Beaming Sonny Home by Cathie Pelletier

garden of colored flowers, Donnie Henderson’s mischievous face. It was Donnie Henderson who had told some journalist at Downeast magazine that all of Mattagash was descended from three sisters from Watertown who had canoed up to Mattagash looking for husbands. And that poor journalist had gone ahead and written it down, without ever once checking it out. It was true, as Donnie often noted, that once you cross the Aroostook County line, heading south in Maine, the fewer mountains and the less gray matter you were likely to encounter. Folks farther south tended to believe almost anything you told them. Not like Mattagashers. You could tell a Mattagasher that blue was blue and he still wouldn’t believe you. Right away he’d suspect you were up to something. And maybe Sonny didn’t have a glut of friends in Bangor, hanging out at the house trailer to show their support, but there were plenty of folks willing to go to bat for him in Mattagash.
    â€œWhat else did he want to know?” Mattie asked.
    â€œWell, mostly, he was looking for Sonny’s relations,” said Milly, “until he met up with Donnie. I suspect you’ll read about Sonny’s adoption in the papers tomorrow.” Mattie felt fatigue slipping in, claiming her mind, and fatigue was a bad thing this early in the game. If only those big, loud girls would go home, she might be able to get a logical thought to float into her head, a suggestion pertaining to Sonny’s newest adventure.
    She had just hung up the phone when it rang again. It was probably Milly, phoning back to say that little green aliens were now asking questions about Sonny, wanting to know which planet he’d been born on. Mattie heard the sofa bed squeak in Gracie’s room.
    â€œI’ll get it,” Mattie called out. “It’s only Milly phoning back.” No answer came from behind Gracie’s door, which was just fine with Mattie. She imagined Gracie’s lip hanging like a flap down from her mouth. Gracie had been the best pouter of all three girls. Mattie picked up the phone and, suddenly, the receiver pressed against her face, she knew. She knew and she could say nothing.
    â€œMama?” Sonny’s sweet voice asked. “Are you there? How’s my favorite girlfriend doing?” Mattie reeled an inch or so backward, as though a hand had come out of the phone and pushed her, the push of birth, the same little push you’d probably feel in death.
    â€œSon, what have you gone and done?” Mattie asked, her voice a low whisper, so afraid one of her daughters might hear. “Sonny, what’s gonna happen to you now?”
    â€œI’m gonna be just fine, Mama,” said Sonny. “Vera and Steph have been taking real good care of me. I’m sorry this got on the news. I never thought of that.” No, of course, he never thought of that.
    â€œLet them women go, Sonny,” said Mattie. “Let them go right this minute. Open that trailer door while I’m still on this phone and turn them loose. It’s your only chance. This is serious business, son.” She had canted her head toward the front door, where she could see Rita pacing back and forth on the porch, smoking a cigarette.
    â€œDon’t you worry none, Mama,” said Sonny. “I’ll get this straightened out. Me and the girls here were just discussing how to go about it.” The line cracked and Mattie could hear what sounded like mice feet running about.
    â€œIs this line being tapped, Sonny? Is that what I hear?” Mattie waited, her breath curled and silent in her throat, afraid she might miss the reply.
    â€œI know they tapped my line,” said Sonny, “but this is Sheila’s business line, for her Avon customers, and it’s under her former married name. I don’t think they know about it. I ain’t dealing with Sherlock Holmes here, Mama. The chief of police thinks John Lennon is still alive. I