“Well! These machines sure don’t give you much time, do they? Anyway, I was wondering whether you’d run me by church in the mornin’, about 8:30? I’d ask Maddie, but she has a sixth-grade assembly. And Marty will still be feeling poorly. I worry about her so much with those awful headaches, Mace. And now she’s got the responsibilities of that new job. What do you suppose we can do about her migraines, Mace? Anyway, I’d sure appreciate the ride. I wish you’d wear that sweet Kelly green blouse with the bow at the neck. You look so …’’

Beep. End of message.

I look so … so … what? So much like the wife of the Jolly Green Giant in a ruffled collar? So much like a leprechaun on growth hormones?

I knew how poor Teensy must feel, having to suffer the humiliation of Mama dressing him in a yellow slicker when it rains and a reindeer sweater at Christmas. He even has a tiny set of antlers to match the sweater. Fortunately, I get to choose my own clothes. The Kelly green horror would stay at the back of my closet, where it belongs.

Finally, I was able to peel off the jeans I’d been wearing for what seemed like a week. I dropped them on the floor, changed into my PJs and fluffed the pillows on my bed. Suddenly, the phone shrilled, sending my stomach somersaulting around the burger and fries and ice cream.

In a country town like Himmarshee, people turn in early. When the phone rings past midnight, the news is never good.

The caller was a woman, her shaky voice so soft I could hardly hear it.

“Mace? I’m awful sorry to call so late.’’

My heart thrummed. “Is my mama okay? Has anything happened to my sisters?’’

“Oh, honey, I’m sorry I scared you.’’ She took a long breath. “They’re all fine, so far as I know. This isn’t about anybody but me.’’

The acrobats in my gut took a break. The bass drum in my chest slowed to a normal beat. I waited, trying to let her proceed at her own pace. She was clearly in distress. But my compassion extends only so far at 12:44 am.

Then I heard a familiar wail.

“Hey there, Emma Jean.’’ I raised my voice to compete. “Don’t cry now. It’s going to be all right.’’

“I didn’t … sob … know who else … sob … to call, Mace. Your mama always talks about how smart you are. I liked the way you handled yourself at the police department. Not too bossy, like your older sister. And not too much of a scaredy cat, like that younger one.’’ Emma Jean paused to blow her nose. “I need someone with a good head on her shoulders to tell me what to do.’’

I gazed with longing at my fluffy pillows. They looked like two white clouds that had floated down from heaven to carry me off to a blessed sleep. On the other hand, we all wanted to know what the hell was up with Emma Jean.

“How can I help?’’ I sat at the foot of the bed, turning my back on the pillows.

“Mace, I found out who was cheating with Jim.’’

I sat up straight, sleep forgotten. “Who?’’

“I don’t want to say over the phone. You never know who might be listening in.’’ No sobs now; not even a sniffle. “I couldn’t sleep, as you can imagine. I’m out driving around. I know this is a big favor, but I really need to talk this out with someone, Mace. I saw on Oprah that when something is bothering you, you need to get it out in the open. You need to confront it, or it’ll fester.’’

“That’s good advice, Emma Jean, depending on what you mean by confronting.’’ I thought of the ruckus at the church. Her threat of doing harm to the Other Woman. “If you could say who’s involved, it’ll help me know how to handle this.’’

She lowered her voice to a whisper. “Not on the phone, Mace. Please.’’

It seemed pretty paranoid, but I didn’t want to upset her. I remembered that tire iron.

As if she’d read my thoughts, Emma Jean said, “I know I made a fool of myself at Abundant Hope. I need somebody smart like you to tell me how to go about settling things. I’m out on Highway 98 now, only a few minutes away from the old Raulerson cottage. Your mama told me you bought that old ruin, and fixed it up real nice.’’

I looked at the clock. It was 12:51. No, 12:52. What the hell? I’d sleep tomorrow night.

“C’mon over. I’ll put on a pot of herbal tea.’’

Tossing a robe over my pajamas, I went into the kitchen. I lit a couple of Mama’s carnation candles. The water boiled, and I poured it into a pot over three chamomile teabags. After choosing some pretty flowered cups, I set out two spoons and a plastic bear full of honey. By the time I’d washed up a few dishes, read the headlines in the Himmarshee Times, and turned on the TV, I began to wonder what was keeping Emma Jean.

I’m too cheap to pay the phone company an extra monthly fee for caller ID. But I can usually discover the last number that called me by punching in star-69 on my phone’s keypad.

The display panel flashed: Number Unavailable.

I cursed the fact there’d be a charge for the service, even though it failed to retrieve Emma Jean’s cell number. Then I reminded myself to stop being a petty cheapskate. A fellow woman was in crisis, after all. And it was only ninety-five cents.

Clicking channels on the remote, I found an ancient rerun of The Andy Griffith Show. Sheriff Taylor was teaching some kind of life lesson to his boy, Opie. Deputy Barney Fife was wreaking havoc on an otherwise peaceful Mayberry.

And that’s the last thing I remember, until my alarm went off from the next room at 7:30 am.

The sun streamed through the living room window. The glare bounced off one of the gator’s teeth, hitting me dead in the eye. I lifted my head from the couch, which was wet where I drooled in my sleep. The TV blared. One candle flickered, weakly. The other was burned out.

And Emma Jean Valentine was nowhere in sight.

___

I microwaved the leftover chamomile tea. No sense in wasting it. Along with a sliced banana between two pieces of buttered wheat toast, that was my breakfast. After last night’s pig-out, I wanted to get something wholesome down my gullet for a change.

Within fifteen minutes, I showered, dressed, and was out the door. My second cup of honeyed tea was still steaming when I shook the rain puddles off the VW’s tarp, and headed for Mama’s house.

On the way out, I saw the aftermath of the raccoon fiesta. It was worse than I thought. My yard looked like the picnic grounds at Himmarshee Park after the Fourth of July: beer bottles, paper scraps, and chicken bones gnawed clean. I’d clean up after work.