Flannery sighed. “Mr. Donner, if you see my mama would you tell her I’m looking for her?”
A woman sitting at a table behind Flannery cleared her throat. Flannery turned and saw Mrs. McGregor, her and Patsy’s old eighth-grade teacher. “Always knew Patsy had a bit of wildness. Chasing the two Henry boys like that. It don’t surprise me one bit.” Mrs. McGregor murmured her blame over the lip of her coffee cup and sweetened it with a “bless her heart.”
A few teens huddled at another table drinking sodas, whispering, and darting nervous glances Flannery’s way.
In the booth across from the teens sat Violet Perry with three small kids. Violet pursed a vinegary red pout at Flannery, then dismissed her and pulled out a tube of lipstick from her purse. Flannery watched Violet sweep her lips, hideously stretch her thin mouth, twisting all catawampus-like with the paint.
Violet hadn’t softened her makeup with age. Instead she wore the bright apple-red rouge and lipstick to liven up her long, spent-bloom face. It looked to Flannery like her two scoops of fun had melted long ago.
“Mommy, my straw. Can’t get it, Mommy, help,” Violet’s toddler daughter whined, and shot up from the bench, teetering on her knees, wagging a paper-wrapped straw above her cola.
Scowling, Violet hit her nose with the lipstick and slapped the straw out of her daughter’s hand. The girl shrank back into the booth, eyes welling, and turned her face, ducking. Flannery saw the bruises covering the child’s neck and jaw. Violet grabbed her daughter’s arm and squeezed hard, jerking, leaving behind another angry red mark.
Flannery felt the fire crawl up her neck, the same as on that prom night, the same as when Violet Perry and the others had left their invisible angry marks on her. No different than those her ex-husband had given her many times.
For a minute Flannery wanted to leave her own right across Violet’s tight and overripe tomato-red lips. Smear that cheap lipstick right into the dangly grape that hung in the back of her throat and down into her dark, ugly soul. Leave her with what she’d given the child. She was halfway to Violet’s booth when a voice stopped her.
“Flan?” Junior Ray creaked opened the kitchen door and called out, marshaling her anger back. “It’s Flan.” He sidled up next to her, wiping his hands with a dishrag. “Good to see you.” Junior smiled a little sadly and kissed her forehead.
“Junior.” Flannery turned herself from her flame. “H-How’s Tonya and the kids?”
“Fine. Tonya and I were just talking about dropping by with a dish this weekend. I’m sorry, Flan. Really sorry for your and Jean’s loss. We always prayed to have those two home. Just not like this.”
Grateful for his kindness, Flannery thanked him. She muttered something about finding Mama and quickly excused herself. Standing out on the old broken sidewalk in front of Chubby’s, she felt busted. A shop bell rang, and she sucked down fresh air and shook off the helplessness filling her.
After a moment, she looked over at the tiny post office, the washateria, the lot next to Spanks Grocery Store. Her mama’s car wasn’t anywhere around. Shading her eyes with a hand, Flannery searched on the other side of the post office to the sheriff’s small building. She didn’t see Mama’s car there either, or any official ones parked in front for that matter.
Walking shop to shop, Flannery asked around, though deep down she knew it was a delay. Mama was likely where Flannery thought, and the law would beat her to it. It was all a postponement, a farce, and she was avoiding having to face herself, face what she’d been hiding all these years, and what Mama and others might find.
Flannery turned to the hardware store next to Chubby’s and stepped out farther on the sidewalk, peering past the drugstore to Junie Bug’s Hair Styling. She walked down to Junie’s and glanced in the big window, then on past the barber’s to peek into Glass Ferry Dry Goods.
Finally, Flannery got into her car and drove off to Palisades Road. She pulled into the grassy lot at Johnson’s boat dock and easily spotted Mama standing in her nightgown, knee-deep in the muddy Kentucky. Onlookers pointed to the old lady and screamed for her to come back.
Flannery opened her car door at the same time a deputy arrived, and they raced to the river.
The deputy yelled out, ordering Mama back onto the bank.
Car doors slammed behind Flannery, and there were more shouts, more warnings. Then the sound of a siren.
Mama looked up and spotted Flannery. “Help me find Patsy’s pearls, Flannery. I can’t find them,” she hollered, waving and splashing in the water. Mama ducked under for a few seconds, then bounced up, her gray hair plastered, her cold lips trembling, her old powder-pink gown soaked, clinging to her old. sagging flesh and brittle bones.
The deputy hollered again. “Mrs. Butler. Come back here! Mrs. Butler . . . Get back now.”
Mama waded out farther and ducked under the dark brown waters yet again.
“Mama!” Flannery screamed and rushed into the river, fighting the cold, pulling water to get to her.
Someone called out, shouting “Mrs. Butler!” and dove into the water, passing Flannery and pulling hard, arm over arm.
Flannery shook her wet head and wiped the water from her eyes. Trooper Green swam toward Mama. He grabbed the old woman’s arm, but she wriggled out of his grip and went under again.
The trooper disappeared under the murky waters, and seconds later buoyed back up. Taking in a big breath he went under again, and, after many agonizing seconds, he popped back up with Mama in his grip.
Flannery made her way sloshing back to shore with Trooper Green trailing and her sputtering Mama despondent in his arms.
The trooper stepped aside, and Flannery gathered Mama in her arms. “Mama, I’m so sorry. Mama, are you okay—”
Mama wailed, “Let me go, please. Just let me go find them.” Mama stretched her arms for the river. “We have to find them.”
“C’mon, Mama, we need to get you home.”
“Not without her pearls! I have to—”
“Dammit, Mama. They’re gone forever, like her. Patsy’s gone. The pearls are gone. For good!” Flannery snapped and flicked her hand down her own soaked clothes, smacking the water off herself.
Mama lowered her head. Flannery immediately regretted the lashing. What is wrong with me, talking to my dear mama like that, continuing my eternal lie on top of other lies. “C’mon, Mama,” she said more kindly, taking a gentle hold of Mama’s arm. “Let’s get you dry. Home.”
The trooper latched on to Mama’s other arm, leading both women to his car. Embarrassed, Flannery whispered to the trooper, “Mama’s not well. With all that’s happened, she’s having a hard time. Thank you, Trooper.” Then louder and to Mama, “Thank the trooper. You nearly drowned yourself out there.”
“Thank you, Trooper.” Mama hung a meek, wet head and mumbled something more about the pearls.
The deputy rushed over. The trooper took him to the side and said, “I have it here; you can go on, Deputy. Everything’s fine now. Mrs. Butler is okay.”
Trooper Green picked up his discarded uniform shirt, grabbed the shoes he’d thrown onto the hood in a hurry, and said to Flannery, “Glad I was close. I got the call on my way in.” He turned to Mama. “Ma’am, you can’t be in the river like that. Someone could get hurt.” He pointed to an old, crooked fence-post sign the state or someone had planted near the bank long ago. No Swimming in bullet-riddled red letters.
“I’m sorry, Trooper,” Flannery said. “I’ll take her straight home.”
Mama’s lip quivered as if she understood.
The trooper sighed and swiped at his wet trousers. “It’s too dangerous.”
“I’m sorry about your uniform,” Mama apologized, shivering.
Trooper studied her, still unsure what to do. “The river is too dangerous for a little lady like yourself,” he went on. “Unsafe for most men.”
“Unsafe,” Mama repeated numbly. “But my Honey Bee taught me to swim.”
“No. It’s too dangerous,” he repeated.