Read Grease Stains, Kismet, and Maternal Wisdom Page 8
“You can’t leave today.”
“I think I have to.”
My hat was pulled low over my eyes.
“But you can’t leave today.”
“I think I have to.”
Samantha and I were sitting out on the stoop. It was 9:30 a.m. on Saturday and although we were somewhat awake and functional, we were still drunk. Our eyes were glassy and we were dirty and the occasional twig would spill from some part of our monster suit. We were close and giddy and laughing. Samantha was pressed into my side, speaking feverishly.
“Listen. I have a plan.”
“Okay.”
“I’m going to tell my mother that I don’t want to go to the Cape today. She can go alone. We can hang out at the house all day.”
“And we can have sex?”
“All day. In every room.”
This sounded like an amazing idea. But I was doubtful. This was bad. This was so bad. Samantha’s mother had been planning their Cape Cod trip for weeks. They would only be in Hudson for three more days.
“You think your mom will go for it?”
“Yes. She has to.”
“So…what do we do?”
I could hear the gerbil spinning frantically behind Samantha’s hazel eyes as she cooked up the plan.
“Well, I’ll do all the talking. But you have to back me up.”
“And how do I do that?”
“You just have to stand next to me, looking adorable.”
I frowned and weighed things in my head. Then I asked, “Sex? All day?”
“Yes.”
“Really?”
“In every fucking room. I’m going to eat you alive.”
“Do you mean it?”
“Yes.”
“If you think you can pull it off.”
“I can. We have to do this.”
The stoop was cold. The sun was coming up in the east. The tops of the pine trees were orange. Ledgewood was sleepy. But the scent of our crimes lingered about the neighborhood like the scent of burnt toast in a kitchen. We tried to piece the night together.
“I can’t believe we fucked on someone’s lawn,” I said. “And then the road.”
“We did what?”
Oh, God. She doesn’t remember. She doesn’t remember any of it. Sad, but understandable.
“We had sex at the end of the street,” I said. “You don’t remember?”
“No…I don’t remember any of it. I wish I did.”
“Do you remember crying outside of the bar?”
“I was crying? What a drama queen.”
“It was sweet.”
Then the door opened behind us.
“I didn’t know you two were up already.”
Samantha squeezed my knee and got up.
“I’ll be right back,” she whispered.
“Okay. I’ll be here.”
I pulled my hat even lower over my eyes and hugged myself. I was tired but I was smiling.
There’s no fucking way that this is going to work, I thought. I have to go now. Fuck.
I heard some rough sounds coming from inside the house. I shriveled up into my shell.
“I’m not driving to the Cape by myself, Samantha.”
“But we have maps.”
“I’m NOT driving to the Cape by myself, Samantha.”
“But…”
Son of a bitch.
I pushed myself off the stoop. The grating sound of reality clanged like a rusty cowbell around my neck. Samantha came out. Her eyes were low now too, defeated. She sat next to me.
“Fuck. Damn woman,” she said.
Then Sissy came to the doorway. I shook my head and held up my hands.
“I don’t want to screw you up,” I said. “I’ve got to go anyway. I have work tomorrow. I don’t want to screw you up.”
“No no no,” said Sissy. “You’re not screwing us up.”
She paused. She was thinking.
This could be good.
Samantha and I clasped hands.
Sex all day sex all day. Still a chance. Maybe.
Sissy spoke kindly. “We don’t have to go to the Cape today, Samantha. We can go tomorrow. That way we can sleep here tonight and we can leave really early tomorrow and I can do some cleaning around the house.”
Wow. This wasn’t what we were shooting for but this was good. Samantha was grinning a big shit eating grin.
“Okay, Mom.”
I knitted my brows together, trying to look helpless. I was helpless. This was out of my hands. Didn’t I have a plan once? Ages ago.
Sissy disappeared into the echoes of the house. The door closed. Samantha, freshly animated and optimistic, turned to me and said, “Now we have to get her out of the house for a while so we can have sex.”
“In every room?”
“In every room.”
“How do we do that?”
“I don’t know. But this is good.”
And it was good.
We decided to explore our crime scene from the night before. We put on shoes and grabbed a couple of cigarettes.
As we moved down the street, I couldn’t help but feel guilty, but excitedly so. Like two animals, we’d left our stinky mark up and down this motherfucker. I kept looking over my shoulder.
As we neared the crime scene we started pointing and laughing. The lawn had been trampled. It looked like two bears had slept there the night before. The short bank that pushed out to the edge of the road was clawed up and dug up and tore up and dirt and leaves covered the pavement in a pattern that strangely resembled the outline of a man and a woman. Fucking.
“Do you remember?” I asked.
“Oh, my god.”
“Do you remember?”
Please remember at least some of it. It’s in that pretty head, I know it. But…no.
“Oh my god,” she said. Then, “What’s that?”
“What’s what?”
Something was lying in the grass. We knew what it was but we didn’t know what it was. Samantha slowed and I tap danced over to it. I looked around and snatched it up. Pink panties. I quickly stuffed them into my back pocket.
“Your fucking panties,” I said.
“Oh, my god.”
We hustled back up the street before we were recognized. The faces of sleepy, puffy eyed strangers pressed up against windows as we skirted past.