Since her name hadn’t been mentioned in that dastardly message, she could easily defer all these pesky questions.
But Bama was MIA.
I found her huddled in a corner back in Dodie’s office. Her skin wore the sheen of perspiration and her teeth chattered. “Put your head between your knees,” I ordered her. Those years of Girl Scout training came in handy. “Do it, now!”
I grabbed a cola for her and shoved it under her face. “Drink.”
My cell phone rang. I recognized Robbie Holmes’ number and read his text message: “Let me in the front door.”
I left Bama long enough to go unlock the front door and allow Robbie entrance. As I did, I noticed that the media circus was folding its tents and heading home.
“Thanks,” said Robbie.
“No problem. Thank you. You did a masterful job of bearding the lion.”
“I promised them a press conference later.” He chuckled. “That’s the media for you. I once went on a fox hunt out in Virginia. You know they don’t kill foxes here in the States, don’t you? That wily animal always stayed two steps ahead of those hounds, running down gopher holes, hiding in trees, climbing over fences. Hounds can scent the fox, but their eyesight stinks. I saw that old red fox pitter-patter in front of those dogs easy as you please. There’s a lesson in that. Don’t run from them.” He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “You just heard the baying hounds, Kiki. Problem is: They’ve caught the scent of a big story. I don’t need to tell you, this isn’t going away.”
From the back of the store came a scream and the sound of barking.
“Get out! Get out! If you don’t leave, I’m going to sic these dogs on you! They’re trained killers!” Bama yelled.
Fluffy cocked his head at her as if to say, “Who, me?”
As Bama shoved her shoulder against our back door, she hollered, “Out! I’ve got a gun! I’ll blast your heads off! I tell you I will!”
Robbie Holmes pushed me behind a shelf unit. “Is she armed?”
“No way,” I whispered, and I trotted up alongside her. “Bama? You okay?”
“He … they … he …” She shivered and shook. “A photographer knocked on the back door. I thought, I thought it might be that Fed Ex delivery we’re expecting. They called while you were up front. I opened the door. A flash went off. He took … he took … my picture!” and she broke down sobbing.
“Slow down. I can barely make out what you’re saying. It’s okay. Police Chief Holmes is here. Shhhh.” I grabbed her and pulled her toward me like I would my own daughter. Her shoulders trembled as her tears soaked my blouse. I didn’t know what was most shocking: (1) her reaction (2) her letting me comfort her or (3) her allowing us to see that under that Ice Queen exterior was a very frightened and emotional woman. Sobs shook her body. Bama grabbed my sleeve as if she never planned to let me go.
You never really know another person. Oh, you think you do, but all you see is the cold exterior serving as the ice-cutter, the reinforced nose of the ship designed to bully its way through the frigid water. Beneath the waterline, beyond the bulkheads, another world carries on, loving, living, surviving on a more intimate level. A swirling mass of emotions exists beneath our public exterior, a heaving jumble both unseen and unshared. But once the ship hits the ice floe, the battle for survival demands all hands on deck. With so much at stake, pretence is tossed aside. This shipwreck of a woman was the real Bama. We exchanged glances, fractional, lasting seconds only, but an unspoken truce passed between us.
So, I thought, that tough, cold exterior is just an act.
“Shhh,” I tried again, keeping my eyes locked on hers. “Calm down and talk to me. I need to know what happened.” I couldn’t imagine why she was so upset. After all, weren’t we in the business of taking and saving photos ourselves?
“He took my picture!” she wailed and pointed at the door,
But Bama was MIA.
I found her huddled in a corner back in Dodie’s office. Her skin wore the sheen of perspiration and her teeth chattered. “Put your head between your knees,” I ordered her. Those years of Girl Scout training came in handy. “Do it, now!”
I grabbed a cola for her and shoved it under her face. “Drink.”
My cell phone rang. I recognized Robbie Holmes’ number and read his text message: “Let me in the front door.”
I left Bama long enough to go unlock the front door and allow Robbie entrance. As I did, I noticed that the media circus was folding its tents and heading home.
“Thanks,” said Robbie.
“No problem. Thank you. You did a masterful job of bearding the lion.”
“I promised them a press conference later.” He chuckled. “That’s the media for you. I once went on a fox hunt out in Virginia. You know they don’t kill foxes here in the States, don’t you? That wily animal always stayed two steps ahead of those hounds, running down gopher holes, hiding in trees, climbing over fences. Hounds can scent the fox, but their eyesight stinks. I saw that old red fox pitter-patter in front of those dogs easy as you please. There’s a lesson in that. Don’t run from them.” He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “You just heard the baying hounds, Kiki. Problem is: They’ve caught the scent of a big story. I don’t need to tell you, this isn’t going away.”
From the back of the store came a scream and the sound of barking.
“Get out! Get out! If you don’t leave, I’m going to sic these dogs on you! They’re trained killers!” Bama yelled.
Fluffy cocked his head at her as if to say, “Who, me?”
As Bama shoved her shoulder against our back door, she hollered, “Out! I’ve got a gun! I’ll blast your heads off! I tell you I will!”
Robbie Holmes pushed me behind a shelf unit. “Is she armed?”
“No way,” I whispered, and I trotted up alongside her. “Bama? You okay?”
“He … they … he …” She shivered and shook. “A photographer knocked on the back door. I thought, I thought it might be that Fed Ex delivery we’re expecting. They called while you were up front. I opened the door. A flash went off. He took … he took … my picture!” and she broke down sobbing.
“Slow down. I can barely make out what you’re saying. It’s okay. Police Chief Holmes is here. Shhhh.” I grabbed her and pulled her toward me like I would my own daughter. Her shoulders trembled as her tears soaked my blouse. I didn’t know what was most shocking: (1) her reaction (2) her letting me comfort her or (3) her allowing us to see that under that Ice Queen exterior was a very frightened and emotional woman. Sobs shook her body. Bama grabbed my sleeve as if she never planned to let me go.
You never really know another person. Oh, you think you do, but all you see is the cold exterior serving as the ice-cutter, the reinforced nose of the ship designed to bully its way through the frigid water. Beneath the waterline, beyond the bulkheads, another world carries on, loving, living, surviving on a more intimate level. A swirling mass of emotions exists beneath our public exterior, a heaving jumble both unseen and unshared. But once the ship hits the ice floe, the battle for survival demands all hands on deck. With so much at stake, pretence is tossed aside. This shipwreck of a woman was the real Bama. We exchanged glances, fractional, lasting seconds only, but an unspoken truce passed between us.
So, I thought, that tough, cold exterior is just an act.
“Shhh,” I tried again, keeping my eyes locked on hers. “Calm down and talk to me. I need to know what happened.” I couldn’t imagine why she was so upset. After all, weren’t we in the business of taking and saving photos ourselves?
“He took my picture!” she wailed and pointed at the door,
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