Mama Rides Shotgun

by Deborah Sharp

  “We should get a doctor, or at least an ambulance, out here to do what’s right for Lawton,’’ Mama said, craning her neck around Wynonna’s generous bustline to find me. “Mace, honey, why don’t you call somebody on your cell-o-phone?’’

  “My cell phone is in the saddlebag, Mama.’’

  “There’s . . . no . . . reception . . .’’ Wynonna said between sobs. “We’ll have to walk up to the house . . . to . . . place a . . . to place a . . . call.’’

  She seemed to be making an effort to control herself. She stepped away from us and gave her tight blouse a tug to rearrange it at the waist. She ran her hands through her hair, lifting and patting it back into place. Mama offered her a handkerchief from the pocket of her own powder-blue jeans. Taking the lacy blue hanky, Wynonna dabbed daintily at her nose.

  “I think I’m ready to go up to the house,’’ she said, squaring her shoulders. “I’d just like to pick up that chili cup and take it with me. I want something to remember him by.’’

  Something about the way Wynonna had gotten a hold of herself so quickly rubbed me the wrong way. It seemed brave, yes. But brave like she was playing the role of a distraught but determined widow in a movie. Then again, everybody grieves in different ways. Who am I to say what’s normal and not?

  The three of us walked back to Lawton’s body. Now that the initial shock had passed, I immediately noticed that the air was thick with the smell of tomatoes, spiced beef, and beans. Wynonna gave us a shaky smile.

  “With Lawton, it was always Cow Hunter Chili this, and Cow Hunter Chili that. ‘Cow hunters’ is what they called the old-time Florida cowboys, you know?’’

  I nodded.

  “He sure loved making that chili, Lawton did.’’

  Mama cleared her throat. “Do you want to say your goodbyes, honey? Mace and I will stand right here with you ’til you’re done.’’

  Wynonna’s tears glistened again in the light of the fire. She closed her eyes and started murmuring something that sounded like a prayer. Mama put an arm around her waist. I stood awkwardly on Wynonna’s other side, hands dangling from my wrists. As she went on, I lowered my eyes out of respect.

  Gazing down, I noticed something silvery shimmering near Lawton’s right leg. Probably a tasting spoon or a cooking utensil of some sort, I thought. But it looked too bulky for that. I took a couple of steps closer. Wynonna stopped praying.

  I squinted in the flashlight beam. The object was nearly hidden under Lawton’s thick leg, but the shape was unmistakable. It was a gun.

  Bending at the waist, I took a better look. Lawton wore an old-fashioned holster, a nod to the turn-of-the-century Florida frontier men who once rode the Cracker Trail. I got on my knees, lowered my head, and peered as close as I could at his right thigh. The gun was a Colt .44, lifted free of the holster.

  Now, why would Lawton have had to pull that six-shooter if all he was doing when he died was making chili?

  “Mace, honey? What’s going on? What’re you doin’ crawling around down there on the ground?’’

  “That’s a good question.’’ Wynonna echoed Mama, her voice as cool as the darkening night. “What is it you find so interesting about my husband’s body?’’

  I stood and brushed dirt and bits of dead grass from the knees of my jeans. “I’m sorry, Wynonna. I didn’t mean any disrespect.’’

  She narrowed her eyes at me.

  “Fact is, I don’t think it’s a good idea for us to touch anything else. Or, for you to cart off that chili-tasting mug of Lawton’s.’’ I worked at keeping my voice neutral. Respectful. “I think we ought to leave everything here, just as we found it.’’

  Nary a tear shone in Wynonna’s eyes now. “So that’s what you think, is it? And why is that?’’

  “Because I don’t think your husband died of natural causes.’’

  Mama took a sharp breath. “Mace, mind your manners! Wynonna’s already told us her husband wasn’t a well man. She’s struggling with an awful loss. The last thing she needs is you playing detective. It’s just plain cruel.’’

  “Sorry,’’ I said, lifting my eyes to Lawton’s widow. “I just think we should get the authorities out here to determine exactly what happened.’’

