by Kelly Fordon
Before I even had a chance to respond, Teri shouted. “He’s lying!”
Two fishermen, young guys, were standing next to a white Dodge minivan watching the scene unfold. If worse came to worst—the park ranger, me, these two guys—I figured we could take the skinhead out.
“You were going eighty miles an hour,” Teri shouted. “And you were NOT respectful.”
“Officer, at no time did I act disrespectfully. I was not going eighty miles an hour. If I was, I would have hit that man because he was parked in the middle of the road.” The skinhead smiled at me again and put a hand over his heart as if he were planning to recite the Pledge of Allegiance.
“Yeah,” said the girl with the pink pom-pom. “Garth was as nice as could be.” She turned and glared at Teri, who glared right back.
“You did not act respectfully,” Teri repeated. “You called him all sorts of names. You were driving at a terrific speed. You were mocking him, and at one point you got out of the car and harassed him.”
The park ranger looked at Teri. “Would you like me to call the police? We can call the police.”
The pom-pom girl cocked her head at Teri. “I’m sorry, is there a reason you’re involved? Can we help you in some way?”
“Yes,” Teri said. “That is my husband, and you need to apologize.”
The girl took two steps toward Teri. Teri took two steps toward her.
“I’ll handle this.” The park ranger held his hand up to stop them.
He turned to Teri. “Ma’am, can you just give me a minute here?”
“This is insane.” Teri turned to me. “Where’s David?”
We both glanced over at my car. David was still sitting in the passenger’s seat of my car, ear buds imbedded. On Mars.
One time during the “inspirational speech” phase of my dealings with David, I told him about my great-grandfather who had fought in World War I. My great-grandfather was a first-generation Irish immigrant who lived on Kimberley Avenue in Cleveland in a duplex with his parents and six siblings. Next door was a family of Russian immigrants named Siegel, who had a batch of kids as well, one of whom grew up to be Jerry Siegel, the creator of Superman. Jerry was just a young boy during World War I, but in one interview years later, he mentioned that he had been in awe of the soldiers who lived on his street during the Great War. From that statement, I had embellished the story a bit for David’s sake.
“Do you realize that your great-grandfather was one of the soldiers who sparked the creation of Superman? His bravery, his integrity, his comportment was the catalyst for the young creator. You need to think about the impact you want to have on the world. You need to think about how you will make your contribution.”
When David asked me whether I’d always wanted to be a banker, I should have told him the truth. I wanted to be Superman. I grew up hearing my grandfather’s story, and I always thought I’d get my chance to do something extraordinary. Later, I considered myself lucky that I’d never been tested.
“I have to call a tow truck. Why don’t you wait in your car and I’ll call you when I get through?” I said to Teri.
“Good idea.” She marched back toward her car. I got back into mine, locked the door, and dialed AAA. Immediately, I was put on hold.
After a few minutes, the park ranger knocked on my window. Beyond him, the skinhead and the pom-pom girl had gathered up their poles and were heading for the trail that leads down to the river.
“The car is registered to the driver,” the ranger said. “He’s eighteen years old with no priors. They said they won’t bother you. I’ll tell you what, road rage is really on the rise around here.” He shook his head.
“This wasn’t ordinary road rage,” I said. “I think they’re on something.”
The ranger nodded his head in agreement. “That might be. Do you want me to call the cops?”
“If he has nothing on his record, what will they do?”
“Not much.”
“Seems kind of pointless then.”
He shrugged.
“No need to call the cops,” I said.
“I’ll go tell your wife things are under control,” he said.
I rolled the window back up.
David took out his ear buds. “Meth,” he said.
“Meth? You think they’re on meth?”
He nodded. “His license plate is GoFast1, and ‘go fast’ is a nickname for meth. He’s from Ohio, which is like meth central, he looks like he hasn’t eaten in years, and he’s mean.” He said all of this without looking at me. “Mom shouldn’t have messed with him.”
