In all the ruckus, my neighbor acquired a shirt and someone brought me an afghan and threw it over my legs. Why someone thought my legs should be covered on a sticky, hot evening was a good question. It must have been a way to feel useful, like boiling water in a medical emergency. Nevertheless, I sat in the old wicker chair with a crocheted afghan across my legs, in too much shock to think about removing it, even as the perspiration pooled under the woolen threads.

When the police got out of their patrol cars, my neighbor met them at the curb. Flashlight beams bobbing wildly, they ran for the open side door of Momma’s house. An ambulance pulled up, followed by two more police cruisers. I didn’t know how many police cars the city of Henryetta owned, but I was willing to bet money all of them were currently parked in front of my house.

The crowd in the street continued to grow and my neighbor made his way back to his porch, clearly uncomfortable. I suspected he hadn’t been in this type of situation before, which I supposed was a positive character trait. He stood about three feet away and crossed his arms over his chest, shifting his weight from side to side. He snuck glances at me like he wanted to say something until he cleared his throat.

“So…can I get you anything?”

His question stumped me. I had no idea if I needed anything. My mind felt detached from my body, like I was watching a movie playing in front of me instead of real life. Maybe I should ask for popcorn. I looked up at him with an expression of bewilderment.

He took pity on me. “I’ll get you a glass of water.”

He disappeared and left his front door open. A shaft of light made an abstract geometric shape on the front porch. The light attracted moths and June bugs, which flittered around and ricocheted off the columns that held up the porch roof. He emerged from the doorway and swatted the bugs away with one hand, a glass of ice water in the other.

“Thank you,” I said as he handed the glass to me. “I’m sorry, I don't know your name.”

“Joe McAllister.”

I nodded my response, wondering why he didn’t ask mine. “I’m Rose.” I was sitting on his porch while the coroner put my Momma in a body bag. This seemed like a first-name-basis situation.

He nodded curtly. “Yeah, I know.”

Unsure what to make of that, I realized I was in no shape to reason anything out.

Another car pulled up and Violet burst out like a ball from a cannon. “Rose!” She scanned the crowd searching for me in the madness.

I was about to call out to her when Joe shouted instead. “She’s over here.”

Violet jerked her head toward Joe and ran, leaping onto the porch. She collapsed on her knees at my feet. “Is it true? Is Momma dead?”

Tears welled up in my eyes, but didn't fall. I nodded my head.

Violet buried her face into my knees, the afghan now a hot, sweaty mess. “Oh, thank God it wasn’t you! I was so scared.”

I looked down at her head as she began to weep. I thought it odd I had the opposite reaction. It was supposed to be me, not Momma. The guilt that went along with that fact sat in the periphery of my mind, waiting patiently for the shock to wear off so it could rush in to take its place.

She looked up at me, her tears like streams of silver in the glow of the streetlights. “Why didn’t you call me?”

I hesitated. “I don't know, Vi. Joe called the police. I didn’t call anyone. Who called you?”

“Mildred.”

Of course, Mildred would be the one to call. “What did she tell you?”

“That a motorcycle gang broke in and viciously attacked you both. Momma tried to fight them off and you were lucky to escape alive.”

My mouth dropped open, aghast. How did these crazy rumors start? And then I started to laugh.

“It’s not funny, Rose. I was scared to death!”

My laughter continued, turning into belly-busting giggles. Joe, who stood a few feet away, turned and watched me with a look of horror, as did the crowd lining the sidewalk and street.

“Rose!” Violet said, her words harsh. “This is not funny.”

“No, no it’s not.” I choked out in my laughter. “But you have to admit, the image of a gang burstin’ in our house and Momma takin’ them on is hilarious. Can't you see Momma whippin’ out some Kung Fu moves?” Tears of laughter streamed down my face.

Violet’s mouth lifted into a lopsided grin. “Well, when you put it that way…”

I felt the laughter shifting and before I knew it, I sobbed. My fear, the horror of what I’d witnessed, and the fact that Momma was dead all escaped through my tears. “Oh Violet, it was so awful. I found her on the sofa, and she had a huge hole in the side of her head. It was supposed to be me.”

Joe’s head whipped around to stare at me.

“Don’t say that, Rose, of course it wasn't supposed to be you,” Violet admonished. “It was just one of those random acts of violence. Thank God you weren’t hurt.”

I shook my head. “No, Violet, you know yesterday afternoon? When I asked you if you remembered me seeing anything bad before? This was it, this was what I saw, but it was me.”

Violet looked around to see if anyone was listening. Joe’s gaze had returned to the crowd. He pretended to not be eavesdropping, but I knew better. Violet lowered her voice. “Don't be tellin’ anyone about your vision.”

“I’m not stupid, Violet.”

“I didn't say you were, sweetheart. But in case you start to feel guilty, don’t tell anyone it should have been you. Just keep it to yourself. When all this settles down, we’ll sort it out.”