Free Salter, Anna C by Fault lines Page B

hijinks.
    But a good Southern girl like me going up to live in a place that froze a body to death all winter and where, everybody knew, the people were as cold as the weather? I laughed out loud, thinking if Willy did kill me, nobody in my family would be surprised. What do you expect if you're going to live up North among strangers?
    How would Mama deal with Willy? Mama wouldn't see the problem. "Shoot him on sight," she'd say, as if that settled it.
    "It's not that simple. Mama. It's all going to be shadow and slight of hand. By the time I see him it'll be too late." I don't know why I carry on conversations with Mama as much as I do: I couldn't live within seven states of her.
    On impulse I walked inside the tiny A-frame and started to pick up the phone. For the first time I noticed the message light flashing and hit the button to play it.
    Marv's voice came on, tinged with anxiety. "Michael," he said. "Thank you for seeing my client. I gather from your notes the group was not what she was looking for.
    "I'm actually calling because I read in the paper that Willy got out. I am terribly sorry. I'm wondering if this is likely to be a problem for you? I'd be happy to consult with you any time about him. And . . . well ... I hope other matters are going better."
    I hadn't told him why I'd landed on his couch, but I knew Marv was well aware the only kind of thing that could put me in that kind of shape was Jordan. "Let me know if I can help. And please come back whenever you like."
    He was an amazingly benign man, and maybe I would wind up on his couch again. I picked up the phone. From the benign to the . . . , but that was the problem with Mama, I never even knew what to call her. I brought the phone back outside and sat down again. I looked at it for a moment and then sighed. Might as well. I dialed and waited. If Mama was there she'd pick it up immediately. Mama didn't dillydally around.
    "Hello," the voice said. Mama never identifies herself, no matter whose phone she answers. She just expects everybody knows who she is.
    "Mama, this is Michael."
    "Michael, well land-sakes, girl. It's been many a moon since I heard from you."
    "Phone works both ways, Mama." How did I do this? I could get in a fight with Mama within seconds of being on the phone with her.
    "Well, we been busy planting the garden. You know how much work that is. There hasn't been time to breathe." Mama wasn't one to let things go. I tried to think if I had ever in my life heard Mama take even part of the responsibility for anything going wrong. Probably not. This was going nowhere, as usual.
    "Mama, tell me about attack dogs." Mama did know her dogs.
    "Attack dogs. Girl? They don't call them 'attack dogs' anymore. Doesn't look good in court. You know how people sue over every little thing these days. Goddamn lawyers are ruining the country."

    I had the feehng getting eaten by an attack dog didn't meet my definition of a httle thing, but I let it go. Too, Daddy had been a lawyer, but I let that go also. "Right, protection dogs. That's not what I'm asking. I want to know how a female protection dog would likely act if she had an owner who couldn't control her. Is she going to get mean? What's she likely to do?"
    "Well, that owner shouldn't have her. That's ridiculous."
    "I don't run the world. Mama. There's nothing I can do about the fact that somebody has a protection dog who shouldn't. I just want to know how the dog is likely to act."
    "Is she mean? Some of them are just naturally mean and some aren't."
    "I don't know. She looks mean to me, but I can't tell."
    There was a pause. "One thing's for sure, she'll take over."
    "What do you mean? Turn on her owner?"
    "Not necessarily. But she'll start making decisions on her own. A good dog won't just protect a person. They'll protect their territory. Your girl will pick out her territory, and before long you won't see any more mail. The UPS man won't come around either. Lord, there was one over on Marker's