  “I’m going to apologize for my daughter.’’ Mama’s tone was confiding. “Mace is used to being in charge—at least she is when her big sister Maddie’s not around. Maddie bosses everyone she sees, but she doesn’t mean any harm by it.’’ Mama put her hands on her hips, settling in for a gal-to-gal chat. “Truth is, we had us a bit of trouble last summer after I found that poor dead man in the trunk of my convertible. It’s made Mace awful suspicious about anything that could, possibly, in any way, no matter how remote . . . be murder.’’

  Wynonna was listening to Mama, but she hadn’t taken her eyes off me.

  “What makes you think Lawton was muh . .’’ she swallowed like the word was stuck in her throat, then tried again. “What makes you think Lawton’s death wasn’t a heart attack?’’

  I pointed out the Colt on the ground under Lawton.

  “Is that all?’’ She shook her head, her frosted blonde bangs falling prettily into her eyes. “Lawton was probably out here practicing his quick draw. I used to come in on him all the time, showboating in front of the mirror. He thought he was something out of an old Clint Eastwood movie with all those big ol’ guns of his. ‘Make my day,’ he’d say into the mirror, his eyes all squinty like a gunslinger. When I’d catch him, and bust out laughing, he’d get so embarrassed. Y’all should see him do it. It’s real funny.’’

  The half-smile died on Wynonna’s lips as she caught herself using the present tense. A tear coursed down her cheek. Mama reached over and rubbed her shoulder.

  “I really loved him, you know?’’ Her voice was soft, pleading with us to believe her. “I’m well aware of what people think about me. I’m sure y’all think it, too.’’

  “Oh, honey. Nobody thinks anything bad about you.’’

  I thought Mama was laying it on a bit thick, but Wynonna looked at her hopefully.

  “That’s nice of you to say. But yes. Yes, they do. They think I’m a gold digger.’’

  Mama opened her mouth to protest. Wynonna waved a hand to ward off whatever lie Mama was about to tell.

  “No, it’s all right. I’m used to it. People have always thought the worst of me, ever since I was a girl in North Carolina. I’ve never really understood why; but I think it’s the reason I’ve grown such a hard shell. I could say it until I’m blue in the face, but people will just not believe how much I loved Lawton. He was the first man who ever ‘got’ me. Soul to soul. And not just because I’m nice to look at, either. I think he would have proposed even if I was big and fat and plain as a fence post.’’

  I doubted that, but I held my tongue.

  “Truth is, I would have married Lawton Bramble if he didn’t have a pot to piss in. My own mother married for money. She always said it was the hardest work she ever did. We kids grew up with anything we wanted, but not a bit of love in the house. My father was rich, but he could be a cold son of a bitch.’’

  Not unlike Lawton himself, I thought.

  “My mother died alone and unhappy,’’ she said. “People blamed it on the stress of having been married to my dad. I’d be the last woman in the world to set my sights on a man just because he had money.’’

  Wynonna stared into the dying cook fire, a faraway look in her eyes. I wondered if she was thinking about her present heartache, or about that loveless childhood home?

  We sure didn’t have much money after Daddy died. And, more often than not, Mama’s antics drove my two sisters and me to distraction. But love was one thing all of us always had enough of. I suddenly felt sorry for Wynonna.

  We were silent for a few moments, even Mama. An owl flew by, so low I felt a whoosh of wind as it passed. Frogs formed a chorus from the alligator grass in a creek on the Bramble land. Finally, Wynonna cleared her throat.


  “Well, I guess we should head over to the house; get somebody to come on out here, like Mace said.’’ She ran a graceful hand through her hair. “I want everything to be on the up and up. I know people will imagine the worst about me. I’m not going to give them any cause to talk.’’

  She looked at Lawton’s tasting mug. “I’ll leave his chili cup just where it is, too. At least ’til we get everything straightened out.’’

  “Don’t worry, Wynonna. You’ll carry Lawton right here.’’ Mama put her palm to her own chest, patting at her heart. “That’s the way it is when someone you love dies.’’

  Wynonna nodded, brushing at the fresh tears that spilled onto her cheeks.

  I reached for her arm to steer her away. “C’mon. Let’s get you home,’’ I said.

  I was surprised when she grabbed at my outstretched hand and hung on.

  “Thanks, Mace. I mean it. I’m sorry I blew up at you before. I know you only have Lawton’s best interests at heart.’’

  “Well, honey, of course we do,’’ Mama butted in. “Lawton’s a very dear old friend.’’

