Mama Rides Shotgun

“What’d Belle do?’’

“She turned and ran off into the trees. She had a camera case around her neck.’’

“What about Trey?”

“No, he didn’t have a camera.’’

I stopped my eye-roll before it started. “I meant, what’d Trey do next?’’

“Oh. Nothing. He just slid his back down the tree, swayed onto the ground, and took another big gulp from his drink. I’m sorry to have seen that, Mace.’’

“That’s okay, Mama.” I leaned over the seat and patted her on the shoulder. “You’ve done real well in remembering. How long was all this before the bees?’’

“I’d say five or ten minutes, maybe a little more. After I saw the two of them, I stopped to talk to that nice gal that Maddie knows from teaching school. She and her husband were sitting on a log, sharing their lunch. Sharon’s her name. Or maybe it was Karen,’’ Mama’s eyes rolled toward the car’s roof, like the name might be up there. “They both got cherry pie for dessert.’’

I knew I’d better lasso her back to the point, or I’d soon know how they liked their pie along with Sharon or Karen’s life history.

“What about noises, Mama? Did you hear anything unusual?’’

“You mean beside a swarm of bees?’’

She closed her eyes again, trying to remember. When she opened them, they were wide.

“Right before the bees, I did hear a fu

“Sorry.’’ Doc Abel leaned his head into the open window across from Mama. “Didn’t mean to startle you. I just came to see how my patient is doing.’’

Mama waved her hand. “I’m fine, Doc. I sure do hate for anyone to make a fuss.’’

Yeah, Mama hates a fuss like Paris Hilton hates a party.

After Doc did a quick check of Mama’s ankle, I said, “C’mon in and have a seat.’’ I opened the car’s door and scooted over.

“Don’t mind if I do.’’ He thudded onto the back seat, and the Caddy seesawed with his weight. “The older I get, the more it takes out of me to go traipsing around in the woods. I don’t think I’ll make this ride again next year.’’

“Nonsense, Doc,’’ Mama said. “You’re still in fine shape.’’

I wondered if her fall had knocked Mama’s eyeballs loose.

“Well, thank you, Rosalee. But I’m fifty pounds too fat and twenty years too old. I’ll be seventy-nine on my next birthday, you know.’’

“I hope you plan something special. Tell me, does Mrs. Abel make a big deal out of your birthdays?’’

I had to admire her technique. Mama probably had Doc in mind for one of her bingo buddies, if he wasn’t married.

“My wife died many years ago,’’ Doc said. “In the year or two after I lost her, I didn’t have the heart to take up with someone else. But the more time that passed, the harder it got to imagine going out and starting all over again with dating and the like. I always kept busy with my work. Now, at my age, who the hell would want me?’’ He chuckled, but his eyes looked sad.

“Didn’t you have any kids? No grandkids?’’ Mama asked.

“My wife and I only had one child. A girl. She died in a car crash up near Holopaw when she was in her twenties. It was such a senseless loss. My wife never really got over it. She got sick herself within eighteen months of our daughter’s death. Cancer. She just didn’t seem to have the desire or the will to fight for her life,’’ he said.

Mama reached over the seat and put a gentle hand on his cheek. Her own cheeks were wet with tears. “Oh, you poor thing. I am so sorry.’’

My eyes felt hot. You never imagine when you meet somebody what kind of private heartache they’ve endured. I wished I could cry, or offer comfort, as naturally as Mama does.

“What was your daughter like, Doc?’’ I questioned him, staying in my emotional safety zone.

A smile lit his face. “She was lovely. And smart, too. She’d just finished college, and pla

Doc seemed happy talking about his daughter. I was just about to ask him another question, when we heard a Bronx honk across the campsite.

“I’m back, Rosie! Maddie’s tent is up and I’ve got just the thing for a pre-di

Doc opened the car door and eased his bulk outside. “I’ll be on my way, ladies. Maybe I’ll see y’all at di

Sal, eyes twinkling at Mama, said, “Guess that means no dancing tonight, huh Doc? Me and Rosie won’t be cuttin’ a rug?’’

“Not unless you’re doing it with a pair of scissors,’’ Doc laughed.

As he walked away, he whistled that now-familiar tune. Off-key, of course. But as sad as Doc had seemed, it still sounded good.

I watched Sal—plumping Mama’s pillows, replacing her melted ice with a fresh supply. He unwrapped the pie and loaded a bite onto a plastic fork. Then he started feeding her, as if she’d wrenched her wrist and not her foot. It was kind of nauseating, but also sweet.

We’d had our differences, Sal and I. And the sound of that New Yawk accent still grated on my Southern ears. But he took such good care of Mama, treating her as if she were a pack of precious jewels. And Mama clearly loved being cosseted. Between bites, she beamed at Sal as if he were George Clooney and Brad Pitt rolled into one. And he beamed right back.

I wondered if I’d ever find someone who cared for me like that? And if I did, would I ever let him show it?

Mama’s accident, or her pre-di

All that was left from her fried catfish was a pile of bones. She’d plowed through grits, coleslaw, and hush puppies, too. Now, she tucked into her first slice of after-di

“Well, look at you! Aren’t you sweet.’’ She smiled at the big-bottomed cowgirl, who had come bearing more dessert.

“I thought this might make you feel better after that awful spill you took.’’ The cowgirl glanced uncertainly at the brownie she was carrying.

“Well, honey, sweets are just the ticket when you’ve had the kind of day I had. You never can have too many, that’s what I always say,’’ Mama reassured her.

Putting down her fork, she grabbed the brownie and plate from the cowgirl. She slid it onto an upended log beside her, next to the pie and three homemade chocolate chip cookies. If folks kept bringing treats, Mama could open a bakery right here in the woods.

Visitors had streamed by continuously. Some cared; most were just curious to see how she’d fared in her ill-fated race on Shotgun. We heard the horse was okay, except for a few bee stings.

Later, a songwriter who bills himself as a performer of Florida Cracker Soul was slated to sing and play guitar. Sal and my sisters had gone to scope out seats. I was keeping Mama company until she finished eating—which, at this rate, might be at midnight.