Mama Rides Shotgun (5 page)

A funeral home van
inched toward the gate that led from the Bramble ranch to State Road 64. Cracker Trail campers lined both sides of the narrow, crushed-shell road. Mama and I stood with the others, our flashlights and lanterns marking the route of Lawton’s last ride.

The van stopped at the gate, its headlights shining into a vast blackness beyond the highway. The engine idled, a low rumble. Moths flitted in and out of the beams from our lights. One of Lawton’s ranch hands ran to unlock the gate. The rest of us stood silently, waiting.

Doc Abel climbed from the passenger side of the van. Then he leaned in to talk to the driver, one arm resting on the open window. Finally, he straightened and gave a little pat to the side of the vehicle. The driver pulled on through the gate. We watched until his taillights on the highway turned to tiny red dots.

“It’s a shame. He wasn’t that old of a man,’’ someone said.

“Sixty-three or four, I heard,’’ someone else answered.

As the crowd began to break up, Doc Abel walked with heavy steps toward Mama and me.

“That part of the job never gets any easier.’’ He sounded older and more tired than he had just a few hours before. “There’s nothing like saying goodbye to a friend to make you realize your own mortality.’’

Mama aimed her flashlight into the sky. “Are you a religious man, Doc? Because you know, the Bible promises us a reunion in heaven with those we’ve cared for here on earth.’’

Doc was silent for a moment.

“I’m a man of medicine, Rosalee. A man of science. That’s not the best foundation for a strong religious faith. I believe we should make the most of the time we’re given. After that, there’s no guarantee.’’

Mama swung her light into Doc’s face. “Are you telling me you don’t believe in life everlasting?’’

He waited a beat, squinting into the light.

“I believe in life, Rosalee. Let’s just leave it at that.’’

Her eyes searched his face for evidence he might need converting. From past experience, I knew she usually found such evidence, whether it existed or not. I cut her off at the pulpit.

“Doc probably has business to get to, don’t you, Doc?’’ I looked at him meaningfully. “I’m sure he doesn’t have time for a theological discussion.’’

“It’s not theology, Mace.’’ Mama shook her head. “It’s salvation, pure and simple.’’

“Mama,’’ I warned. “Now’s not the time.’’

“There’s always time for the Lord. He always makes time for us.
If you confess with your mouth that Jesus is Lord and believe in your heart that God raised him from the dead, you will be saved.
That’s not just me; that’s the Bible talking. Romans 10:9.’’

Mama’s light was still trained on Doc. He was squirming like a shoplifter in the store security office.

“Mama, haven’t you ever heard the saying ‘To each his own’? Doc has every right to his own views on religion, or anything else.’’

“Even if his views mean he’ll burn in eternal hellfire?’’

Sweat was beginning to bead on Doc’s upper lip, though the night was cool. Maybe he was starting to sizzle in anticipation.

“Mama, if Doc wants spiritual guidance, I’m sure he’ll turn to you.’’ When purple pigs fly, I thought. “Now, that’s enough!’’

Pressing her lips together, she lowered the light. The inquisition appeared to be over, leastwise for now. Doc gave me a grateful look.

“I should be getting back to the ranch house.” He pulled an oversized handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed at his upper lip. “I need to check on Wynonna and the rest of the family. I’m worried about Belle. She’s fragile. Lawton dying might be enough to break her.’’

I could see twin desires warring on Mama’s face: redeeming a non-believer versus discovering a juicy tidbit about a Bramble family member.

“Is Belle crazy, Doc?’’ she blurted out.

“You know I can’t discuss a patient, Rosalee. On the other hand, it is common knowledge Belle’s had some problems growing up.’’

“Well, we don’t hear much common knowledge from up here way down in Himmarshee,’’ Mama said.

“That’s right,’’ I added. “We’re too busy gossiping about our own to worry about gossiping about folks who live a few counties north.’’

Mama pulled herself to her full height. She still didn’t reach my chin. “I am
not
a gossip, Mace. I’m merely concerned about Belle. Maybe I could do something to help her—right, Doc?’’

Only if the poor girl needs a ride all the way ’round the crazy bend, I thought.

