Her Alibi
By
Mary L. Schmidt

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Prologue
Visions of her
Cherokee grandmother, Cordie, flashed through Mary’s mind as her mother, Marguerite,
informed her that her stepfather shot himself and was in the hospital. Oh no!
No! This can’t be! Not after the joking around at my
home last night. NO!!!! Did she use me last night? She’d never use her
scapegoat child. No, she couldn’t! Even Marguerite wouldn’t sink that low! Or
would she? Marguerite had always been abusive and vile to most people, and
especially to her children and husbands, but would she shoot Harold?
Yet, here I was,
and I had to tell the police that, yes, my mother was at my home all evening
and into the night. How despicable that my mother connived her way into using
me as her alibi.
Her Alibi - Excerpt
The saga of being her alibi started late in
the evening one cold winter day in 1982. For three years, my mother never once
came to visit the place where I lived with my first husband, who was abusive,
but that’s for a different book.
My doorbell rang, and I ran to see
who it was. I saw Mother’s face through the peephole.
“It’s a little late already. What’s up?” I inquired.
Mother smiled, which she seldom did. I was surprised to find her in such a good mood. I almost didn’t
believe my eyes! My mother stopping
by – but why? Something was up for sure.
“Can’t I visit my daughter?” Mother
asked.
I nodded, but a cloud of doubt hung in my mind. I opened the door
to allow her in, but I was still dumbfounded. Why would Mother visit me now?
After she was
there for a while, the doubts left and we sat down and
shared coffee and leftover bread from breakfast, the conversation flowing between
us almost naturally.
It was one of those rare moments when Mother spoke to me, and
I, the daughter
who always craved
her love, basked
in what I believed
was a reconciliation of sorts. Yet it was a devious plan on her part.
“Something’s bothering me,” Mother said.
I paused. Something’s always bothering you, I
wanted to say. But feeling that the barrier
was broken somehow by the
evening’s conversation, I asked, “What’s
bothering you?”
“Harold.” Mother stopped laughing. She was telling me a funny incident
earlier, and when she shifted the topic to her husband, her facial expression
immediately changed.
“What about him?” I questioned.
The wrinkles in the corners of
her eyes deepened as she smirked. When she spoke, I thought I caught a hint of
concern in her voice. I wasn’t sure though.
“Do you think people are really capable of suicide?” she asked.
I looked at her, surprised. “There’s news about suicides every day,” I said. In my head, I found it hard to understand them, though. Life was so wonderful. Why would
anybody want to take his or her life if tomorrow holds a promise of something
better that could come along? “Why? How’s Harold?”
Mother shook
her head. Her expression brightened once again. “I think he
wants to take his life.”
“That’s preposterous!” I burst
out. I didn’t know if my outburst
was because I couldn’t believe
Harold would take his life, or because
Mother didn’t show any compassion. She made life hell for him, but suicide?? Thus, I
chose my words carefully as I had no idea where she was headed with this
conversation. “Why? He doesn’t
strike me as the
type.”
Mother had been so hard on me
that I found it hard to believe
she would worry
over someone so deeply.
Besides, she seemed very buoyant
that night.
“Do you know what his problem is?”
“I don’t know. But he seems
really depressed.” Then she laughed loudly.
“Enough about that; this time is for us.” She pointed her finger to herself and then to me. “Let’s forget about Harold and go back to other more meaningful
discussions.”
I frowned, but for the first
time, I felt a step closer to her, even though this situation didn’t feel
right. I had to be careful with my words as I didn’t want her to punch or kick
me, which hadn’t happened since I moved out of her home.
In my heart and soul, I knew I
couldn’t build a bridge with my mother without love, so no fence mended. She
was a total stranger to me, laughing and telling stupid jokes without a care in
the world. Harold was forgotten when she finally left after four hours,
and I locked my front door.
The next
morning, I awoke to such horrible
news. Mother had “found”
Harold with a gunshot wound in his upper abdomen outside their house, and in
the blue Ford truck.
My earlier trips to hospitals when I was
young came back to me. The feeling of fear, of whether there would
still be tomorrow, taunted me. My heart clenched thinking about poor Harold.
I was afraid of
Mother, so I never had the courage
to visit Harold in the hospital.
My conversation with my mother came to mind, and I remembered her
telling me that Harold was depressed.
Police officers came in to
talk to Harold. They wanted
to talk to him alone, but my mother rarely left his side, playing the
devoted wife. When Harold was alone, he was silent, probably out of fear, and
refused to talk with the police. Why didn’t the police pick up on that?
When asked
where Mother was the night before finding Harold with a gunshot wound in his
stomach, and sitting in the cold of night, inside a pickup truck outside their
house. Well, my mother told all the police officers that she had been with
me!!!
It was true, but it horrified me because I felt used. I was her alibi–she did use me. Now what do
I do[KM1] ?
My mother had me stuck tight, and she knew it! I hated being stuck!!!
Will Harold live? Will my mother
be charged for this crime? Am I safe? Such a cold, devious, and evil
Mother she was!

BIO:
Mary L. Schmidt writes under her given name and a pen
name, S. Jackson. She lives in the USA with her husband, Michael, and love to
visit their son, Gene, and two grandchildren, Austin, and Emma.
Blog: whenangelsfly.net