Ranch Road and drove a couple miles down the blacktop.
The sides of the right-of-way had been recently mowed and the smell of fresh cut grass filtered in through the air conditioner. I could see a group of vehicles ahead and drove toward them. About thirty people and two news van trucks with cameras rolling were clustered at the entrance to the Little Ranch. Rock pillars supporting a big iron archway with “Little Ranch” welded into the top of the frame made a photogenic backdrop.
“We’re late, Jolene, and you know how I hate to be late,” Lucille said in a frantic, maybe even panicked, huff. “I just cannot stand to be late, and if we’re not fifteen minutes early, we are late!”
The obligatory “it’s your fault” was plainly inferred and did not need to be stated aloud. My stomach didn’t knot up with childhood angst as I have matured past all that, but I did help myself to two Tums from Mother’s bottle in the seat just to be on the safe side.
The green digital numbers on the dash glowed eight-fifty. “We aren’t late, Mother, we’re actually about ten minutes early.”
“Well, obviously we’re not early enough! We should have been here by eight thirty at the latest. Oh, my Lord!” Lucille gasped and pointed through the gate and up the hill.
The topography in these parts is relatively flat to really flat, but in this one place, there happened to be a plateau-like spot that jutted up above the surrounding prairie. Naturally, the house was built on it. There were even real trees up there around the house and it had the only view, so to speak, for miles. It was a picturesque setting even from here, except for all the police cars with flashing lights.
“What on earth is going on here?” Lucille said, still not sure what she had been late for.
The Buick was still rolling to a stop as she vaulted out and raced into the middle of the crowd.
I found a place to park without blocking the road then made my way back to where my mother had jumped out. It didn’t take but a few seconds—and the guiding light of a TV camera—to locate Lucille Jackson. She was in the middle of an interview with a local news personality. I’m not sure the guy behind the mike understood what was happening to him, but I sure did. My mother was appearing to be a cooperative witness when, in fact, she was actually grilling the reporter for what he knew.
It wasn’t pretty and I’m sorry that I had to bear witness to it, but I did find out what was going on.
Bob Little was missing.
Apparently one of the out of town activists had gone up to talk to him earlier this morning to explain about the rally, ask permission, get his side of the story, that sort of thing, and Little Bob was nowhere to be found. There were, however, definite signs of foul play. Exactly what signs, no one knew, but they were indeed definite, and foul, or so went the rumor.
Dismissing the reporter, Mother pulled a purple umbrella from her infamous purse and popped it open for some purple shade. She then dug out her glittery gold glasses case and pulled out oversized shades, which were darned close to the color of the umbrella as well as the big purple hoops clipped to her earlobes. Properly outfitted and color-coordinated, she made her way through the growing crowd, trawling for more information. I kept a discreet distance behind her, wishing for my own shade-on-a-stick, purple or otherwise, since it was already hot enough to bake biscuits.
After a half hour or so, Mother gave up her crusade and headed back toward the car, something I’d wanted to do from the beginning.
I fished in my pocket for the keys and when I looked up, a flash of reflective light on the road from the house caught my eye. “What’s that?”
Mother spun around and surveyed the long driveway. “Why, it looks like a car!”
While I mentally berated myself for my keen vision and big mouth, Mother high-tailed it back through the crowd to the iron gate and planted herself
The sides of the right-of-way had been recently mowed and the smell of fresh cut grass filtered in through the air conditioner. I could see a group of vehicles ahead and drove toward them. About thirty people and two news van trucks with cameras rolling were clustered at the entrance to the Little Ranch. Rock pillars supporting a big iron archway with “Little Ranch” welded into the top of the frame made a photogenic backdrop.
“We’re late, Jolene, and you know how I hate to be late,” Lucille said in a frantic, maybe even panicked, huff. “I just cannot stand to be late, and if we’re not fifteen minutes early, we are late!”
The obligatory “it’s your fault” was plainly inferred and did not need to be stated aloud. My stomach didn’t knot up with childhood angst as I have matured past all that, but I did help myself to two Tums from Mother’s bottle in the seat just to be on the safe side.
The green digital numbers on the dash glowed eight-fifty. “We aren’t late, Mother, we’re actually about ten minutes early.”
“Well, obviously we’re not early enough! We should have been here by eight thirty at the latest. Oh, my Lord!” Lucille gasped and pointed through the gate and up the hill.
The topography in these parts is relatively flat to really flat, but in this one place, there happened to be a plateau-like spot that jutted up above the surrounding prairie. Naturally, the house was built on it. There were even real trees up there around the house and it had the only view, so to speak, for miles. It was a picturesque setting even from here, except for all the police cars with flashing lights.
“What on earth is going on here?” Lucille said, still not sure what she had been late for.
The Buick was still rolling to a stop as she vaulted out and raced into the middle of the crowd.
I found a place to park without blocking the road then made my way back to where my mother had jumped out. It didn’t take but a few seconds—and the guiding light of a TV camera—to locate Lucille Jackson. She was in the middle of an interview with a local news personality. I’m not sure the guy behind the mike understood what was happening to him, but I sure did. My mother was appearing to be a cooperative witness when, in fact, she was actually grilling the reporter for what he knew.
It wasn’t pretty and I’m sorry that I had to bear witness to it, but I did find out what was going on.
Bob Little was missing.
Apparently one of the out of town activists had gone up to talk to him earlier this morning to explain about the rally, ask permission, get his side of the story, that sort of thing, and Little Bob was nowhere to be found. There were, however, definite signs of foul play. Exactly what signs, no one knew, but they were indeed definite, and foul, or so went the rumor.
Dismissing the reporter, Mother pulled a purple umbrella from her infamous purse and popped it open for some purple shade. She then dug out her glittery gold glasses case and pulled out oversized shades, which were darned close to the color of the umbrella as well as the big purple hoops clipped to her earlobes. Properly outfitted and color-coordinated, she made her way through the growing crowd, trawling for more information. I kept a discreet distance behind her, wishing for my own shade-on-a-stick, purple or otherwise, since it was already hot enough to bake biscuits.
After a half hour or so, Mother gave up her crusade and headed back toward the car, something I’d wanted to do from the beginning.
I fished in my pocket for the keys and when I looked up, a flash of reflective light on the road from the house caught my eye. “What’s that?”
Mother spun around and surveyed the long driveway. “Why, it looks like a car!”
While I mentally berated myself for my keen vision and big mouth, Mother high-tailed it back through the crowd to the iron gate and planted herself
Similar Books
