Page 41 of Broken Bayou
I race into the driveway at Shadow Bluff, bound up the front-porch steps, unlock the front door, and take the inside stairs two at a time.
The boxes are where I left them in the front bedroom. I grab the one with the cowboy hat I assumed was Mama’s. The image of her in bed that night years ago materializes. Her swollen and bruised eye. A cigarette between her lips. And a black cowboy hat perched on her head.
I rip open the box and dig through the musty clothes. The hat is still there. I extract it with a shaky hand and study the dry-rotted band above the brim, a decaying rattlesnake rattle wedged between it and the hat. I flip it over and search inside. No name. Just more rot. I drop it back in the box.
My mouth feels too dry. I stumble to the bathroom faucet and drink water from my hand. Then I splash it on my face. I grab a towel, blot the water off. I look behind my reflection and see Mabry in the tub after I came back from dumping the car. Steam rose from the water. Her eyes were bloodshot and swollen like she’d been crying.
I placed a warm washcloth on her chest. “Mabry, tell me what happened.”
“I didn’t mean it.”
“Mean what?”
She opened her small mouth to answer but only spoke one word. “Okra.”
Years before, I’d given Mabry a safe word. One Krystal Lynn didn’t know about. Anytime Mabry felt unsafe, she could say that word, and then I’d get her out of the house. It was our secret. Not that we even needed a safe word. She could have just said she was scared, but I thought sharing a weird word was a smart way to hide our fear of MamafromMama. The same word I thought I’d heard that caller say onFort Worth Live.
I shut my eyes. When I open them, I notice my folding toiletry bag hanging where the towel was. I reach inside and pull out the silver object I can’t seem to leave behind. It’s cold between my fingers. Leave it alone, I tell myself. I drop it back in the bag and cover the bag with the hand towel.
I’m punching in my mother’s number before I even make it back downstairs.
“Did your boss in Broken Bayou wear a black cowboy hat, Mama?” I say when she answers, slightly out of breath.
“What are you saying about a cowboy hat?”
She coughs, then a clatter, and the line goes dead.
“Mama?” I look at my phone, punch her number again, but this time, it goes straight to voicemail. She can be quite adept at seeming inept when she needs to be.
Blinding sunshine warms my face as I walk through the kitchen door into the backyard. I press Mama’s number again.
“Willamena, what’s going on?” she says instead of hello.
“We need to talk.”
“Well, those are the worst words a person can hear. I haven’t even had my lunch yet.”
I gaze at the dry dirt in the backyard and remember the greenhouse that used to be there. Dolly Parton serenading the plants inside. The smell of fertilizer and soil.
“We need to finish our conversation about the car.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“What did we do?” My voice sounds steady, but my hands are starting to shake.
Several seconds tick by.
I stop next to what looks like the oldest oak on the property. The circumference of its trunk matches that of a corn silo, dried Spanish moss whipping from its branches.
When Mama speaks, her voice is a shrill scream in my ear. “We did what we had to!”
I press my hand on its bark, hoping to feel grounded. Krystal Lynn’s conversations have a way of making me feel full of helium. “You don’t need to yell. Just talk to me, Mama.”
“Don’t talk to me like I’m some project of yours,” she spits. “I know how you are. I know your type. And I know if I tell you my story, you’ll just call me a liar. You always call me a liar. Liar this, liar that. Liar, liar, pants on fire.”
The old tree holds me up. If I had any doubt before that Mama had stopped her meds, I don’t now. I’ll have to call her doctor. But first, I need to calm her down. I may never find another moment when I’m ready to hear what she has to say about that night.
“I promise I won’t call you a liar,” I say in a soft voice. “I really want to hear what you have to say.”
