Mama Does Time

by Deborah Sharp

  As I handed over my credit card, I asked the college-aged kid at the register whether he’d seen a gargantuan golfer with a heavy New York accent.

  “Sure, Big Sal.’’ The kid sucked on a breath mint. I could smell cinnamon clear across the counter. “He was in here about thirty, forty minutes ago. Then he got a call on his cell phone and high-tailed it outside. I heard the tires on his Cadillac squealing as he pulled out of the lot. Guess he was in a hurry to get somewhere.’’

  He pushed my receipt toward me across the glass display case, which held dimpled golf balls and leather gloves. “Sign that, would you? And I’ll need to see some ID.’’

  I gave him my driver’s license. He held it up and inspected it like he was a customs agent at the airport and I was smuggling heroin. “Hmmm, you’re thirty-one? I would have pegged you as younger. It’s not a very flattering picture.’’ He flipped a sun-bleached lock off his forehead and smiled at me, showing off even, white teeth. “You’re much prettier in person, especially your hair. I like the way it shines.’’

  As he handed back my license, his fingers lingered against mine for a couple of beats too long. I couldn’t believe it. The kid was coming on to me. Must be the new ’do.

  “Thanks.’’ I yanked away my fingers and slipped my ID back into my wallet. He put the socks in a little bag, and handed it to me as I headed for the door.

  I was still smiling to myself as I climbed into my Jeep and started on the long drive home. Now, there was date potential, I thought: a pro-shop smoothie young enough to be my nephew. Maybe we’d drive to Orlando and I could take him on the teacup ride at Disney.

  My “post-flirtus” buzz didn’t last long. Soon, I started wondering what the hell had happened to Sal. Why had he stood me up? That led to me worrying about how Mama was doing. It must be just about dinner time at the jail, which couldn’t be a good thing for someone who loves food. Before long, I was trying to fit together all the bits and pieces I’d discovered that day. I needed to prove to Martinez that Mama had nothing to do with Jim Albert’s murder.

  I tried to picture me sharing some information that might replace his customary scowl with a smile. And then my brain took a quick, unexpected detour: how would those lips actually feel against mine I wondered. I traced a finger across my mouth and felt a warm twinge. Where the hell had that thought come from?

  I quickly reined in my brain, and returned to worrying about Mama.

  The road wasn’t crowded. I was deep in thought, puzzling out the pieces of her case. Occasionally, an unwanted image would intrude of Martinez’s face, of his strong hands; of his thick hair. Then, my mind would conjure Mama in her cell, and I’d feel guilty.

  I didn’t notice the other car on my tail until I saw headlights flash in my rearview mirror. Maybe I’d let my speed taper off. I glanced at the speedometer. Nope, holding steady at sixty-six mph. That’s fast enough that no one should be riding my tail, lights flashing crazily. Peering into the mirror, I saw nothing but a white glow with a dark blob behind it. I couldn’t even say if the blob was car or truck.

  Slowing, I waved my arm out the Jeep’s window. There wasn’t another oncoming car until next Tuesday. Go around, fool. He had plenty of room to pass, yet he stayed plastered to my bumper.

  I eased over as far as I could to the right shoulder, giving a wide berth. It was probably a carload of teenagers, tanked up on testosterone and cheap beer. No way was I going to get into a pissing match with that mess. I slowed down some more, doing about forty now.

  That’s when I felt a jolt from behind. I heard a hard, solid bump, high up on the back of my Jeep. It jerked me off the road, onto the rough shoulder. I wrestled with the steering wheel, fighting to keep control. The Jeep bucked like a rodeo bronc coming out the chute. My tires spit weeds and gravel. I tried to steer left, back to smooth pavement. But the other driver blocked my path.

  Like freeze frames in my headlights, a mailbox, four garbage cans, and a barbed wire fence whizzed past. Then my lights swept across the white-gray expanse of a concrete culvert. It looked enormous, looming dead center in my sights.

  And then I saw nothing but black

  I saw that white light that everybody always talks about, gleaming in front of my eyes. A man’s voice called my name, softly, as if from a great distance.

