Mama Rides Shotgun

by Deborah Sharp

  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.

  “Littl
e 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.

  “Bravo! Bravo!’’

  The mocking shout came from the edge of the crowd. In the hushed silence that followed, Trey stood all alone, clapping. He must have slipped in while all eyes were on his stepmother.

  “And the Oscar goes to Wynonna Bramble,’’ Trey continued, “as the grieving widow.’’ He swayed a bit, but his voice carried like a TV preacher’s. “Oh my Lord, what will poor, young Wynonna do now? What will she do, without her beloved husband? Not to worry, folks. That pile of money she’ll inherit will make it a whole lot easier for our heroine to answer that question.’’

  Gasps rippled through the crowd. Heads swiveled to Trey and back to Wynonna. It was so quiet you could hear the wood sap popping in the campfire.

  “Hello, Trey.’’ Wynonna’s eyes were bone-dry now. “I see you’ve been drinking. Again.’’

  “And I see you’ve been play-acting about how much you loved my daddy. Again. You may have these fine people fooled, Wynonna. But I’m not nearly drunk enough to buy it. It’s just a matter of time before you’re found out. And I plan to be there when it happens, holding the rope for your pretty neck.’’

  Wynonna’s hands clenched at her sides. She took a couple of steadying breaths. When her voice came out, it was as unforgiving as a slab of ice.

  “It’s too bad you didn’t take such an interest in your daddy before he died, Trey. He cried many a tear over you. Your drinking. Your business failures. Your refusal to grow up. I think it was all the stress you gave Lawton that finally broke his weak heart.’’

  Trey’s eyes were slits as he took a step toward Wynonna, a rattlesnake ready to strike. She backed up against the trail boss, who looked like he’d rather be off roping a calf somewhere. Moving fast for such a big man, Sal inserted himself between the widow and her stepson. With a hand like a bear paw, he grabbed Trey’s arm.

  “C’mon, pal. Let’s you and me take a wawk,’’ Sal said. “We’ll have us a little tawk.’’

  In tone, in size, in demeanor—Sal oozed menace. He had at least five inches and a hundred pounds on the younger man. And Trey wasn’t that drunk that he’d argue with someone who looked and acted like a New York gangster. Sal had found it served his purpose to let people assume whatever they would about his colorful past, before retirement in Florida.

  I grabbed a lantern and caught up with the two of them in time to overhear Trey ask, “Are you taking me to the woodshed?’’

  “Too late for that, pal. Your fadder should have done that a long time ago.’’

  At the mention of Lawton, Trey’s shoulders slumped. The tough-guy cast to his face crumbled. “Wynonna’s a bitch, and she never loved my daddy. But she’s right about one thing. I’m probably the reason his heart quit. I never gave that man a day of peace.’’

  I took hold of Trey’s other arm. “That’s not true, and you know it,’’ I said. “I remember Lawton sitting in the stands at Himmarshee High when you played football. He was so proud of you. He always wore that No. 1 Fan hat with the Brahma horns. He’d scream his head off with every touchdown pass you threw.’’

  A half-smile appeared, making Trey’s face handsome again. “Yeah, I remember that, too.’’ The smile faded, faster than it came. “But high school was a long time ago. I’m talking about the mess I’ve made of my life since then.’’

  I couldn’t argue with him there. I’d already seen evidence of hard drinking. And I’d witnessed something fishy going on between Trey and his father’s wife, although I still wasn’t sure what.

  “My screw-ups killed my daddy,’’ Trey sai
d, “as sure as if I took a gun and shot him.’’

  Sal stopped short, which meant we did, too, since he was the engine pulling all of us away from the dinner camp. Like a kid’s game of whip, we jerked around, too, from the brute force of Sal’s action.

  “You listen to me, son.’’ Sal brought his big head close to Trey’s. “I’ve seen a lot of people over the years do a lot of bad things. Stabbings and beatings. Fatal shootings, where one person aims a weapon to take another’s life. That’s murder. You being a bad son, maybe even a disappointing son? It doesn’t come close to that level of evil.’’

  Sal paused, letting his words sink in. Finally, he moved his huge hand from Trey’s arm to his shoulder. He gave it a fatherly squeeze.

  “It’s not too late, you know. You can step up and be a man. It’s what your dad would have wanted. Maybe, somehow, he’ll know you’ve straightened up and done right.’’

  Trey dropped his head to his chest, and brushed quickly at his eyes. He coughed. When he raised his face, my heart ached at the grief I saw written there. I had the strangest urge to wrap my arms around him and comfort him with a kiss.

  Trey stared at me with his daddy’s blue eyes, and I wondered if he could read my thoughts. It surprised me to realize I wouldn’t mind if he did.

  Our eyes locked. A flash of desire arced between us. It must have spilled out into the cool air, because Sal dropped his hand from Trey’s shoulder and took a step back. His gaze shifted, first to Trey and then to me.

  “Guess I’ll get back to the fire,’’ he mumbled as he backed away from us. “See if Rosie needs anything.’’

  I lifted my hand in a wave, not wanting to pull my eyes from Trey’s. “Bye, Sal,’’ I said.

  “Bye,’’ Trey echoed, never breaking my gaze. “And, Sal? Thanks.’’

  The light in our clearing dimmed as Sal walked away, carrying the lantern I’d brought. Trey pulled a small flashlight from his pocket; flicked it on and off so I could see he had it. Neither of us said a word. Cattle lowed in a distant pasture. Crickets chirped. Clouds floated across a dinner plate moon.