Read Grease Stains, Kismet, and Maternal Wisdom Page 12

  ***

  It was late afternoon, early evening. We were driving. Samantha sat next to me. The sun was slinking down in the west but I still had to use my visor from time to time. I’d forgotten my sunglasses.

  “Where is the movie theatre?” I asked.

  “It’s off of Moon Street in Hudson. I think we missed it.”

  “I didn’t even see anything.”

  “Me neither.”

  I was touching Samantha’s leg. She was touching my hand. We held hands. We were slow. Everything was okay. But the cowbell of reality still clanged around my neck, and Samantha’s too, only it was no longer in the form of her mother’s stern voice from the morning, but of something much more visceral, heavy, something now. It was in the car with us, it was in the music, it was in our hands as we touched, it was in the lights that we moved through, it was in the road, it was in the sun…The sun was in my eyes. I dropped the visor and sighed. I was getting heavy…and sad.

  “I don’t think we’re going to find it,” I said.

  “Yeah.”

  Then I had a bad idea.

  “Do you want to go to my hometown? It’s not that far away.”

  Samantha slid up in her seat. She crossed her legs and sat in the lotus position.

  “Yeah?” she asked.

  “Yeah. We’re right here at the Mass Pike. This is the way I go home. We could get on right now. We could be there in no time, we could see a movie—”

  “And I could meet your mom and your dad and your dog and your cat?”

  I cringed. Fuck. I recognized my bad idea. I wasn’t ready for that yet. Samantha didn’t understand my discomfort.

  “Ugh…ah, no…I’d just zip through town and we could see a movie and get some dinner. And then I’d bring you back.”

  “But…why?”

  My parents are crazy which is why I’m crazy. Our house is old, older than your uncle’s house. My father is a cross between Jack Nicholson and John Cougar but he’s never been in any movies and he doesn’t write songs. My mother is small and kind and has a fondness for yard sales. We’re a disaster. My whole family is a…wonderful disaster. But it’s not all bad…It’s not bad at all, really, but…I’m not ready for that yet. This week has gone so well, I don’t want to scare you away. And believe me, it would. You have to know me for years to get me…but you seem to get me already. That’s amazing. But..no…no, I have to be ready for that.

  “I’m wigging out, Samantha,” I said. “I have to be ready…I’m not ready today.”

  And things finally came full circle: I was the chicken shit and Samantha was the bat shit. We made it to Washburn before I fully understood this concept. We got off the exit and turned around, the sun now at our backs and out of my eyes.