  “Are you there, Daddy?’’ I murmured. “Have you come to take me over to the other side?’’

  I heard knocking.

  “I’m not ready to go yet, Daddy. I haven’t been able to find out who really killed that man in Mama’s trunk. She’s still sitting in the Himmarshee Jail.’’

  Rap. Rap. Rap. The knocking continued.

  “Mace!’’ the voice repeated; louder and more insistent. “Are you okay?’’

  Masculine features blurred, and then formed into a face, peering at me from above. Worried look. Firm jaw. Full mustache.

  “Did you grow that mustache in heaven, Daddy?’’

  “Mace! C’mon back to Earth, girl.’’

  I could almost feel my synapses struggling to fire all the fog out of my brain. “Where am I, Donnie?’’ I finally asked.

  Donnie Bailey, from the jail, stood in water to his waist. He was tapping his flashlight loud against the hood of my Jeep. Cracks branched out across the windshield’s glass like the bare limbs of a dead pine tree.

  “You’re sitting in a ditch up to your wheel wells off Highway 98. Are you hurt?’’

  I moved my left arm and then my right; lifted and lowered each foot. I was surprised to hear them splash into the water that swirled around the floorboards. When I put my palm to my forehead, I felt something else wet. I dropped my hand and stared at my own blood.

  Donnie spoke calmly: “That’s a head wound, Mace. You might have banged it on the steering wheel, or caught some of that barbed wire through your open window.’’ He blinded me, shining his flashlight into my face. “That’ll bleed, but it doesn’t look too deep. Do you think you can undo your seat belt and help me get you out of that Jeep?’’

  Barbed wire fencing was draped like Christmas garland across the Jeep’s front half. Donnie used the long handle on the butt-end of his flashlight to move the wire away. Pulling open my door, he leaned awkwardly into the driver’s seat.

  “Put your arm around my neck, Mace. I’m gonna slip my hands under your legs and lift. Careful. You’re gonna be shaky.’’

  He swung me clear of the door. “Very good,’’ he said. “Now, I’m going to carry you over and set you down on the hood of my squad car where I can get a look at you. Is that okay?’’ He was using that slow, deliberate, ABC-teaching tone.

  “I understand you perfectly, Donnie. I’m not going into shock on you. Did I hit the concrete culvert?’’

  I could smell the muddy sediment and the grassy scent of water spinach stirring as we moved. I hoped that was all that was stirring in that dark water. Donnie slipped a little climbing up the steep bank. I’m heavier than I look.

  “You missed hitting it head-on. Grazed it.’’ He stopped at the top to catch his breath. “There’s a big scratch along the culvert. Then it looks like you flew over that grassy berm, and right into the water.’’

  We waited on the bank, as Donnie gathered strength. Mosquitoes hummed in the still air.

  “You can put me down. I’m fine.’’ I felt embarrassed that someone whose diapers I’d changed was carrying me like a baby.

  “You’re not walking until I know what you’ve hurt.’’ He was still panting a little.

  We made it the twenty feet or so to his car. He sat me down on the hood and grabbed a blanket from the trunk to wrap around me. Now, he was checking me over—noting whether my skin was clammy or warm; feeling my pulse. I’d done the same thing myself to injured visitors at Himmarshee Park. After toting me through the water and up a small hill, Donnie’s heart rate
was probably worse off than mine.

  “Can you feel that? Does that hurt?’’ he asked, pressing first on my midsection and then down my legs. “How ’bout that?’’ he said, moving on to the rest of my body.

  My head felt as big as a balloon in the Macy’s parade, and my right knee ached like somebody smashed it with a mallet. “I’m fine, Donnie,’’ I lied. “Just shaken up.’’

  “You’re lucky you didn’t wind up top side down in the water,’’ he said, moving aside my new hairdo to see if there were any more cuts. “I’d never have seen you if not for your headlights shining out over the canal. It’s a good thing we’ve had some dry days, or that water would have been higher.’’

  He backed up a couple of steps, the better to view all of me at once.

