My momma’s a quiet person. Even when I’ve asked her about her growing up, she just shrugged and said no one’s childhood is ever perfect. One thing that’s always been real clear though—Momma hates guns. Since Grandpa died last summer, his old .45’s been gathering dust on the top shelf of Momma’s closet.
That’s why I never expected Momma to do what she did. But, I guess, I’m getting ahead of myself. Momma’s always reminding me to start at the beginning of things. Sooo….
The weekend before it happened, I’d just turned twelve. It wasn’t like anybody could tell by looking at my bean-pole self. I didn’t even have to wear a bra, yet. Momma kept telling me not to fret ‘cause she developed late, too. Mostly it was fine by me. I had too much to do to worry about boys.
That day I was out back of our old brick house, calling for Gimp. He’s the mutt Momma scraped up off the highway earlier that summer. When he came limping up, I grabbed a hammer and a plastic jar of nails then set off for the plywood shed Momma and me had started building a few days ago. I’d been horse-crazy, according to Momma, since I could first talk; but, grocery clerks don’t make much and horses are pretty expensive to buy; and to keep. Now, climbing between the salvaged boards of the four-rail horse fence, I slowly edged my way towards the bay filly with the white star on her forehead. I could see her trembling when I was halfway across the small paddock.
Ever since early spring, Momma had been watching the filly. The farmer who owned the filly lived five miles up the road, right on Momma’s route to and from Donnelson’s Grocery. By August, the last weeds in the field had been eaten. The filly had never had much meat on her bones, and when the fall rains arrived, she soon stood knee deep in muck.
Momma and me was coming home from shopping that afternoon when she wheeled into that farmer’s driveway. She ordered me to stay in the truck, but I rolled down my window to listen. Momma wasn’t shouting, but there was something so strong in her voice that it carried across the crisp September air.” You can either sell me that poor little horse, or I swear I’ll call the animal welfare folks and keep after them ‘til they’re pounding on your door.”
The farmer pulled a raggedy red bandana from the hip pocket of his dirty coveralls. Loudly blowing his big nose, he eyed my momma then stuffed the bandana back into his pocket. “I can let ‘er go for fifty dollars. Cash money.”
“Fifty dollars!” Outrage filled Momma’s voice. “I’m not giving you more than thirty dollars for that poor creature and I want a halter and a lead rope, too. By all that’s right, you should be paying me for taking that starving animal off your hands.”
I held my breath. Then, in case it might help, I crossed my fingers, too.
“Wellll….,” the farmer drawled. With an abrupt swing of his arm, the head of the ax he’d been leaning on thunked into the chopping block. “Ya gonna haul ‘er outta ‘ere on that?” He shoved his bristly chin at our truck.
Momma pulled her wallet out of her back pocket. “My daughter and I will walk her home.” We stalled her in our garage. Every day, I hand grazed her on the lawn while we built a pasture fence.
Running my hands down her still brittle-coated sides, it seemed like wearing last year’s school clothes and eating beans and corn bread a lot more often was a pretty fair trade. I was still telling the filly that when her ears pricked up. I turned in the direction she was staring and then I heard them. I stared up towards the brown hill that sloped across that back of the twenty acres Grandpa’s left us. A slender doe staggered into sight. Even from where I stood, I was certain a red stain spread across her shoulder, leaking down her foreleg. She bounded clumsily away moments before two orange-hatted bow hunters trailed onto our property.
“Momma!” I yelled. As I scrambled towards the house, the back door banged open.
Momma’s feet pounded across the wooden porch floor. “Hey! Get off my land!” Her voice rang across the autumn afternoon.
The hunters stopped and turned toward Momma. The heavier man shouted back as they turned to continue tracking the deer, “That’s our deer.”
“I said to get off my land! Now!” Grandpa’s .45 boomed.
The hunters froze then slowly turned toward Momma. “Lissen, lady, back off. My arrow’s marked that deer.” Arrogance echoed in his words.
The .45 barked again. The shot kicked up dirt in a bare patch a few feet ahead of the hunters. “Next time it won’t be the ground that I shoot.” Momma’s voice didn’t sound nothing like her. The hard edge sent shivers down my back.
The shorter man gestured toward Momma, hands waving, obviously arguing with his friend. Finally, they turned and hurried back the way they’d come.
Momma strode up the hill, her booted feet measuring each blue-jeaned stride. Stopping where the hunters had stood, she gazed down a moment then jogged away. It wasn’t long before I heard the gun boom again. Just once.
I waited for Momma by the porch steps. When she sank down on the top stair, she stared toward the pens where the raccoon we’d patched up from an arrowhead infection and the raucous crow whose BB gun broken wing had never healed quite right now lived.
Momma looked back at me. Her storm-gray eyes filled with tears. “Wasn’t anything else I could do.” A heavy sigh filled the still air. “She was so beautiful.”
And my momma who never cried, buried her face in her hands and wept.
