“Anyway,’’ Belle continued, before anyone could interrupt, “before Trey and I get going, I wanted to tell y’all how terribly sorry I am about what happened with Shotgun.’’ She reached up a hand to Mama’s good leg, resting it on her knee.
“Oh, honey, stop fretting.’’ Mama gave Belle’s hand a reassuring pat. “All’s well that ends well, and it might have ended a lot worse.’’
A murmur of assent went around our little group.
“But that’s just what I keep thinking about,’’ Belle said with a shudder. “I couldn’t live with myself if someone came to real harm riding a horse that I trained.’’
Mama was about to start her recitation about the bees, but Trey interrupted her.
“I think most people would surprise themselves with all they can live with, Little Sister. And why don’t you stop making over her like that?’’ He pointed his beer can at Mama. “All that’s happened to her is a little bitty busted ankle. Our daddy’s dead, Belle!’’
“I think you better quit while you’re ahead, pal.’’ Sal’s voice was menacing.
Trey snorted, and then glared at Sal from under his hat.
Belle pressed on, hurrying to finish her plea on Shotgun’s behalf. “He’s such a good horse. Everyone says so. Don’t they, Trey?’’
Instead of an answer, Trey gave another snort.
“Let’s go, Belle.’’ Swaying, he pushed himself up on one knee. “These people don’t want us here. You’re wasting your breath.’’
Maddie said, “Belle is just fine, Trey. You’re the one who’s drunk, not to mention rude. Why don’t you take Sal’s advice? Go back to your trailer and sleep it off before you get into real trouble.’’
Trey dropped his beer can, then his hat. He cursed when he stepped on the hat while he was trying to get up.
“Just leave me alone!’’ he shouted, now on his knees. “Don’t any of you touch me.’’
Sal whispered, “Why don’t you let me help you get him home, Belle?’’
“No,’’ she said firmly as she stood. “Believe me, it’s better if I handle him alone. I’ve done it before.’’ Pain and exhaustion showed in her eyes as she gazed down at her brother.
“Let’s go, Trey.’’
“You’re the boss, Little Sister.’’
The way he said it, it sounded like a sneer. Then again, Trey was pretty drunk.
Belle hooked both of her arms under one of Trey’s shoulders, helping him haul himself to his feet. For her size, she had surprising strength. Or maybe it was just practice.
For once, we were all silent. The fire crackled. Sparks glowed. Shadows danced. None of us said a word as the two Bramble siblings walked away, Belle staggering every so often under her brother’s added weight.
Stomps and whistles followed the last chord of Jerry Mincey’s song, “Plantin’ Yankees.”
“Thank you, folks,’’ he nodded to the crowd, a smile showing above his salt-and-pepper beard. “We’re gonna take a little break, but don’t go away. We’ll be back before you know it.’’
The music was almost forty-five minutes late getting started. But once Jerry launched into his Florida Cracker repertoire, the crowd was with him all the way. He sang of ancient Indian legends and modern over-development; of the days when rivers ran clear and cowmen moved herds of half-wild cattle across open lands.
“Some of Jerry’s songs make me so sad.’’ Marty took a sip from a cup of hot chocolate. “Everything about Florida has changed.’’
“I can think of a few more changes I’d like to see,’’ Sal said. “Can’t somebody do something about the bugs? And Florida is too hot for humans most of the year.’’
Maddie harrumphed. “You know, Sal, I-95 leads north just like it does south. You could always go back home, where everything is so much better,’’ she said. “While you’re at it, why don’t you take about a million of your fellow transplanted New Yorkers with you?’’
Mama gave Maddie’s arm a pinch. “Hush! There’s no call for you to be rude.’’
Maddie rubbed her arm. “Ow, Mama! I’m just telling him like it is. That’s what Northerners like, don’t they? They like people to be straightforward and direct, no beating around the bush.’’
“In other words, rude,’’ I put in.
“Here we go.’’ Sal threw up his hands. “We gonna fight the Civil War all over again?’’
Maddie was winding up to defend the Motherland when a scuffle erupted behind us in the open-air theater. We all turned our heads to find the source of the shouting and stumbling.
“You’re a son-of-a-bitch,’’ Trey yelled. His face was red; his body swayed. The dented cowboy hat was crooked on his head.
“That’s the alcohol talking, and I’d advise it to shut up.’’ Johnny Adams kept his voice calm, drained of emotion. “I think you’d show more respect for your father than to get stinking drunk and go picking fights before we’ve even had the chance to bury him.’’
“We?’’ Trey blinked hard, shaking his head. “You don’t have nuthin’ to do with my daddy’s funeral. You weren’t his friend.’’
People seated nearby started standing up, moving their chairs and coolers out of the way.
“And you’ve got balls,’’ Trey continued, “telling me to show respect.’’ He slurred the word. “Like you did? Oh yeah, you respected Daddy so much you went and sued him to try to get all our money!’’
First Belle, and then Wynonna, materialized out of the crowd and sidled closer to Trey. He didn’t seem to notice them. He lunged, shoving Johnny in the chest.
“You don’t know what you’re talking about, Trey.’’ Johnny took a step back, his hands balled into fists at his sides. “I’m warning you: Shut your mouth and sit down.’’
“Or you’ll do what, chicken-shit?’’ Trey brought his face close enough to spray Johnny with spit. “Taking me on is a little different than rolling around in the dirt with an old man with a heart condition, isn’t it?’’ He pushed Johnny again. “Oh, I know about that knock-down drag-out y’all had the night before Daddy died.’’
Wynonna and Belle exchanged a confused look.
“And I know you never got over Daddy stealing the only woman you ever loved.’’
At this point, most of the crowd looked at Wynonna. Mama whispered to Marty and Maddie, “Not that woman; another one. Mace and I will explain later.’’
Slitting his eyes, Johnny stepped toward Trey. “Now, you’ve gone too far.’’
Uh-oh, I thought. I started to get out of my chair to intervene, but Sal stopped me.
“I’ve got this, Mace. I’ve had lots of practice.’’
Heaving himself to his feet, Sal headed toward the fight. A couple of other men saw him moving in, and did the same. Before Trey could react, they had him surrounded, arms pinned harmlessly to his sides. His right leg flew up in a kick, but the boot missed connecting with Johnny or anyone else. Sal and the other two men dragged him backwards out of the crowd, kicking and shouting all the way.
Jerry re-took the stage, starting right in with “Narcoossee Lucie.” Trey yelled and cussed from outside. But his shouts quickly grew distant. By the time Jerry and his partner on upright bass got to their show-closer, “Osceola’s Tears,” Sal was easing himself back into his seat.
“What happened?’’ I whispered.
“He’s fine. We got his boots off and got him into bed in his family’s RV. He’ll have a hell of a hangover tomorrow.’’
I thought of Trey’s drinking; his love-hate relationship with his daddy; his squandered brains and talent. Sal may have said otherwise, but Trey was far from fine. And a morning hangover was the least of his troubles.