Do Unto Others

It was about eleven-thirty when I reached my house. Nothing seemed different from when I’d left, except that I could smell skunk on the late-morning air. Sometimes the critters wander in town looking for food, get scared, and let fly with their chemical defense. Then they scurry back to the woods. Just like Beta Harcher. Come in, raise a stink, get out of the picture, but leave an an noying reek behind. It was the meanest thought I’d ever had in my life. By the time I got inside, I was sullen with guilt over it. Mama sat in the den, watching All My Children on a whispering TV. Since she’d gotten sick, she couldn’t stand loudness, although it never bothered her before. She’d sit for hours, simply watching actors move their lips. I couldn’t hear what trauma the pretty blonde on the soap was enduring. I had my own to fret about. Sister was still in her robe, yawning and reading the Austin newspaper over coffee. She saw my face and bolted to her feet.

I told her quickly what happened. Sister of course was horrified. I spoke in low tones of having discovered the body, so Mama wouldn’t hear. I described the list that Junebug had found and produced my copy. I confessed to having forgotten Mama’s medicine and going to the library at what now seemed like a mighty inopportune moment At the end, Sister sank into her chair. “And so Billy Ray told me I’m the number one suspect. Me! Can you believe the nerve?” Sister shook her head. “They can’t be serious. I mean, Junebug’s known you forever. He knows you wouldn’t kill a tick, much less Miz Harcher.” She stood. “We have to call Uncle Bid.” “There’s no need. I haven’t been arrested for anything and I’m sure Junebug’ll find whoever did this.” Plus I didn’t want to have any unnecessary contact with Uncle Bid. I’ve always contended that Uncle Bid should be belled like a leper so you’d know when he’s coming. I don’t believe there’s a more unpleasant old fart of a lawyer in Texas. I went into the den. Mama watched the TV screen intently as a very quiet argument raged. I switched off the set. Mama kept staring at the screen without changing one muscle in her face. I knelt before her. “Mama? Look at me.” She turned her face and gave me a shy, uncertain smile. “How are you today?” I asked gently. I sensed Sister hovering nearby. “Fine, thank you.” Etiquette was no longer a certainty with Mama, but today, at least, she hadn’t forgotten her manners. “Mama, I want you to think. Do you know a lady named Beta Harcher?” I enunciated the name carefully, as though that would help Mama fight through the choking mass of abnormal nerve cells the disease spawned in her brain. “Who?” “Beta Harcher.” Mama looked blank. I asked again; she looked blank again. “Maybe she’ll remember later,” Sister offered. “She probably won’t remember this conversation later,” I snapped. Sister looked wounded and I said, “Sorry. I’m stressed.” I took a deep breath. Try association. “She was real active in the Baptist church, Mama. She’s short, dark hair, kind of frumpy.

Sort of bossy?” This complimentary description of Beta didn’t penetrate far. “I don’t know,” Mama said. She looked down into her lap. “I don’t know,” she repeated, her voice wavering. “It’s okay, Mama. Don’t worry. You watch your show now.” I stood and switched the TV back on. “Try again later,” Sister suggested. I leaned down and kissed Mama’s cheek. Her hand came up to my head, unexpectedly, and her fingers tangled in my thick hair, so close to the strawberry-blonde color of her own. I held the embrace for a moment, then turned back to Sister. “Her Bible still up in her room?” “I think so,” Sister answered. “C’mon, Mama, let’s have a glass of iced tea.” I left them in the kitchen and bounded up the stairs. In my room I got paper and pen, then walked down the hall. Mama’s room was quiet and comfortable, with Irish lace curtains and an antique oak bed that had been her aunt’s. Pictures of Sister and me as children, joined by the more recent photos of Mark, dotted the walls. I sat on the quilted bedspread and opened her Bible. It occurred to me that I didn’t know which translation of the Bible Beta had used to select these quotes; I could only hope that I got the gist of the meanings from the same verses in Mama’s Bible. I smoothed out the folded list and considered it. Beta had written it, then hidden it. Why? It was a diverse roster.