  I prayed Mama wouldn’t get into just how dear their friendship had been. I sent her a warning look. Wynonna didn’t seem to notice.

  “Will y’all stay with me when I break the news to Lawton’s kids?’’ she asked. “I don’t want to do that alone.’’

  “Whatever you need, honey. We’ll be right beside you.’’ Mama patted Wynonna’s free hand.

  With her other hand, Wynonna clutched at me like a drowning woman. She held on so tight, my fingers were going white.

  We picked our way through oak trees and scrub between Lawton’s outdoor fire pit and the Bramble home. Wild hogs had torn through, digging up roots in the dirt. The ground was rough and uneven. We all cast our eyes downward, so as not to stumble in the dim light.

  “Watch out, Mama. There’s a big rotten log just ahead.’’

  Wynonna, at least thirty years younger than Mama and twice as strong, dropped my hand. She stepped behind me, nearly lifting Mama off her feet to help her over the log.

  We started out again, single file, as the path narrowed through the hammock’s thick trees. Just then, a faint noise floated toward us on the night air. Low, droning, it was unlike the evening song of any bird I’d ever heard. I strained to catch it more clearly. Animal? Human? I couldn’t be sure. I turned and motioned for Mama and Wynonna to hold up.

  “Hear that?’’ I whispered.

  Mama cocked her head to listen. “Whistle While You Work,’’ she finally said. “Sorriest rendition I’ve ever heard.’’

  She was right. The melody was there, but just barely. What should have been a happy, peppy tune sounded more like a dirge. Combine the thought of Lawton’s body growing cold in the clearing with that odd, cheerless song, and it was enough to raise a prickle along the back of my neck.

  For a moment, the whistle seemed familiar. And then, suddenly, a sound exploded in the woods just ahead. I stopped pondering the unhappy tune. I stopped thinking about anything at all. Something crashed through the brush. It was big. It was loud. And it was coming straight for us.

  “Dammit!’’

  A heavy-set man muttered curses as he hopped on one foot. He flailed at a vine encircling his ankle. He beat at a low-growing sabal palm that threatened to knock an already battered straw hat off his head.

  “I hate the woods!’’ He swore again under his breath.

  He seemed unaware of our presence, probably because of the racket he was raising in the brush. Either that, or Dr. Frank Abel had lost what was left of his hearing at the same time he’d gained about three pant sizes around the waist. He was already old, and on the heavy side, when I last saw him, some ten years before. Doc Abel treated a wrist I’d sprained when a horse threw me in a riding accident a couple of hours north of Himmarshee, near Holopaw, Florida. I’d have guessed he would have retired by now.

  Wynonna rushed toward him, surprisingly nimble for a woman in high-heel boots in thick undergrowth. “I’m so glad you’re here, Doc. Something awful has happened.’’ Reaching him, she offered an arm for him to hang onto. “Lawton’s had a heart attack. He’s at his cook site.’’

  “Oh God, no! I need to see to him, Wynonna. Help me out of this mess.’’ He struggled some more as Wynonna leaned to untangle him from the grip of the vines.

  “He’s dead, Doc. I told them how you and his other doctors tried to make him control his cholesterol. Now, Lawton’s beyond your help,’’ she said.

  Doc Abel’s hand went to his own chest. Given his advanced age and the purple tint to his face, I hoped we weren’t going to have another casualty along the Cracker Trail.

  “Are you sure he’s dead?’’ he asked. “I need to make sure.’’ Finally extricating himself from the clutch of the woods, Doc Abel was all business now.

  I glanced at Wynonna. Her face was pale and drawn. The evening’s events were finally sinking in. She reached for my hand again.

  “Mama, why don’t you take Doc over to see Lawton?’’

  As she looked at Doc, I could almost see the gears spinning. Mama was actually weighing him as a match for me. But whether it was our age difference of at least forty-five years, or the fact that Lawton was lying in the woods unprotected from who-knows-what animal, she thought better of her timing.

  “I’ll do it, Mace. But you know you’re better with details and I’m better with people. I should be with Wynonna once she gets to the house.’’

  I shot Mama a look. Her eyes followed mine down to the vise grip Lawton’s widow had on my hand. For some reason, Wynonna had attached herself, even though I’m not generally the comforting type.