  “Looks like you’ll live.’’ He bent down to pick a long stem of hydrilla out of his shoe. I could hear the water dripping as he held up one foot.

  “Thanks for coming to my rescue, Donnie. I might have stumbled out of the Jeep, fallen underwater, and never come to. I owe you.’’

  “You should still have them look you over at the hospital, though. I’ve already radioed in about your accident.’’

  Donnie using that word triggered my recall of the frightening moments before the crash. “It wasn’t an accident,’’ I said quickly. “Somebody deliberately ran me off the road.’’

  I told him what happened, describing how the other vehicle had chased me, finally forcing me to lose control. “I’m telling you they bumped me, Donnie. Hard. If you check the Jeep’s rear end once it’s on dry land, you’ll probably find a scrape of paint or something from his car. I’m saying right now, this was on purpose. It was no accident.’’

  I could see the skepticism in his eyes. “Why would someone want to do that, Mace?’’

  “I’ve been out there all day, asking questions about Jim Albert. So far, all I’m sure of is Mama didn’t murder him. But maybe it’s making somebody nervous that I’m going to find out who did.’’

  Donnie swung his flashlight out to the road and then to the ditch. Aside from the bugs he picked up in the beam, we were definitely alone now. “Or maybe it was just you out here. You were tired, and you fell asleep at the wheel. That’s nothing to be ashamed of, Mace. I’ve done it myself.’’

  We both got quiet. I can’t speak for Donnie, but I was busy trying to think of a list of suspects who might have wanted me drowned at the bottom of a canal. Frogs croaked. Crickets chirped. I slapped at a mosquito that landed on my neck. In the distance, a siren wailed.

  “Don’t tell me that’s an ambulance, Donnie. I don’t like ambulances.’’

  “You need to go to the hospital to be evaluated,’’ he said stubbornly. “You could have internal bleeding or swelling in your brain.’’

  “I told you: I’m fine. And I’m not riding in the back of an ambulance. They loaded my father into one after his heart attack, and that was the last time any of us saw him. I still remember the sight of those doors closing on Daddy. My sisters and I stood there in the road, watching until that ambulance was no bigger than a dot.’’ My voice trembled.

  Donnie pulled at the collar on his shirt and looked down at the ground.

  “Sorry,’’ I said. “A narrow escape from death might make anybody a little emotional. Now,’’ I said, shifting gears, “tell me why you can’t just give me a ride back to town?’’

  “If it was any other night, I would. But my little boy’s sick, and my wife is already late for the night shift at the nursing home. My son needs me, and those old people need her. I’m sorry, Mace.’’

  I felt bad for being so selfish. Not to mention ancient. I couldn’t believe my one-time babysitting charge was married with a boy of his own. That siren was getting closer. Even as banged up as I felt, I knew I’d rather walk to town than ride in that ambulance.

  Suddenly, I had what seemed like a good idea. Then again, I might have had a brain injury.

  “Could you call Detective Martinez?’’ I said. “I believe this might have something to do with the questions I’ve been asking about Jim Albert’s murder. Maybe he’ll think so, too. He’d want to get a look at things out here, in case it turns out this is a crime scene.’’

  I could see Donnie thinking it over. The detective outranked him. He wouldn’t want to be blamed for making a mistake. I knew if Martinez came out, I could bum a ride back with him. I’d prefer even that to being shut into the back of an ambulance.

  Donnie finally agreed, putting in a call for the detective. In the meantime, the ambulance crew arrived and checked me over. They did essentially what Donnie had done, except they used various medical gizmos to gauge my vital signs. They grumbled a little when I refused to be transported to the hospital. But I know my rights. I don’t have a cousin who’s a lawyer for nothing.

  Martinez arrived just as the ambulance was leaving. Donnie met him by the road, and the two conferred, out of my hearing. Donnie was probably telling him how I’d hallucinated a chase scene after I got knocked on the head. That, along with my daddy’s visit from heaven. After Martinez stopped nodding, they headed my way.

  He peered into my face. Not that I cared, but was that a flicker of concern in his eyes?

  “How’re you feeling, Ms. Bauer?’’ he asked.