“I’d say just be as kind to Belle as you can,’’ Doc said. “Now, I hate to change the subject, but do you suppose there’s any food left from dinner? I missed it altogether.’’

By the looks of him, missing a meal was a rare event. Nonetheless, his mention of food sent Mama into Southern hostess mode.

“You’re hungry?’’ She put a hand on his arm. “Well, why didn’t you say something? That’s awful! We’ll get Johnny to scare you up a plate. He served chicken-fried steak and strawberry pie tonight. It’d be a shame to miss it. Mace and I will take you over and keep you company while you eat.’’

That meant Mama would angle for a little something for us, too, since it’s rude to just sit there and watch someone else eat. I was tired. And I still had to check on our loaner horses. But I am my mama’s daughter, sweet tooth and all. We turned our flashlights toward our cow-pasture-turned-campground and the promise of seconds on strawberry pie.

After a few false starts—“I’m positive it’s a right at the sabal palm, Mace. Not the pine tree!’’—we arrived back at the cook trailer.

Some of the other riders sat in small groups around the campfire. The mood was quiet, subdued. Someone picked a guitar. A few people sipped from coffee cups or beer cans. Johnny, the cook, wasn’t around. But Mama persuaded one of his servers to fix a dinner plate for Doc. She also scored three pieces of pie. The girl left off the whipped cream on top, but Mama decided not to push her luck.

We’d just settled into the camp chairs we left earlier by the fire, when I thought I heard the unmistakable singing voice of Frank Sinatra. A moment later, Mama heard it, too, judging by the smile that spread across her face.

An awful, nasal voice arose, chiming in with the recording for Frank’s big finish: “
Bam-ba-da-dum, Bump-bump-ba-da-dum . . .’’

“Sally!’’ Mama’s smile broadened and her hand flew to her hair. “How’s my lipstick, honey?’’ She bared her teeth at me in the firelight.

“Eaten off with your first piece of strawberry pie.’’

She fumbled through the pockets of her jeans, pulling out a tube of her favorite shade, Apricot Ice. “Hold still a sec, Mace. I can almost make out my reflection, shining in your eyes.’’ She stuck her nose a few inches from mine and formed an O with her mouth.

“Who’s Sally?’’ Doc Abel asked, before tucking into a tower of au gratin potatoes. Seeing his old friend off to the great unknown hadn’t seemed to diminish his appetite.

Mama finished circling her lips. I dabbed with my napkin where she’d smeared Apricot Ice under her nose.

“Sally’s my fiancé,’’ she said, waving the rock on her left hand in Doc’s direction. “Sal Provenza. He’s from New York City.’’

No kidding, I thought. Sal’s as New York as the subway, and just about as subtle.

The last strains of Sinatra wound down. Then, a heavy car door slammed. The smell of dollar store cologne drifted toward us in the night.

“Rosalee, honey? You dere?’’

I’d know that Bronx accent anywhere.

When Sal shouldered his way into the dinner camp, I couldn’t believe my eyes. He had on a ten-gallon hat and cowboy boots. Both in white. His neon-blue jacket sported decorative lapels. On the left, a mounted cowboy tossed a lariat. On the right, the rope ensnared a white-piping calf. And were those rhinestones along the outside seams of Sal’s pants, winking in the firelight?

Mama’s boyfriend looked like John Wayne up and married Elton John.

She shouted, “We’re over here, Sally.’’

“He can always use the glare off that suit to find his way,’’ I cracked.

“Hush!’’ Mama whispered, and she pinched me. Hard.

Mama spooned the last
bite of her strawberry pie into Sal’s mouth. As nauseating as the display was, I knew it was a sign of true love. She’s serious about sweets, never sharing lightly.

I’d given Sal my camp chair and taken a seat on the ground. I shifted, trying to avoid a sharp stob sticking up from the pasture. It was about to draw blood on my butt cheek, right through my jeans. After Sal finished chewing, he leaned back contentedly in my chair. I watched as the supposedly indestructible fabric strained at the seams. I’d bet Mama’s fiancé exceeded the chair’s load capacity, even before he Hoovered that strawberry pie.