  “Make sure you tell Doc everything we talked about,’’ I said.

  Mama nodded. “Everything,’’ she repeated.

  “The rest of the riders will be gathering for dinner soon,’’ I said. “We need to let Lawton’s kin know what happened before word starts to spread.’’

  After they left, Wynonna and I waited a few moments to make sure they found their way. The sound of the physician stomping through the woods had just begun to fade, when we heard a loud snap of brush.

  “Watch that log, Doc!’’ Mama yelled from the distance.

  I pictured him toppling over, pulling down an acre of skunk vine. “I guess the doctor doesn’t do nature,’’ I said.

  “Oh, my Lord, no.’’ Dropping my hand, Wynonna stepped in front to lead the way. “That man’s idea of physical activity is strolling the buffet line at the Kountry Kitchen. He’s never met a smothered pork chop or a chicken-fried steak he doesn’t like.’’

  She pulled back a branch from a hickory sapling so I could pass.

  “Sounds like the old saying: Do as I say, not as I do. Did Doc Abel really think Lawton would listen to him about diet and exercise, considering Doc’s own bad habits?’’ I asked.

  “Oh, he wasn’t really Lawton’s main doctor anymore. Lawton started seeing a fancy cardiologist a few years back. Doc’s been slipping a bit, but he still gives out flu shots and the occasional prescription. He and Lawton go way back, and Lawton’s loyal. Doc took care of him ever since he was a little boy, you know?’’

  I shook my head, and felt the web of a banana spider clinging to my eyelashes.

  “Yep, Lawton and his folks were among Doc’s first patients when he was just starting out. And he kept going to him until he was a grown man, with grown kids of his own.’’ Wynonna looked over her shoulder in the direction we’d come. I wondered if she was thinking about how Doc Abel might be examining her husband’s body right now.

  To distract her, I told Wynonna how Doc had iced and wrapped my wrist a decade before. As I spoke, I had a flash of him leaning over me in his exam room, reading glasses slid low on his nose. He asked me where it hurt, then gently lifted my hand this way and that. And as he did, I now remembered, he whistled that same tuneless song we’d heard in the woods tonight. That’s why his awful version of “Whistle While You Work�
�� had sounded familiar.

  ___

  Wynonna led the way up three cypress wood steps to the Bramble ranch house. A wide porch encircled the house. A line of wooden rocking chairs sat under outdoor ceiling fans. Two big front windows were open, bringing in cool air to a structure that sat in the center of flat pastureland. Since the last hurricane, only two oak trees remained for shade. For most of the year, the house baked under a scorching sun, making it intolerable without air-conditioning.

  But this was February. The crisp weather was welcome. In Florida, steam baths aren’t a luxury to indulge at a spa. They’re a hardship to endure every time we walk out the front door from June straight through to October.

  Wynonna’s hand was on the doorknob when we heard shouting from inside.

  “And I told you I wouldn’t sch-tand for it,’’ a man yelled, his voice slurred. He waited, apparently listening, though we heard no one else speak. “Goddammit, I said no. Ab-showlutely not!’’

  Something hit the wall on the other side of the door, and then clattered to the floor. Unsteady footsteps lurched inside. A few seconds later came a heavy thump, followed by the sound of shattering glass.

  “Ouc-sh! That hurt!’’ The same man yelled.

  Wynonna’s hand froze on the knob. “I don’t want to deal with this,’’ she whispered.

  I cocked an eyebrow.

  “It’s Lawton’s son, Trey. I wasn’t looking forward to breaking the news under the best circumstances. And now this. He’s drunk.’’

  We both looked at the door. She straightened, seeming to gather her strength as she had at the cook site.

  “Now or never.’’ She breathed deeply. I patted awkwardly at her shoulder, trying to do as I’d seen Mama do.

  She opened the door. I followed her in, stepping carefully around the cell phone that lay in pieces near the door jamb.

  Trey sat cross-legged on the floor of a large living room, next to an overturned lamp. There was a rip in the wagon-wheel shaped shade. Light bulb shards were scattered across the legs of his jeans. His head hung in his hands. Scratches crisscrossed his muscled forearms, exposed by the rolled up sleeves of a Western-cut shirt.