  “Not crazy, if that’s what you want to know. Someone ran me off the road.’’

  He put out his arm for me to grab hold of. I ignored it, and climbed down off Donnie’s hood. A shot of pain from my knee nearly took my breath away. My leg buckled, but Martinez caught me firmly by the waist. I was still shakier than I’d thought. But not so shaky I didn’t notice the hard muscle in his arm where he held me next to his side. Or the masculine way he smelled, like after-shave mixed with a faint trace of cigars.

  “Steady, chica.’’ His warm breath in my ear sent a shiver south of my stomach. I wasn’t sure what the Spanish word meant, but it sounded nice. “Just take slow steps, okay?’’ Martinez said. “We’re going to get you to the front seat of my car. We’ll take our time.’’

  He nodded curtly at Donnie, dismissing him from the responsibility of me. With a wave from the open driver’s side window of his car, Donnie bid me good-bye. “Remember what I said about dozing off, Mace. It’s nothing to have to hide.’’

  I smiled and waved back. But I was simmering inside. I couldn’t believe Donnie thought I was making it all up.

  “I’m telling the truth, you know,’’ I said, feeling cranky now.

  As Martinez settled me into his passenger seat, I repeated what I’d told Donnie. Including how I thought my crash was linked to the murder. Every once in awhile, he’d nod, leaning against the inside of my open door, arms across his chest.

  When I was done, he said, “I don’t disbelieve you, Ms. Bauer.’’

  What the hell did that mean? He wasn’t calling me a liar, but he wasn’t saying he believed me, either.

  “We’ll know more about how it happened when we can look over your car. The officer called …’’

  “Donnie,” I said, annoyed. “He has a name.’’

  “All right, Officer Donnie called for a tow truck. They’ll haul your Jeep to the Florida Highway Patrol, and tomorrow we’ll see what we can find. I’ve requested an accident investigator from the FHP. She’s coming out here to check the scene for skid marks, tire tracks, and anything else she can find.’’

  He leaned across my body and fastened the seat belt at my hip. There was that cursed twinge again. Apparently, there was nothing wrong with my nether regions. His cologne smelled spicy, but subtle. It definitely beat the ditch water stench coming off of me.

  After rummaging in his trunk, Martinez returned with three roadside flares. “I’m going to light these to mark the accident scene, and then you’re going to the hospital. Your friend, Officer Donnie, already gave dispatch the l
ocation, but these will help the investigator narrow it down.’’ He placed the flares on the car’s roof, and stooped to look at me. Brushing the hair from my forehead, he examined my wound. I was surprised at the gentleness of his touch. His hands looked so strong. I jerked away, but the warm impression from his fingers lingered.

  “You were northbound when you went off the road, right?’’

  “When I was run off the road,’’ I snapped at him, embarrassed by my body’s response to him.

  “What were you doing out here anyway? It’s the middle of nowhere.’’

  As if to emphasize our isolation, we heard the deep, bellowing grunt of a bull gator. All of a sudden, an image of Mama’s boyfriend flashed into my head. I couldn’t believe I’d forgotten to mention before now how he’d summoned me to the distant golf course.

  “Salvatore Provenza, huh?’’ Martinez’s attention was riveted as I related my story. “And you say he wasn’t there when you showed up?’’

  “That’s right. I didn’t even want to go out to that stupid golf course in the first place. I’d been busy all day, questioning people who might know something about Mama’s case.’’

  “So I’ve heard. You’re quite the interrogator.’’ Did I see the tiniest smile cracking through the granite in Martinez’s jaw?

  “Anyway, I was tired. All I wanted to do was go home, nuke some fried chicken, and vegetate in front of my TV. But he’s my mother’s boyfriend. And he sounded so desperate.’’

  “Sal’s desperate all right.” Martinez rose. All trace of a smile was gone. “And you’d be wise to remember that desperate people do desperate things.’’

  Dread settled like a boulder in my stomach as Martinez and I pulled up to Himmarshee Regional Hospital. I’m not afraid of doctors. But I am afraid of my older sister.