Page 4

Tizzy (Becky's Mom)

At this exact same moment… in a Mama’s southern kitchen not too far away:

“Sing it louder, June! Back her up, Johnny!” I yell out into the kitchen as I belt out Ring of Fire.

I shake and shimmy, stirring a pot of homemade sausage gravy, then bending and shaking my tush as I look in the oven, checking my buttermilk biscuits.

“Rise and shine, babies. Mamas gettin’ hunnnngry!”

It’s just getting to the good part when I hear a knock at the door.

“Don't do this to me, lord! I need to finish my dancing before I lose the rhythm.” Yes, I am in a kitchen by myself. Yes, I might be talking to myself, but who else am I supposed to converse with? I've been so lonely since my daughter left town a few years back.

“Oh, what if that's her coming back home?” Even as I get my hopes up, I know it's a lost cause. She left town for a very good reason, one that's kept her away for so long that I feel like I'm dying inside. Even as I make my way to the door, I know it ain't her. No baby girl of mine is going to knock on my door. Mama’s door is always open for her. I check through the peephole and see two men with dark, slicked-back hair, but not in that oily way. No, these guys are fineeee!!!

“I didn't even put my face on today,” I complain, looking at the mirror beside my door and trying not to freak out that I don't have a lick of makeup on. These dark circles aren't doing Mama a lick of good. Quickly opening up my clutch purse on the hallway table, I slick on some red lipstick, smacking my lips together, giving a little pinch to my cheeks and one more glance.

“Well, it ain't perfect, but it's better than what I was working with. You ain't too bad for a woman closing in on forty babygirl.” I blow myself a kiss before turning back to the door. Oh, almost forgot. Pushing up my boobs and pulling down my shirt to let the girls out a bit just as another knock comes from the door.

“Well, hold your horses, hunny. I’m coming as fast as I can,” I yell as I fluff up my blonde curls one last time before swinging the door open. I smile big at the two men on the other side. One is about a foot taller than me in my heels. I would put him at about six-two, with more of a runner's body but still packing some major muscle work. The other looks like a Mac truck and has to be at least six-five. He has huge, wide shoulders and a scowl.

That's alright, doll, I like a challenge.

“Now, what did I do in this life for God to bless me with two huge hunka hunka burning loves like you at my doorstep? It’s not my birthday, but I won't tell anyone if you guys want to treat a girl to a little striptease.” I do a little shimmy at the front door and…. Crickets. Well, this is no fun.

“Ma’am, would it be okay if we stepped inside for a minute?” the smaller of the two asks, making me raise my brow. There's a slight accent. You wouldn't even know it was there without looking for it. After what my baby girl went through, though, I’m always looking for it.

“Well, of course, pumpkin. Wanting some privacy?” I smile saucily at them, but turn and lead them to the kitchen. I pull out a chair for each of them.

“Please sit, sit.” I wave to the chairs. “I was just finishin’ up breakfast. You two can join this lonely lady for a bite, can't you?” I ask, moving the cast iron pan with my famous buttermilk biscuits closer to the edge of the counter. I look behind me subtly and notice gun holsters under their suit jackets.

“So, you live here alone, yes? No children?” Mac truck asks, not so subtly. Are these guys amateurs or somthin’? I might be a tiny little ol’ country girl, but one thing we learned young: Women have to be ready to protect themselves at all times, just in case.

“Aww.. you telling me I don't look old enough to have children?” I ask, placing my biscuits onto a plate and covering them with a napkin.

“Of course not. We just thought there used to be a woman that lived here. Dark hair. Maybe twenty-three?” swimmer says. Are these guys serious? No wonder they need a gun for one little ol’ lady like me.

“In fact, I do have a daughter,” I say, turning swiftly and banging the cast iron on the top of Mac truck’s head before quickly swinging it at swimmers as he turns, eyes wide, and reaches for his gun. He doesn't make it, though. I catch him in the side of the head, and they both go down. One is on the floor, and one is face down on the table.

“Sorry, boys. I would have loved to chat you up, but no one comes into my house and threatens my baby,” I say, turning and picking up the plate with my biscuits. Turning and stepping over Swimmer, still lying on the floor, I make it to the kitchen door before turning with a big smile.

“Lock up before you leave… Tootles.”

Time to go get my baby girl. Mama ain't letting anyone get to her cub.