Mama Gets Trashed

I hoped not, because several sharp stones jabbed into my back and butt. The ground beneath me was hard, and damp with morning dew. Smoke billowed in the air. Fire popped and crackled, burning a small outdoor shed next to the propane tank. The tank itself was gone: Blown to bits.

I raised myself to my elbows, checking to see which body parts hurt. They all did. The joints still moved, though. Familiar images began to form in blurry focus. There was my purse on the ground, twenty feet away. Had I tossed it there, or did the explosion send it flying? I saw Mama’s car, seemingly intact. The passenger door stood ajar.

Mama!

She’d dropped to the ground when the shooting started. Was she hit? Where was she now?

I struggled to my knees and blinked, trying to clear my vision. Something warm and wet coursed down from above my eyebrows. I rubbed my hand across my eyes. Even in the dimness of dawn’s light I could see blood coating my palm. A jagged hunk of white metal, now scorched black, lay near where I landed. It looked like a shard from the propane tank. Was that what hit me?

Pulling a bandana from the pocket of my jeans, I pressed it to my scalp. It came away moist, but not soaked. Gingerly, I worked my fingers from one side of my head to the other. Nothing poked back at me. No obvious fragments were embedded there.

I began crawling on all fours toward Mama’s car. Halfway there, I felt strong enough to try to stand. My legs wobbled. A wave of dizziness washed over me. I stood there swaying, as I squinted to see through the smoke and hazy light. Haltingly, I walked to the convertible, where I hung onto the door for support.

Mama was not where I’d seen her last, flat on the ground beside her car.

Wide tire tracks criss-crossed the yard. Whatever had made them was heavy enough to sink deep into wet grass. Black mud oozed up, filling the tread marks. As the smoke from the shed fire began to disperse, I noticed another smell. Familiar … stinky … garbage. Several small piles and black plastic bags dotted the ground like odoriferous ant mounds. Images started co

Someone had taken Mama, and I thought I knew where. I prayed I wasn’t too late.

_____

The convertible swallowed the road. I was grateful for all eight cylinders. Mama’s keys had been on the floorboard, right where I dropped them. Her cell phone was under the car, near where she’d hit the ground. Had she consciously hidden it? Or, did the phone land there because she’d been shot?

I pressed my boot against the accelerator, urging an ounce more speed from the old Bo

I grabbed Mama’s phone: The battery indicator was in the red zone, for almost-out-of-juice. I started to call Carlos … when my mind blanked. I’d phoned him by name on my speed dial for so long, I couldn’t recall the digits. My fingers scrabbled across Mama’s key pad to find the names of her favorite contacts. There was Sal, at the top. I felt a tug at my heart when I saw that I was second on the list. If Mama was safe, I vowed never to avoid her calls again.

I pressed to dial Sal, and the call went straight to voice mail. I fought to keep the panic from my voice. “Listen carefully. The phone’s nearly dead. I’m northbound on State Road 98, on my way to the Himmarshee dump. Whoever killed Camilla ambushed us at my house. They’ve got Mama, probably in a garbage truck. Call nine-one-one. Call Carlos, and tell him to meet me there …

and Sal? Please tell Carlos I’m sorry, and that I love him.’’

I rang off before he could hear the lump in my throat squeezing my words.

Barely slowing, I swung a sharp left onto the road that led to the dump. Everything on Mama’s front seat went flying: cell phone; tissue box; bottled water. Some loose golf clubs in the back clattered to the floorboard. Sal had been trying to teach Mama a few basics of the game.

I saw taillights just ahead. Gears ground. Air brakes hissed. The noisy truck was stopping, silhouetted by a mountain of trash beyond. I cut Mama’s engine and pulled off the road, coasting to a stop behind a stand of cypress trees. It immediately occurred to me I had no weapon and no strategy beyond the element of surprise. I jumped from the car, and my eyes lit on the golf clubs. Choosing the one with the widest, heaviest metal head, I sprinted along a line of trees toward the truck.

_____

Creeping up from behind, I could see a heavy tarp thrown across the open hopper at the truck’s rear. It was a gaping metal bin, where the contents of household cans were tossed in by the garbage guy who normally rode on the back. On this morning, I saw just one person with the truck: the driver, who had opened the door and was about to climb from the cab. The reflection in the truck’s side mirror revealed a dark baseball cap, pulled low over the driver’s face. In sunglasses, baggy slacks, and a loose, long-sleeved shirt, it could have been anyone.

Even when the driver stepped to the ground and shut the door, I still couldn’t tell who it was. The clothes were shapeless, and his—

or her—hair was tucked up under the cap.

At the back of the truck, no movement disturbed the tarp. My heart pounded. Was Mama hurt under there? Worse, was she dead?

As the driver crossed in front of the cab, I raced to the truck’s left side. My breath rasped out in gasps. I hoped they didn’t sound as loud as they did in my own ears. Peering under the truck, I watched booted feet moving on the other side, from front to right rear. I situated myself alongside the huge tires, careful to hide my own legs there in case the driver happened to glance underneath.

The boots stopped at the right rear corner of the truck.

In that instant, I knew my mother’s fate. The controls for the compactor were on the right rear. The driver pla

I bolted around the back of the truck. The driver’s hand was within inches of the control lever. Raising the club overhead, I swung with all my might. The sweet spot struck solidly. Howling with pain, the driver staggered backward. The hat fell off, revealing a full head of blonde hair, kissed daily by the sun on the golf course.

Jason.

“The cops are right behind me,’’ I said. “You won’t get away. Don’t make it any worse by hurting someone else.’’

He reached with his left hand to pull the lever. I wound up and swung again. The club slammed his wrist with a sickening thud. Jason squealed like a pig caught under a gate. Keeping one eye on him, I pounded the side of the truck. “Can you hear me, Mama? Give me a sign you’re okay.’’

Only silence came from inside. That bastard Jason managed to smirk at me, even through his pain. I aimed the club straight at his head. “Don’t think I won’t knock you into a coma,’’ I said. “Now, get down on the ground and stay down.’’

With Jason seated on the roadway, and my club within reach, I pulled off the tarp. The hopper brimmed with loose garbage and lumpy plastic bags. I poked my hand in, searching for anything that felt human.

A muffled mmmppfff, mmmppfff issued from the trashy depths. I dug frantically, tossing out trash bags as I went. My hand encountered the familiar shape of a kitten-heeled sandal. Empty. Somewhere in there was its matching persimmon mate, hopefully attached to the intact foot of my unharmed mama.