“So, you say this Lawton guy keeled over while he was making chili?’’ Sal pulled a toothpick from behind his ear and stuck it in his mouth, staring all the while at Doc Abel.

“It was his heart. And it wasn’t unexpected.’’ Doc sat rigid in his chair, meeting Sal’s stare head on.

“Sally’s not suggesting anything to the contrary.’’ Mama placed her hand on Doc’s arm. Her immaculate manicure was a marvel, considering we were camping in the woods. “He’s from the Bronx in New York, so his questions don’t always come out sounding right.’’

Ring, ring, I thought. That’s the kettle, calling the pot black.

“Rosie’s right about that. I’m just a big bull in the teacup shop half the time.’’ Sal clapped Doc’s shoulder, causing him to wince. “Do you like cigars, Doc? I gotta couple of Cubans I’ve been saving. A buddy brought ’em for me through Mexico. We can have a smoke, so long as you don’t squeal to nobody about where they came from.’’

Doc looked torn. “Smoking isn’t good for your health. On the other hand, I haven’t had a proper cigar in years. What the heck?’’ He shrugged. “Life’s short, as Lawton’s unfortunate death demonstrated today.’’

Sal reached into the neon blue expanse of his jacket and pulled out a leather cigar case, an engagement present from Mama. He handed a cigar to Doc, who sniffed as if it were a fine wine. Putting it between his lips, Doc puffed as Sal torched the tip with a cigar lighter. Once it was glowing, Doc leaned back, exhaling with a happy sigh. He looked like he’d died and gone to that heaven that he didn’t believe in.

When Sal lit up, a cigar-scented cloud swirled around us, warring with the wood smoke from the campfire. Sitting across the way, the big-bottomed cowgirl sniffed, then made a big show of waving her hand in front of her face.

The smell of cigars has never bothered me. They remind me of Mama’s Husband No. 3, who I liked. He was a nice man, just a bad match for Mama. Number 3 taught me to drive in an orange grove he managed west of Fort Pierce. I can still remember the smell in his pickup truck: cigar overlaid with orange blossoms.

“You’re doing just fine, Mace,’’ he’d say, as we bounced along the rows between trees. “Go ahead and give her some gas.’’

I’d floor it, and he’d smile around the cigar he planted between his lips.

Staring into the fire, I flashed back to being fifteen. I’d felt like the queen of the world high up in the cab of that old truck. Watching the flames, I drifted off, almost rolling again with the truck over the rough ground in that long-ago grove. I suddenly snapped back to the present when I heard Sal mention my name.

“What’d I miss?’’

He flicked an ash. His cigar was about two-thirds gone. They must have been talking around me for a while. Had I dozed off?

“I was just telling Doc you’re suspicious after that murder you and your mother got mixed up in last summer.’’
Mudder,
he pronounced it. “You’re inclined to see foul play around every corner, even where there ain’t none. It’s only natural, Mace.’’

Mama scrubbed with Sal’s hanky at a glob of pie he’d dropped on his gaudy Western wear.

“When you open the trunk of your convertible, like I did, and find a dead man stuffed inside like he was a Samsonite suitcase, foul play seems obvious,’’ Mama said. “But, Mace, this looks completely different than my murder victim. It’s clear that Lawton spent his time on earth, died of natural causes, and went on to meet his maker.’’ Here Mama paused to look at Doc. “That’s what Doc says, all except the part about Lawton going to heaven, of course.’’

Oh, Lord. Not the afterlife again.

“Y’all aren’t looking at the whole picture, Mama. Don’t forget Lawton had pulled his gun. And something about that scene just didn’t set right with me.’’

“You’ve seen a lot of crime scenes, huh, Mace?’’ Sal held out his cigar and gazed at it, confident he’d made his point.

I had no comeback. I twisted my body around in an effort to find a comfortable spot—and make Sal feel guilty about taking my chair. As I did, I noticed two teen-aged riders nearby, straining forward in their seats to hear what we’d say next. When the closest one saw me looking, she ducked her head and started fiddling with a big silver buckle on her belt.

