Mama Rides Shotgun

Under the dimming beam of the flashlight, the stain on my bag looked an awful lot like blood.

Snores rumbled from inside Sal’s Cadillac. How in the world could he sleep with Mama rattling the windows like that? I tapped at the glass by her head.

“Wake up,’’ I whispered. “It’s me again.’’

I’d left my campsite without touching anything, backing away from my shredded tent the way I’d come. I didn’t want to trample any evidence that might be collected. Not that my case would be a high priority for the crime lab at the Florida Department of Law Enforcement. On further inspection, the dark stain on my sleeping bag turned out to be red wine. Merlot, probably. When I got close enough to sniff, my campsite smelled like Happy Hour at a yuppie bar.

I rapped harder on the car window.

“Mama, open up. It’s colder out here than a freezer full of sheared sheep.’’

The front-seat car door swung open. Mama had shifted in her sleep, and now the other side of her bouffant ’do drooped, too. At least she was symmetrical.

“What in the blue blazes is wrong with you, Mace?’’ She rubbed her eyes. “We shouldn’t all have to suffer just ’cause you’re too stubborn to admit you can’t take the cold.’’

“Scoot over, Mama.’’ I slid in. The seat was blessedly warm where she’d slept. “This isn’t about the temperature. My tent’s not an option. Somebody took a hunting knife or a kitchen cleaver to it. My sleeping bag, too. They’re both ripped to ribbons.’’

Mama gasped. Sal stirred in the back seat.

“Are you okay?’’ She put a hand on my cheek, making sure I was whole.

“I’m fine. Just pissed off. I wasn’t there when it happened. But I think I might know who did it.’’ I pulled a corner of Mama’s down comforter over my lap.

“Did what?’’ Sal grumbled.

“Somebody stabbed Mace’s tent, Sally.’’ She turned to me. “Who was it, honey?’’

I told her about Trey’s girlfriend, how she’d walked in on us in the woods and called me a tramp.

“She’s pretty, so she’s used to getting what she wants. And she acted like a girl who doesn’t like to be crossed. I wouldn’t put vandalism past her at all.’’

Sal’s big head popped up from the back seat. His hair looked better than Mama’s. Maybe she should try his styling mousse.

“Mace has a point about vandalism, Rosie.’’ He rested those ham-like arms on the seat back and leaned in close. “Men move right to physical violence; women often target property. It’s a known fact.’’

Mama took some breath spray from her purse and handed it to Sal.

“Don’t you remember that cheerleader at Himmarshee High, Mama?’’ I asked. “The one who was so jealous of Marty? When her ex asked Marty to the prom, the cheerleader threw acid on Marty’s Ford Escort. Marty had to drive it until she could scrape together the insurance deductible. Her poor car looked like a speckled Dalmatian.’’

Sal squirted, and passed the breath spray back to Mama. She handed it to me.

“I haven’t even been to sleep yet, Mama.’’ Offended, I tossed it back to her.

“Couldn’t hurt, darlin’.’’ She put it in my lap. “And I do remember that cheerleader. I remember your sister couldn’t do anything about it because we couldn’t prove the girl did it. The Himmarshee Police didn’t take Marty very seriously.’’

“Sounds about right.’’ Sal’s freshened breath hit us in the front seat like a ci

The idea of talking to Carlos about anything made the two pieces of pie I’d eaten earlier somersault over each other. I swallowed my emotions, along with a tiny, strawberry-flavored burp.

“He’s seventy-some miles out of his jurisdiction up here.’’ My voice was so measured, I might have been discussing interest rates, not the man I once thought I loved. “Besides, I’m going to handle it myself.’’

“I don’t like the way that sounds, Mace.’’ Mama shook her finger at me.

“Me neither,’’ Sal said. “You’re not go

My mouth opened wide in a laugh, and I realized Mama had been right about that breath spray. I aimed a blast at my tongue. “Nobody’s whacking anybody. I’m just saying I intend to prove Austin’s the one who ripped up my stuff, then drenched it with wine.’’

Mama and Sal were silent. Tired, probably. I know I was. As I wondered where I’d bunk for the rest of the ride, I glanced at Sal’s watch, sitting on the dashboard. Saucer-sized, encrusted with diamonds, the face read two-thirty-five a.m. I had to be up in less than four hours to groom, saddle, and water the horses. I expected Mama to help, manicure or not.

But I wasn’t going to tell her that now. Now, I needed to be sweet since I had nowhere else to lay my head.

“Listen, if you meant it before, Mama, I’ll take you up on your offer to sleep here.’’

“Say no more, darlin’.’’ She vaulted over the seat with entirely too much familiarity for a woman about to celebrate her sixty-third birthday on the Fourth of July. “Sal and I will be snug as two bugs back here.’’

I heard the rustle of clothes and blankets. Sal grunted. Mama oofed, as the two of them shifted this way and that, getting comfortable. Soon, she was snoring again. Taking as brief a glance as I could into the back, I was surprised to find they fit, given Sal’s size. My fingers covered my eyes like a kid at a scary movie, trying not to see too much.

The last thing I remember before sleep was me pretending I wasn’t sharing a Caddy in a cow pasture with my mama and her beau—spooned together on the back seat like two teenagers.

___

Mama sauntered to breakfast like a celebrity, bestowing pats and kisses in her wake. Sal trailed behind, her beefy bodyguard. Meal service was late getting started. I’d been holding Mama’s place in line for fifteen minutes, while she re-poufed her hair and fixed her makeup. I don’t know how she did it. We were going on our third day without a shower. I’d already scared myself earlier, when I saw my matted locks and dirty face reflected in the horses’ watering trough. Yet Mama managed to look like she’d just finished a beauty treatment at Hair Today, Dyed Tomorrow. And all with a few baby wipes, a teasing comb, and a tube of Apricot Ice. Her jeans matched her Western-style shirt, both in honeydew-green. They were spotless, too, since she’d managed to convince me she needed to find a good spot to call my sisters while I did all the work of getting the horses ready. Now, she moved as gracefully as if she were two-stepping across a dance floor. That was another thing that irritated me: Mama’s tiny enough to fit almost anywhere and get a comfortable night’s sleep. I’m five-ten. Sal’s car was roomy, but I’d still managed to wedge my head between the end of the seat and the armrest. My back ached and my neck had a crick. Had somebody hung me on a hook and used me as a punching bag when I wasn’t looking?

My mood brightened a bit when I saw that Sal was also moving stiffly. Even so, I still had to rotate my entire body, just so I could watch anything else but Mama gliding around all chipper and ache free.

Early-morning fog settled in the holes and gullies of the pasture. Horses pawed at the ground and snorted, their warm breath making puffs of steam in the cold air. The trail outriders were already saddled up, ready to supervise and set the day’s pace. Their orange reflective vests seemed out-of-place over cowboy garb. But much of the Cracker Trail snakes along the two-lane highways that cross the state’s mid-section. The vests increase our visibility, reducing the chance of a rider getting clipped by one of Florida’s famously bad drivers.