“Your mother’s furious at you, Mace.’’ It became “mudder’’ in Sal’s Bronx accent.

“Yeah, that’s about all I managed to understand. Henry’s out here with me, Sal. Are you going to open the door and let us come in off the stoop, or should we just wait until the mosquitoes suck out every drop of our blood?’’

As if for punctuation, Henry slapped a hungry specimen on his neck. I flicked two at once off my wrist.

The door opened. Sal was dressed for bed, wearing a pair of men’s pajamas that would give any normal person nightmares. Black, they featured bright red cartoon characters. Boy devils with tails and pitchforks chased after girl devils. The girls, complete with horns and the subtle bud of breasts, jumped over flames of orange and yellow.

Sal padded in his red leather slippers from the living room into the kitchen, where he’d been feeding Teensy. We followed him.

“Where’d you buy the pajamas, Sal? Hell-Mart?’’ Henry asked.

I giggled, but Sal didn’t crack a smile. He spooned food from an open can into Teensy’s bowl, set it on the floor, and then leaned against the kitchen counter. “She’s really upset, Mace. She won’t tell me what’s wrong. She’s in the bedroom, with the lights out and a cold compress on her head.’’

I looked at the Elvis Presley clock over the sink. Above the King’s swiveling hips, the time read 8:05 p.m. That was early for bed, even by Himmarshee standards. Chances were Mama was not asleep.

“You want to come with me to talk to her, Sal?’’

The big man backed up as if I was asking him to bungee jump off a cliff, minus the bungee cord. I opened the door of the refrigerator, took out two beers, and poured a hefty glass of sweet pink wine for Mama. I handed Henry one of the beers. “You may need this, cousin. You’re coming in with me. No way I’m facing her alone.’’

I pushed Henry to the bedroom door ahead of me. He was always her favorite among all the cousins. I figured whatever bee was in her bonnet about whatever I’d done, she wouldn’t make a scene in front of Henry—or, at least not as big of a scene.

I rapped gently on the half-closed door with the top of my beer bottle. “You awake?’’

I heard a dramatic sigh from inside. “Yes.’’ Her voice quavered.

“I’ve got Henry with me. Are you decent?’’

“Of course.’’ Another sigh. “Hey, Henry.’’

“Hey, Aunt Rosalee,’’ he said from the hallway.

“Well, don’t just stand out there like a couple of ninnies,’’ she said. “Come on in and turn on the lights.’’

As we did, Mama tossed the washcloth from her forehead onto the floor. She plumped three pillows behind her and sat up against a peach-colored headboard.

“Pink wine?’’ I held out the glass to her.

“Henry, please tell my daughter I’m far too upset to drink more than a couple of sips.’’

“Mace, your mama says—”

“—I heard her, Henry.’’ I handed her the glass.

“Tell my daughter thank-you.’’

“She said—’’

“—Yeah, I got it.’’

Henry and I perched about midway down the king-size bed; me on Mama’s left; Henry on her right. She gave Henry a sad look. I got a furious frown.

“I’m madder at you than a wasp with a ruined nest, Mace. I’d have never believed you’d keep information like this from me. Maddie’s in pain, and I’m sitting on my hands. I could have helped before it got this far.’’

I was quiet. I learned long ago the best offense against Mama is silence. She can’t stand the sound of it. As I knew she would, she jumped in to fill it with words.

“I got this text tonight.’’ She handed me her cell phone.

I’ve had enough. Don’t bother coming home. I want a divorce.

The words hit like a punch to my solar plexus.

“At first I thought it was somebody poking fun at my matrimonial record. Then I saw it was Maddie who’d sent the text, and Maddie never pokes fun. Of course I called her right back to find out what that meant.’’

“What’d she say?’’ Henry asked.

“That she hit my number by mistake; Kenny’s right next to me in her phone directory. I wasn’t supposed to receive the message. Like I didn’t know that.’’ Mama took the phone from me; stared at the text again. “She said it wasn’t any of my business what the text meant.’’

Mama raised her face to mine. Tears pooled in her eyes. “How can it not be a mother’s business when her daughter wants a divorce?’’

“Mama, I …’’

She cut me off. “Maddie was crying, but she hung up on me when I tried to ask her what was wrong. I called right back, and she hung up again. The next time I called she said she simply couldn’t talk about it. Maddie said, ‘Mace knows the whole story. Ask her.’’’

Mama’s phone timed out, and the screen went dark. She placed it upside down on the bed and then covered it with a pillow, as if by hiding it, she could erase that text from existence.

“So, I’m asking my middle daughter why my first-born never saw fit to mention to me that her marriage of twenty-some years was crumbling.’’

Mama’s voice sounded more sad than angry. A look passed between Henry and me.

“So, Henry knows about this, too?’’ Her voice rose. “I’m the only one in the dark?’’ Now, anger was back in the lead over sadness.

Henry took her hand. “Mace only brought me in because there may be criminal issues involved.’’

“Criminal?’’ Mama wailed. “Is Maddie going to jail?’’

“Nobody’s going to jail, Aunt Rosalee.’’ Henry aimed for a soothing tone. “At least not right away.’’

Her eyes widened. “Maddie would look a fright in those awful orange jumpsuits they make you wear in jail.’’

And so we had another record shattered: From fury to anguish to fashion in less than five minutes.

Teensy gave a sharp yip in the living room. A car door slammed. A crescendo of barking began.

“That’ll be Marty,’’ Mama said. “I called her, too. She couldn’t believe Maddie would choose to tell you about this instead of her.’’

“Believe me, I’ve asked myself that same question.’’

I headed to the front door to corral Teensy. I’d reveal to Mama and Marty that Kenny was cheating. I’d tell them everything, except who his secret lover had been.

thirty-nine

First thing Wednesday morning, I turned on the radio in my bedroom to the country music station. I listened to five commercials, the latest Jason Aldean song, and some back-and-forth between Henry’s disc jockey friend and a clueless caller. The guy thought he’d dialed his girlfriend’s number when a deep-voiced man answered the phone.

“Uh, I was calling for Donna Jean. Did I dial the … wrong number?’’ the caller’s voice was hesitant.

“Donna Jean’s in the kitchen, making me breakfast. Who the heck is this?’’ the DJ demanded.

When he finally let the poor guy off the hook, the announcer did the bit I’d been waiting for: “We’ve got a terrific prize for some lucky driver today. Two tickets to the big monster truck show later this month. I’m going to read off some numbers, and if your license tag is a match, you’re the winner. Got a pencil? Here we go …”

Then he read off the tag number D’Vora handed me when she revealed she’d seen Kenny parked at the lake.

The station, ranked No. 1 in most of the counties ringing Lake Okeechobee, ran frequent giveaways and contests. If Kenny was in range, he was listening. He wouldn’t be able to resist the monster truck jamboree, especially for free. Henry had asked the DJ to help us razz a relative. Since the man spent most of his mornings pulling pranks, he was happy to do it. He agreed to repeat the pitch five times throughout the morning.

“You’ll have to pick up your tickets in your vehicle so we can make sure the tag matches,’’ the announcer continued. “Stop by the station between noon and one o’clock, and we’ll hand ’em over. You’ll be sittin’ pretty, watching Maximum Destruction crush everything in sight …”

_____

“Duck!’’ I said to Henry, as I slid down in the front passenger seat of his wife’s minivan.