“Little pitchers . . .’’ I whispered, nodding in the girls’ direction.

“. . . have big ears,’’ Mama completed the old saying.

I shut up and went back to watching the fire. I was too tired to argue anyway. But I still had my doubts—about the natural causes, and also about heaven. Not that I didn’t believe. I just wondered if Lawton would be asked to make a U-turn at the Pearly Gates. He’d womanized. He was estranged from his only son. And he’d done a friend wrong in love and business. And those were just the sins we knew about.

If there were things in Lawton Bramble’s life bad enough to keep him out of heaven, wouldn’t they be bad enough to get him murdered?

I was pondering that when an excited murmur began to ripple through the campfire crowd. The trail boss was leading Wynonna to the big oak log he’d already used to address the Cracker Trail gathering. People parted, like Wynonna was Princess Di brought back from the dead.

At the log, Jack offered Wynonna his arm. She steadied herself, climbing up in her high-heeled boots. I couldn’t help but notice she’d had time to trade in the black pair she’d worn earlier for a fancier set. These were light blue suede, with a swirl of turquoise snaking up the sides.

Jack coughed a couple of times. But he didn’t need to get anyone’s attention. The dinner camp was as silent as a church, every eye riveted on Wynonna. The broad-beamed cowgirl and her curly-headed pal studied the Widow Bramble like they were in charge of phoning in a report to
People
magazine.

“I’ve just come to say a few words to welcome you to the Bramble ranch,’’ Wynonna said, tears threatening to spill from her green eyes. “Lawton would have wanted that. He’d have wanted y’all to feel at home here, on family land. I’m sure everyone has heard by now that my husband suffered a fatal heart attack this afternoon.’’

The crowd murmured in affirmation.

“The trail boss passed along prayers and condolences from many of you. I want you to know the family—Trey and Belle and I—appreciate it.’’

I glanced around, and noticed the rest of Lawton’s family hadn’t come over with their young stepmother. Had they asked Wynonna to speak, or had she taken on the role on her own?

Brushing her frosted bangs from her forehead, she scanned the large crowd. “I just want y’all to know you’re welcome here, despite Lawton’s death. He really looked forward to being your host. He was all set to catch somebody’s tongue a’fire with that Cow Hunter Chili.’’ Her smile wavered. She touched a wadded up tissue gently to each eye. “I’m sorry,’’ she said.

The crowd murmured its sympathy.

Jack reached for her arm to guide her down from the log. But Wynonna lingered, hanging tight to his hand.

“Just one more thing.’’

The crowd murmured a question.

“Y’all may hear all kinds of things about Lawton in the coming days. Some true. Most not. I just want you to know that, on balance, my husband was a good man. I loved him, faults and all, just the way he loved me. And although our marriage wasn’t a long one, it was solid.’’ Her shoulders began to shake. “I’m going to miss him something awful,’’ she choked out.

Stepping down, Wynonna was sobbing. Jack put an arm around her, adding an awkward pat. First one rider, and then another, and then another stepped forward from the crowd. Hands reached out to comfort her.

“You poor thing,’’ the big cowgirl said, as she stood in line to stroke Wynonna’s arm.

“So brave!’’ The cowgirl’s curly-haired friend dabbed her own teary eyes, and then peeled off a fresh tissue from her pack to hand to the new widow.

“Poor broad.’’ Sal said, and then peered at Mama in the firelight. “I thought for sure you’d have the wadderworks turned on by now.’’ He ran a finger down Mama’s cheek, which was just as dry as mine. “What’s wrong, Rosie? I’ve seen you get teary-eyed over a TV commercial.’’

Mama’s lips were pressed together; her arms folded tight across her chest. She watched through narrowed eyes as a human surge of sympathy engulfed Wynonna.

“Mace?’’ Sal turned to me. “What’s up with your mudder?

Mama shook her head at me, a barely perceptible “no.’’ She wouldn’t speak ill of so recent a widow. But I knew she was thinking the same thing as I was. Wynonna’s public grief smacked of performance. And the two of us had witnessed her dress rehearsal, standing beside her husband’s body just a few hours before.