Page 9 of Lone Star Longing
Damn, the road was terrible, but his mother didn't drive. He felt a pang of guilt about that. She didn't drive, was stuck in that house all the time. The church used to send people out to collect the elderly for services, but he wasn't sure if that was still a thing.
He drove over the built-up road with the drain beneath, that had been the low-water crossing twelve years ago, the one that had swept the bus away as it came to collect the Conover family. Beck shuddered as he drove over it.
Damn, the house looked bad. West Texas wind and heat had done the paint no favors. The raw wood was showing through, and was grayed and saggy. He was going to have to go to town to look for a handyman.
Slowly he opened the car door, only to slam it shut again when the sound of a shotgun blast ripped the air, kicking up dirt near the front of his truck. He ducked below the dash, but kicked open the driver’s side door.
“Mom! It’s me, Beck! Jesus!”
Another shotgun blast, and he braced for the shattering of glass, or the sound of buckshot tearing through his truck. Damn, could she even hear him? He hadn’t spoken to her in a long time, maybe she was hard of hearing now, especially after sending that blast his direction. He grabbed a piece of paper from the floor and stuck it out the door, a makeshift flag of surrender.
“Mom! It’s me! Beck! Your son!” He chanced raising his head, and saw her standing there in the shadow of the porch, shotgun by her side, no longer aimed in his direction. She wasn't reloading, so maybe she’d heard him.
Hands raised, he slid out of the seat and stood behind the door.
“Beck?” she called, her voice sharp but cautious.
“Yeah, Mom. I was in the area and wanted to stop by. I should have called.”
She still held onto the gun when he closed the truck door and approached the house, so he kept his hands elevated. Weird way to greet his mother, he was aware, but that was the kind of relationship they had, he supposed.
“What do you mean, you were in the area?”
“I was driving down I-10 to a new job site and thought I’d come see how you were doing.”
Finally she set the gun behind her, leaning it against the wall near the door, and he felt he could lower his hands as he stopped at the bottom step. Man, the house looked even worse up close. Pretty soon it would be going the way of the old garage he’d seen in town. He needed to get someone out here, someone his mother wouldn't scare off with her shotgun.
“Can I come in, maybe have a glass of water, see how you’re doing?” Her face was still shadowed, so he couldn't read her expression. Her hands, though, were old, and her body thicker. How had she changed so much in the two years he’d been away?
“What is it you want?” she asked.
“Like I said, I was in the area and just wanted to make sure you were doing okay.” He put one foot on the lower step.
“You’re too skinny,” she said, and abruptly turned into the house, slamming the screen door behind her.
Well, for his mother, that was as good as an invitation, he supposed. He gingerly picked up the shotgun and set it behind the door inside the house. If he recalled, there was a rack here somewhere, but he couldn't see in the dimly lit, and messy, house.
“Hasn’t the woman from Helping Hearts come out here?”
“She was out here day before yesterday. Late. Had to go into town for errands.”
That steamed Beck. He paid good money for her to come out here three times a week, make sure his mother was eating and bathing, check on her health and make sure she wasn't living in filth. This mess hadn’t accumulated in a few days. He was going to have to call the company and get a replacement, if this one couldn't get the job done.
“What kind of errands?”
“She had to go to the grocery store. She didn't like what I had in the pantry.”
He walked past her to the kitchen, stepping on a creaking board along the way. He’d have to give that a look, too. He opened the refrigerator and saw an assortment of plastic containers inside. At least the woman prepared meals for his mother. But he was going to have a nice long conversation with the service.
He flipped on the kitchen light, since the house always was dark in the afternoon because it stood in the shadow of the ridge.
And he had to physically mask his reaction to seeing his mother.
She’d always looked old, to him. Always had lines on her face, caused mostly by her own misery. She’d never dyed her hair or really styled it. But now her hair was thin, showing splotches of scalp. Her wrinkles had deepened, and a few age spots had darkened on her cheek and temple. The change was enough to be startling. And she had gained weight, her hips straining against the thin fabric of her house dress.
The sight weighed on his heart. Yes, he wasn't close to his mother, but the image of her mortality in front of him, well, that was hard to see. And she lived out here alone, with no one checking on her except a couple of times a week.
“The church ladies still taking you into town on Sunday?”
