House of Blues

Smallwood, whom she knew from her
pleadings before the casino board. With him was Lafayette Goodyear,
another member of the board, and she thought a third was Barron
Piggott, a colleague of theirs, but she couldn't be sure.
    Thank God.
    She closed her eyes for a second, in relief or silent
prayer.
    "Bruce! Lafayette! Help!"
    None of them moved.
    Men she had been to lunch with, sat across a table
from.
    Smiled for.
    Barron had even tried to grab her thigh, but she'd
seen it coming and crossed her legs.
    The kidnapper was screaming above Sally: "Goddammit,
let me in. Get Mo. Tell Mo I'm here, goddammit. Who the fuck do you
think you are?"
    The entire group of able-bodied men, civic leaders,
stood as if nailed to the spot, looking as frightened as she was.
    If her child were to be rescued, it was up to her.
    She reached for Sally, but the kidnappers body was in
the way. She closed her fists and began beating that body as hard as
she could—the shoulders, the back, the kidneys, she hoped. But she
didn't feel the slightest yield.
    "Give her back to me, goddammit! Sally, baby,
it's okay. Mommy's here. Everything's going to be—" She
couldn't get the last word out. She had intended to say "fine,"
but she was out of breath. And besides, she hadn't the heart. She
didn't believe it. Woefully, she looked again at the group of men.
    One had broken from the group, Lafayette, the only
black one, who was running toward her, finally moving his fucking
ass. But the gate swung open and the kidnapper fell away from Reed. .
    Startled, she swiveled and
saw that two men had pulled the kidnapper through the gate, Sally
kicking as hard as she could. They pulled Reed in too.
    * * *
    Grady drove his mother to Dennis and Reed's, Sugar
sitting quietly instead of running her mouth as usual, eyes facing
front; no drama. That puzzled him, but he was thoroughly undone when
she climbed the stairs without a word and retreated, dazed, to one of
the guest rooms. Following with her hastily packed bag, he watched
her turn on the television and lie down on the bed, all her clothes
on and no expression in her eyes. He had never seen her like that,
and the shock moved him to solicitude.
    " Mother? Mother, can I get you anything?"
His voice sounded oddly meek to his own ears.
    Sugar didn't answer.
    She wasn't the sort who had to be cajoled. She wanted
what she wanted, and it was always the same thing—lots of
attention, someone to listen to her, to rant to even if they finally
yelled back. She would cry and fall apart, but she would always
provoke the same situation again—they'd listen till they couldn't
take it anymore, they'd yell back at her, anything to get her out of
their face, and then she'd cry and fall apart again. She craved human
contact like a child who'd been raised by wolves, and it was usually
about as smooth for her.
    She sometimes liked a nip at bedtime, for soporific
purposes, she said.
    "Shall I get you a drink?"
    " I don't really think I care for anything."
She sounded unconvinced.
    "How about some Bailey's Irish Cream?"
    She loved that stuff, probably because it tasted like
dessert.
    " All right," she said, as if doing him a
huge favor.
    He raced down to look for some, relieved to be doing
something; anything.
    There wasn't any.
    When he came back upstairs, he saw that she'd taken
off her shoes, which he took for a good sign. "Mother, I'll have
to go out and get some. Will you be all right for a minute?"
    She looked at him. "I guess so." He thought
perhaps she was afraid.
    "Are you sure?"
    " I guess so."
    He had to get out of there. "I'm putting the
alarm on. Don't worry, no one can get in."
    He had in mind to go instantly to the House of Blues,
but in the end he couldn't bring himself to run out on her. For one
thing, he had to take her back for the damned house check.
    He got the liqueur and returned to find the phone
ringing: the cop asking them to come back. He took his mother home,
brought her back, and then utterly amazed himself, the way he spoke
to her—the way a good son was supposed to; the way he never did.
    "Now, Mother, I want you to undress and get
under the covers while I pour us a little drink. Will you do that for
me now?" He thought he saw a flash of surprise in her eyes, but
she didn't say anything.
    "I'm gonna close this door now, to give you a
little privacy. When I come back, we'll have a nice drink together.
Will you get in bed for me now?"
    She nodded.
    He took a while opening the bottle and finding
glasses,