Mama Rides Shotgun

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 begi

“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 Wyno

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 di

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 Joh

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. Joh

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 di

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.