Mama Rides Shotgun

“Dammit!’’

A heavy-set man muttered curses as he hopped on one foot. He flailed at a vine encircling his ankle. He beat at a low-growing sabal palm that threatened to knock an already battered straw hat off his head.

“I hate the woods!’’ He swore again under his breath.

He seemed unaware of our presence, probably because of the racket he was raising in the brush. Either that, or Dr. Frank Abel had lost what was left of his hearing at the same time he’d gained about three pant sizes around the waist. He was already old, and on the heavy side, when I last saw him, some ten years before. Doc Abel treated a wrist I’d sprained when a horse threw me in a riding accident a couple of hours north of Himmarshee, near Holopaw, Florida. I’d have guessed he would have retired by now.

Wyno

“Oh God, no! I need to see to him, Wyno

“He’s dead, Doc. I told them how you and his other doctors tried to make him control his cholesterol. Now, Lawton’s beyond your help,’’ she said.

Doc Abel’s hand went to his own chest. Given his advanced age and the purple tint to his face, I hoped we weren’t going to have another casualty along the Cracker Trail.

“Are you sure he’s dead?’’ he asked. “I need to make sure.’’ Finally extricating himself from the clutch of the woods, Doc Abel was all business now.

I glanced at Wyno

“Mama, why don’t you take Doc over to see Lawton?’’

As she looked at Doc, I could almost see the gears spi

“I’ll do it, Mace. But you know you’re better with details and I’m better with people. I should be with Wyno

I shot Mama a look. Her eyes followed mine down to the vise grip Lawton’s widow had on my hand. For some reason, Wyno

“Make sure you tell Doc everything we talked about,’’ I said.

Mama nodded. “Everything,’’ she repeated.

“The rest of the riders will be gathering for di

After they left, Wyno

“Watch that log, Doc!’’ Mama yelled from the distance.

I pictured him toppling over, pulling down an acre of skunk vine. “I guess the doctor doesn’t do nature,’’ I said.

“Oh, my Lord, no.’’ Dropping my hand, Wyno

She pulled back a branch from a hickory sapling so I could pass.

“Sounds like the old saying: Do as I say, not as I do. Did Doc Abel really think Lawton would listen to him about diet and exercise, considering Doc’s own bad habits?’’ I asked.

“Oh, he wasn’t really Lawton’s main doctor anymore. Lawton started seeing a fancy cardiologist a few years back. Doc’s been slipping a bit, but he still gives out flu shots and the occasional prescription. He and Lawton go way back, and Lawton’s loyal. Doc took care of him ever since he was a little boy, you know?’’

I shook my head, and felt the web of a banana spider clinging to my eyelashes.

“Yep, Lawton and his folks were among Doc’s first patients when he was just starting out. And he kept going to him until he was a grown man, with grown kids of his own.’’ Wyno

To distract her, I told Wyno

___

Wyno

But this was February. The crisp weather was welcome. In Florida, steam baths aren’t a luxury to indulge at a spa. They’re a hardship to endure every time we walk out the front door from June straight through to October.

Wyno

“And I told you I wouldn’t sch-tand for it,’’ a man yelled, his voice slurred. He waited, apparently listening, though we heard no one else speak. “Goddammit, I said no. Ab-showlutely not!’’

Something hit the wall on the other side of the door, and then clattered to the floor. Unsteady footsteps lurched inside. A few seconds later came a heavy thump, followed by the sound of shattering glass.

“Ouc-sh! That hurt!’’ The same man yelled.

Wyno

I cocked an eyebrow.

“It’s Lawton’s son, Trey. I wasn’t looking forward to breaking the news under the best circumstances. And now this. He’s drunk.’’

We both looked at the door. She straightened, seeming to gather her strength as she had at the cook site.

“Now or never.’’ She breathed deeply. I patted awkwardly at her shoulder, trying to do as I’d seen Mama do.

She opened the door. I followed her in, stepping carefully around the cell phone that lay in pieces near the door jamb.

Trey sat cross-legged on the floor of a large living room, next to an overturned lamp. There was a rip in the wagon-wheel shaped shade. Light bulb shards were scattered across the legs of his jeans. His head hung in his hands. Scratches crisscrossed his muscled forearms, exposed by the rolled up sleeves of a Western-cut shirt.

“Trey?’’ Wyno

He looked up, lifting blood-shot eyes. A nasty gash left a reddish-brown streak across one cheek. His shirt, minus its top three buttons, gaped open to show a broad chest. Trey looked like he’d been on the losing side of a bar brawl.

His eyes were the same startling shade of blue as his father’s. I remembered how they’d sparkled with fun and mischief when we were in high school. I’d never seen the cruelty in Trey’s eyes that I saw the moment he focused on Wyno

“Well, if it ish-n’t the wicked stepmother,’’ he slurred. “Come to shake her moneymaker and bust my balls.’’

The haughty expression from the cook site returned to Wyno