On a white hot Saturday afternoon in September I found myself going to a funeral for the first time. I was 15 years old but for some reason my parents had not taken me to a funeral before now. It was not their idea that I go to this one but I had reached an age where I would exercise my own will from time to time so they thought it would be best to accompany me instead of allowing me to go alone. This particular funeral was not the ordinary kind. This was the funeral of a 38 year old man who had been shot in the back by his wife as he was leaving his house. The wailing could be heard from under the pines 100 feet away from the door of the church. I don't think I had heard wailing before that day and remember feeling my breath catch in my throat, followed by a sharp little stab and burning feeling at the top of my stomach. This particular sound was almost non-human and I stopped and listened to be sure it was not some wounded animal dying on the alter.

Growing up in a small middle-class town in Mississippi was a little different then. Divorce was rare. Everyone knew their neighbors and everyone made it their business to care for each other. When a family lost the father others in the community would step in, cooking, babysitting and even doing housework and laundry for the new widow. People didn't so much ask, 'What can I do to help?'� they just did. When I was 6 years old my mother added two more children to the 2 she had given birth to. They were there in the afternoons after school let out until their mom came for them around bedtime. My friend Theresa's dad had died of a heart attack while playing softball on the church team. She was 6 and her brother Tom was 4. Like 95% of the mothers then, Mrs. Holly had never worked outside the home. When Mr. Holly died she had to go to trade school to learn a trade so she could support her small family. So Theresa and Tom came to our house and the four of us blended into one family. My brother Jim had a new brother and I had a new sister. Life went on.

Eventually Mrs. Holly became Mrs. Worthington. Some friends of hers introduced the two and they dated for a few months before getting married, or so it seemed to my 8 year old mind. I do remember very accurately how sad I felt that my 'sister'� Theresa would not be coming home with me from school any more and I secretly didn't like Mr. Worthington because of this change in my life. At least we were all members of the same church family. We still saw each other on Sundays and Wednesdays and often times in between.

In my small town everyone played softball. There were only 3 channels on the TV, at least there where if you could position the rabbit-ear antenna with the aluminum bows just right. Consequently the city had a softball league with teams for all children from the ages of 6 to 18. Once you became an adult you played on the church team. The churches had teams for children also so from the time I could swing a bat and wear a glove I played in two leagues all summer long. I played pitcher and first base. Softball was a passion of mine, the passion of my young life.

Mrs. Worthington became my mentor and role model in the twelfth year of my life. She was my softball coach on the church league for starters and I often went to her house after practice to continue throwing and catching with Theresa. Mrs. Worthington became 'Nell'� that summer. She was more of a friend than an adult to me. She had gone to beauty school after her first husband died so she possessed all the information a twelve year old girl needed.

I desperately wanted my ears pierced. All of my girlfriends wore earrings and the coolest hippest earrings were for pierced ears. She knew how to ice the ear and pierce it with a needle. One Saturday afternoon in the fall of 1965 each of my ears had an extra Nell-made hole added to them with pretty little 14k gold balls. I cleaned them twice a day with peroxide and rotated the balls so they would heal properly. Even though my ears were sore for weeks I was so very proud of them.

The church ball team often traveled across town to play in league games. We would take the church bus and ride together with Nell as the chaperone. We sang the usual group traveling on a bus songs. When we sang '99 Bottles of Beer on the Wall'� it felt like we were being anti-establishment hippies or something (since it was a Baptist church bus) and we laughed all the harder. There were so many fun times with Nell. She was one of us. She was the coolest hippest adult I knew and I wanted to be just like her.

When I turned 13 I was promoted to the older girl's softball team. From there, I saw less of Nell. I still saw her at church and often sat with her but over time I saw her less and less. My life was changing so fast. I entered Junior High School and there met new friends and joined new clubs and barely had time for everything and everyone. It seemed like only a year had passed when I got the phone call but in reality it had been 3 years. After I said hello I heard, 'Did you hear yet? Nell shot Beau'�.

I was confused at first. 'What?'� I asked. My classmate Randy, (Nell's cousin by marriage to her first husband) began telling me the incredulous story. I was having a hard time following him. His version, the only version I have gotten to this day was,

'Nell shot Beau. Can you believe it? (gasp) You know Beau was an alcoholic. He had started to beat Nell when he came home drunk. Not many people knew this because he was such a quiet person and so nice. But supposedly he hit Nell several other times. Then Saturday night he came home drunk and they fought. After he hit Nell and was starting to leave Theresa came in and begged him to stay. When Beau knocked Theresa to the floor, Nell went to the back bedroom and got Beau's shotgun. Beau had already gone outside and was getting into his truck when she shot him in the back. The cops found his body in the gravel drive right beside his truck. It was awful. Nell is a basket case.'�

I asked many questions and learned from Randy that Nell was not talking to anyone. She was 'under the care'� of Doctor Smith, the Poplarville M.D. who was also the county coroner. That meant she was heavily sedated. The phone lines in town were abuzz. The news quickly spread and there were lots of whispered conversations on the sidewalks. As hard as it was for me to believe, Nell had shot and killed her husband. I asked but no one could tell me what would happen to her. Further more, no one wanted to even talk to me about what would happen to her. So I went to the funeral.

The church was packed. I had never in my 15 years seen so many people in the sanctuary. And it was hot. People were fanning and sweating. I was scared of what I might see but tried hard not to show my fear.

The Worthington family members were on one side of the church and Nell's family was on the other. Nell was the source of the wailing, at least most of it. She looked horrible. For the first time I saw Nell in public with no makeup. Her face was so swollen she was almost unrecognizable. She was incoherent but loud. I caught only a few words, painful words, words I do not wish to remember I guess because for the life of me I can't remember them. It was a nightmare for me to witness and I can not even imagine what it was for her.

On the way home I asked my parents a few questions about what would happen to her and if she would go to jail, none of them got answered more than, 'I just don't know'� followed by long periods of silence. I took the cue and stopped asking.

Time passed and I watched the papers for news thinking that eventually I would see in print the conclusion to the story of Nell. Nothing was ever printed. I called Randy after a time and he had sketchy details with no answers to any of my questions. The best I could tell was Dr. Smith had her admitted to a hospital for diagnosis and treatment of some mental disorder. It was all very hush hush.

About 15 years later I reconnected with Theresa and was visiting her in her home when her mom came by. She was different yet the same. Nell was 'dating'� a much older man, a man in his 60's. This new beau was a very wealthy man who had divorced his third wife several years back. He had money and liked to play. Nell wore lots of gold and drove a convertible. She was laughing and we all had a great evening catching up with each other's lives. No one mentioned Beau Worthington.

As an adult I have wondered from time to time how it was that Nell was never charged with anything. I am not a lawyer but I have read enough and seen enough movies to wonder why she wasn't charged with 'justifiable homicide'� or 'murder by reason of insanity'� or something, anything. It just doesn't seem possible that someone can kill another human being and not be held responsible for it. Thirty-five years have now passed and it is almost like it never happened. The people in power in Poplarville handled the case of Nell discretely. The rest of the world was protected from the horrors. She did not serve any time as far as I know. A person like Nell in a place like Poplarville is assumed innocent unless charged. At least that's the way it was when I was 15.

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