Cameron pushed his hands through the cardboard and found his simplistic, hand-me-down typewriter, freshly polished like a jewel. He held it in his calloused hands and stared at it in awe. When he remembered that the thing was heavy and not just a feather, he cradled it to the kitchen and set it down on the dusty countertop.

“What more do I need?” he said to himself, and then his stomach growled.

Cameron Russell had done it. He’d packed his things—which had amounted to a few dozen books, clothes, photo albums, knickknacks, and the golden typewriter—driven across the country, toured this old grandmother of a house with a real-life realtor, and scooped up the property for a little over a hundred thousand dollars. He, a twenty-four-year-old law school dropout, had whisked himself across two thousand miles of American heartland to the random destination of his creative desires: a little hamlet of a Southern town called Mystic, Mississippi. It had been troubling at first, not knowing exactly where he was off to, especially from his native and bustling Los Angeles, but with each passing mile, he knew he wanted to go farther and farther away, to see what else was out there.

And he’d ended up, not in Texas or Arizona or New Mexico, but in Mississippi. In a town just south of the Tennessee line, barely bigger than a needle pin on the map. There were maybe five thousand souls in the sleepy town, no more than three gas stations, a McDonald’s, two coffee shops, a handful of genuine cafes, and a fancy-schmancy steakhouse out on something called the Julep Creek. In his research of Mystic, Cameron Russell had come across zero reported crimes in the past five years, a stellar elementary school, three Baptist churches, two Methodist, one Church of Christ, four Missionary Baptist, one AME, and zero Nazarene. There was no such thing as a Catholic here, although his realtor had assured him there was a booming Jewish community. Cameron Russell, a born-and-raised Nazarene, would learn to adapt.

He was doing fine now. He wiped his sweaty forehead with the back of his hand and wondered if his loan had included air conditioning. He’d add that to his immediate list and head to a hardware store, or maybe the nearest Lowe’s or Home Depot. If one of those wasn’t in town, which he highly doubted, he didn’t mind driving around to explore North Mississippi for a little bit.

A notepad rested on the ugly counter. He wrote down quickly, in his hurried, sloppy writer’s handwriting: AC. Mop. Dustpan. Paint. After those four items, he glanced around the house. Nope, he needed the entire store’s supply. Didn’t matter what. He needed it all. His bank account could take some more damage.

Cameron was lost in thought for a second until he heard the faded, slightly-haunted cadence of the doorbell. He wiped his hands on his shirt and moved to the front door, where a middle-aged woman greeted him with a Texas-sized smile and a warm apple pie.

“Welcome!” she said, loudly and proudly, shoving the pie in his face. “How are you doing, son?”

Cameron’s belly rippled with delight. The pie would most certainly be a welcome addition to his gnawing stomach. “Well, thank you. I’m doing great, and you?”

“Let me introduce myself. I’m Amy Lee Brandon, and I live just across the street.”

Cameron shook her hand, momentarily struck by the unique Southern twang. It was different than, say, a Texan one, but still so sweet. Sweet as sugar or something. And then his stupid surfer voice replied, “Cameron Russell.”

“Do you need any help with any boxes? I would offer my daughters to help, but neither are in at the moment, and I’m not sure they’d be much help anyway.”

Interesting choice of words, but Cameron went with it. “No, no, I’m fine. Just a bit overwhelmed by the condition of this place.”

Amy Lee’s light green eyes grew big, as if she were letting him in on a dangerous secret. “I can imagine, Cameron. I never thought anybody’d pick this place up, so I’m very thankful you did.”

“Do you want to come in for a moment, Mrs. Brandon?” Isn’t that what people asked if someone was at their front door? This gave him a little thrill. He was all of twenty-four, and somehow he was here.

“It’s Amy Lee to you. Yes, it is a bit hot outside, but when is it not? You came at the wrong time. Everyone hates the summers here. You’re used to summers in the South, aren’t you, Cameron?”

They walked into the foyer. Dead brown leaves dusted the stairs like shredded love notes. Despite how hideous it was at this moment, the house still had a unique charm. Amy Lee caught him analyzing his new abode and smiled too. “Where are you from, dear?”

“Los Angeles, actually,” he said, still in shock at his impulsive decision to up and move across the country. “I apologize that it’s hot in here too. No air conditioning. Not yet at least.”

“My kids used to think this place was like Boo Radley’s in To Kill a Mockingbird. It’s definitely got personality. Los Angeles, hmm? Well, if you like it here in the summer, I suppose you’ll survive.”

“I hope, but yes, I’m a little far away from home.”

“And what on God’s green earth brings you to Mystic? Out of all the places in the world?”

“That is a good question. I don’t really know.”

“You don’t know? What do you mean, you don’t know?”

Cameron nodded. “It may seem ridiculous, I know, but I packed up my car, didn’t even have a map, and ended up here. I drove down this street after getting lost…”

“I’m going to interrupt you right there. How did you get lost in Mystic?”

“I don’t know that either. I promise, I usually have a good sense of direction. And so I saw the for sale sign, contacted the realtor, and made an offer. I’m surprised I got a loan, but I did, and… I’m here. My parents don’t even know I’ve done this.”

Her eyes had been getting bigger and bigger as each word slipped from his lips. “Oh, honey….”

“I’m probably going to get coal for Christmas, yeah.”

“You definitely need to put a word in to Momma. You understand that, right? If one of my girls did that to me, I’d… Well, let’s just say that all hell would break loose.”

Cameron laughed, digging his free hand in his pocket. “Well, we don’t need to worry about that with my mother. Can I get you anything to drink, Amy Lee? I have some water bottles…”

“Oh, don’t you dare offer me anything! That’s my job. Would you like to have dinner at my house tonight? Say, seven o’clock?”

Cameron’s eyebrows raised. “Really?”

“Yes. You need some good home cooking, I can tell.”

“Well, as long as I can do the dishes or something, I’ll say yes.”

“Cameron Russell, I expect you at my house at seven o’clock. My daughter will be there too.”

Well, that’s awkward. And direct.“Oh, really?”

Amy Lee Brandon was nothing less than frank. She smiled her big, Southern smile, her white teeth sparkling a pleading smile.

“I can’t back out now, can I?” he said, attempting a joke, half-laughing, but one Amy Lee did not take as funny.

She twirled out the front door. “Seven o’clock, Mr. Russell. Be on time.”

And he stood there, holding a warm apple pie, watching his new neighbor sashay across the street to her perfectly manicured Southern house, and had he just accepted a dinner invitation with the sole purpose to be some sort of romantic introduction? Cameron Russell shrugged. If it was free food, it was free food.

But had he ever taken economics? There’s no such thing as a free lunch. Or a free Southern Saturday night supper.