“Maybe he wants to be a celebrity, like everybody else in America,’’ I said. “And he didn’t really attack me, Mama. Honest. It was no big deal. We’ll tell my sisters, and it’ll give us something to laugh about. Lord knows we haven’t had too many laughs these last few days.’’
“I like that idea, Mace.’’ Another pat to my hand. “Now, I’ve already put you out more than enough this morning. Why don’t you let me out of the car, up there at the corner? Right there by the pawn shop and your cousin Henry’s law office. I can walk the rest of the way to the beauty shop.’’
I glanced down at her sandals with their three-inch heels. My feet felt sore just looking at them.
“That’s four blocks, at least. You are not walking to work in those shoes, Mama.’’
“It’s okay. I don’t want to put you out.’’
I rolled my eyes at her. “Mama, asking me to drive a hundred and seventy-four miles, round-trip, to the airport in West Palm Beach to pick up a relative I barely know is ‘putting me out.’ Dropping you off at Hair Today on my way to work is not. Still, I don’t know why you insist on wearing heels. It’s not like people don’t already know you’re short.’’
“Easy for you to say, Miss Five-Foot-Ten.’’ She put her foot up on the dashboard to admire her lemon-hued shoe. “These are ridiculously uncomfortable. But haven’t you ever had a shoe that you loved just for the way it looks, Mace?’’
I ran mentally through my footwear inventory: leather ropers for riding, waterproof boots for work, sneakers or loafers for any other occasion.
“Nope. Can’t say that I have.’’ We passed Pete’s Pawn, with its roadkill armadillo sign. “Now, are we agreed that it’s not too much trouble for me to drive you what’s now three remaining blocks to work?’’
She straightened herself in the seat; her hair barely grazed the headrest. “I’m just trying to be considerate, Mace. You don’t need to get snippy.’’
“I could use some of that consideration the next time Cousin Whatever-her-name-is flies in to visit, and you volunteer me to pick her up at the airport.’’
She crossed her arms over her chest and stared out the windshield.
All of a sudden she reached out, turned down the radio, and yelled, “Stop! Stop right there, Mace. Stop the car!’’
“Mama, I can’t stop. I’m doing forty miles an hour. I’ve got cars in front of me and cars in back of me.’’
No wonder she had that fender-bender that started everything at the Dairy Queen.
“Okay, slow down, then. That next street there, with the used car for sale on the corner? That’s Emma Jean’s street. I remember from one time Sally and I gave her a ride from bingo.’’
As we approached, I read the street sign out loud: “Lofton Road.’’
“That’s it, Mace.’’ She leaned forward, peering out the windshield. “Let’s drive by to see if she’s okay.’’
I downshifted to take the corner.
“I’m worried about her, Mace. She sure didn’t seem right when she was swinging that tire iron at church.’’
Who would?
“There it is, Mace. The blue one. About half way down, on the left.’’
I slowed, and turned into Emma Jean’s driveway. Her cat-shaped mailbox was painted in Siamese colors. The cat’s black-tipped tail was the flag, which was flipped up straight.
I continued up the drive, noting a gaggle of yard gnomes. The rose bushes needed attention. Only the most dedicated gardeners can grow roses in the Florida heat and mucky soil around Lake Okeechobee. Judging from the mold-spotted leaves and sparse blooms, Emma Jean lacked the necessary dedication.
There was no car in the open, metal-roofed carport. I pulled in and parked. Mama and I got out.
The sun had faded the house’s blue paint almost gray. The window curtains were drawn. Her screen door was shut, as was the solid wooden door behind that. Pink and white impatiens wilted in a pot on her porch. Mama leaned over to feel the soil. Shaking her head, she picked up a watering can and poured the contents on the flowers.
I knocked at the door. No answer. I pounded.
“Emma Jean? Are you there, darlin’?’’ Mama called at the window.
“Well, we know she was here fairly recently,’’ I said. “If that tail on her mailbox was up yesterday when the mail carrier came, he would’ve taken Emma Jean’s outgoing letters and flipped it back down.’’
Mama glanced out to the cat-shaped mailbox. “You know, I didn’t even think about that. There’s a reason you were top in your class at college, Mace.”
I opened the screen door and tried the knob on the door inside. Locked.
A Siamese cat, live, not the mailbox one, minced its way up the porch steps. It sniffed at Mama’s lemon-colored sandal, and then made a beeline to me. I’m an animal lover, but I’ve never been able to warm up to felines. And don’t the cats always know that? In a crowded room, they’ll bypass a dozen cat-lovers; ignore every outstretched hand; fail to recognize a chorus of “Here, kitty-kitty’s.’’ Then they’ll decide to make friends with me.
The cat entangled itself around my ankles, rubbing against my slacks. I lifted my boot to gently push it away. Meowing, the critter stared up with big blue eyes.
“I’ll be sneezing in about two seconds, Mama.’’ Did I mention I’m also allergic? “I’m going around to check the back.’’
The cat leapt off the porch and followed.
I looked in a big kitchen window, where the curtains were tied back. Dirty dishes sat in the sink; an afternoon Himmarshee Times was closed on the table. It had to have been there at least a day, since it was still too early for today’s delivery. The silent house looked empty, but undisturbed, like Emma Jean just ran out to do an errand.
Turning from the window, I nearly stumbled over my new best friend. The cat looked up as if to say, “Careful, Clumsy.’’
I scanned the backyard.
“Hey, what kind of car does Emma Jean drive?’’ I yelled around to the side garden, where Mama was pinching sooty leaves off the rose bushes.
“It’s a little one,’’ she shouted back. “Something foreign, like a Toyota or a Honda. Why?’’
“Because there’s a pickup parked back here, next to her shed. It’s white, and it looks old.’’
I stepped closer. The bed was rusted. It was empty, except for three crushed beer cans. I looked through the driver’s window. There wasn’t anything personal inside. Just a blue bench seat, upholstered in plastic with the stuffing showing through. Kneeling on the grass, I ran my hand over well-worn rubber tread.