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.I don’t think they know about it.I ain’t dealing with Sherlock Holmes here, Mama.The chief of police thinks John Lennon is still alive.I don’t believe they looked to see if there was more than one line.But just in case, I probably won’t be calling you again.And, Mama?”“Yes, Sonny?”“I don’t want you to come driving down here thinking you can help me.I want you to promise me that.You can’t do a single thing down here.You stay right where you are, with a nice big puzzle and a hot cup of tea.Will you promise me, Mama?”“I promise,” Mattie said.The line crackled and she felt as if lightning might come out in a ball of fire.She looked toward the window and saw Rita flick her cigarette butt out into the flowers around the St.Francis birdbath.“Baby,” said Mattie to her only boy.“Sweetie pie, you gotta straighten this out while there’s still time.” She knew Rita would fill up the front door at any minute.Rita would roll into the scene like an unwanted snowball.Then what would those big awful daughters have to say? That Sonny had called his mama for help? That Sonny was nothing but a no-good mama’s boy? But he wasn’t calling for any help at all.He was calling to tell Mattie that he was all right, that he was in the middle of the pond but he was swimming like hell for shore.Sonny Gifford seemed prepared to get out of this one by himself.Sonny and the girls.They’d be on his side by now, no doubt about that.That scrawny little poodle was probably fetching Sonny his slippers and a rolled-up newspaper.“Mama?” said Sonny.Mattie saw Rita’s shape move past the front windows on the porch, headed directly for the door.“What is it, Sonny? What is it, sweetheart?”“I don’t want you to worry a nickel over this.You hear me? You worried enough in your life.And I bet them sisters of mine, them three Pac Monsters, are going at you tooth and nail.You keep your door locked, Mama, you hear me? You know darn well they’re gonna come down on you like cops on a doughnut if you let them.”“Sonny,” Mattie said.But no other words rose up in her throat.There was nothing she could say.A sense of motherly helplessness overtook her.She felt tears forming.“Now, it’s just a matter of time until they find this other line,” said Sonny, “so I won’t be phoning you no more.But I want you to give your best dress to the dry cleaner’s truck and then put your teeth to soak.The minute I get to Mattagash, I’m taking my favorite girlfriend dancing.” Mattie smiled.Sonny knew darn well how proud she was that her teeth were all still her own, especially since that awful dentist down in Bixley had plucked out most of the teeth belonging to Mattie’s generation.Some people would do anything for a buck.Sonny wasn’t like that, though, and this was what Mattie wished the whole world knew about her son.He was good and kind, the sort of kid who steered his bicycle around snakes crossing the road when other boys rode right over the bodies.If there had been a traffic light in Mattagash, Sonny would’ve spent each afternoon down there helping old ladies cross the street.If there had been an animal shelter, he’d have passed his idle hours finding homes for cats and dogs.He dragged home every stray animal he ever saw as it was.And all during his three bumpy years of high school, Sonny sent valentines to every single homely girl in Mattagash, girls who didn’t have a prayer of getting one otherwise.And he always signed them “A Secret Admirer” so that no one would know.Mattie even helped him lick the stamps one year.This was her boy.She saw the front doorknob turning, imagined Rita’s chubby fingers on the other side of the knob.“I love you, Sonny Gifford,” Mattie whispered, and she hoped Sonny heard her, hoped the words were loud enough.“I’m putting my teeth to soak.”“I love you, too, Mama,” Sonny was saying as Mattie saw one of her own fingers reach down to the cradle and disconnect her son, cut the cord, the way the doctor had done thirty-six years ago.Now Sonny Gifford was in some kind of limbo, way down there in Bangor, Maine, where Mattie could never reach him, where other women would now have to help him.6From the road, it looked as though Elmer Fennelson had put in another doozy of a garden.Mattie stood in front of Elmer’s mailbox and gazed across the rows and rows of what would be wonderful vegetables come late summer.She had needed to get out of the house, to replay Sonny’s words in her head, someplace where the girls couldn’t look into her eyes and read her thoughts.It would be another two hours until the six o’clock news was on.And it was possible that Elmer would be out on his porch and would invite her up for a cup of tea.They could sit and complain about the changes that had swept them along since they were children, changes in the landscape, changes in the faces they met each day in Mattagash, changes in the weather.Everyone knew the winters were nothing like they used to be.And neither were the people.There was once a time when Mattagash folks considered it high entertainment to sit on summer porches, the workday done, the men home from the woods.And some kid would make a little fire with kindling and wood chips in the bottom of a discarded water pail.Then he’d cover the fire with green grass to make it smoke, and that smoke would fight off the blackflies and mosquitoes
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