I looked out the window. The park ranger pulled out of his spot and waved as he passed by on his way out of the parking lot. The menaces had reached the trail at the edge of the parking lot. I glanced over at Teri’s car. There was no one left in the parking lot except for our two cars and the skinhead’s pickup.
“Hello, may I help you?”
I had forgotten I was on hold with AAA.
“Yes,” I said. “I need a tow truck . . .”
Before I could finish the sentence, I heard someone yell.
David took out one of his ear buds.
“That’s Mom,” he said, though how he had heard her through the cacophony of sound coming from his ear buds, I have no idea.
“Are you sure?” I opened my car door.
Teri was standing next to her car. “Hey you!” she was yelling to the receding back of the skinhead. “Hey, you!”
The skinhead stopped walking. I looked over at David in disbelief. But David was no longer in the seat next to me. His door was open. As I turned back toward my window, I saw him fly past.
“MOM!” he yelled. “Stop!”
It was the first time I’d heard David say the word mom in so long that it took me a moment to remember mom was a word in his lexicon.
The skinhead was facing Teri now, standing about ten yards away from her. He put a hand up to his backpack strap and shimmied it off his shoulder. He unzipped the backpack and reached inside.
“Mom!” David yelled again. “Come here right now! We have to go. I’m late. Remember? We have to leave right NOW.”
Teri looked back at David. I’m sure the word mom had stunned her as well. When David reached her, he took hold of her arm and propelled her back toward her car.
I got out of my car and hurried over to Teri’s car, keeping an eye on the skinhead. He was still standing with his hand in the backpack watching Teri and David as they ran away from him, looking bemused at their extreme agitation. Then he saw me crossing the parking lot. And he pulled out the gun.
“Can I help you, you dumb fuck? If you want something, I got just the thing.” He waved the gun back and forth, and I have to admit, I wasn’t sure I could make it to the car. I’m ashamed to say I lost control of my bladder.
Teri was just opening the driver’s side door and David was heading toward the back door, their backs toward the gun. I kept walking quickly toward them, not knowing if or when he planned to shoot and wondering if the wetness had reached the outside of my pants. But he didn’t do anything. He seemed to simply enjoy the fact that he had scared the daylights out of me.
“Mom, you should never have taken a chance like that. Never. Never. Never,” David was saying as I slid into the passenger seat. “That guy could have had a gun.”
There was a large manila envelope sitting on the seat, and I put it in my lap to cover my pants keeping my eyes on the skinhead. At the same time, Teri finished buckling her seat belt and looked over at me. When I didn’t turn my head to acknowledge her, she must have followed my gaze out through the windshield to the skinhead who was still pointing the gun right at us.
“Holy shit,” she said.
“Mom, start the car!” David leaned up next to Teri. “Mom, you have to turn the key.”
But Teri didn’t move, and I’m sorry to say, I didn’t either.
David leaned over from the back seat and turned the key in the ignition. “I kn
ow you’re scared, Mom, but you’ve got to drive,” he said. “Now.”
Teri put her foot on the gas, and we peeled out of the parking lot. I was still unable to move my head, but I could see out of my peripheral vision that her hands were clamped to the wheel as if they’d been soldered on.
There was a moment when we were racing away from the skinhead but were still in range that I realized David’s head was a perfect target if the skinhead chose to take a shot.
“David,” I said. “Get down.”
My words did not come out with any conviction. I am not sure David even heard me. My voice was just the trickle of a voice, soft and insubstantial. Not up to the task at all. I remembered that my father, the war hero, had once said, “You never know how you’ll react in a life-and-death situation until you’re in one.”
Now I knew.
I also knew how David would respond. Even if I hadn’t been capable of it, my son had risen to the occasion. It almost canceled out my own feelings of inadequacy.
Almost.
Why Did I Ever Think This Was a Good Idea?
Bridget Flanagan stood in the middle of what used to be her studio. A discordant sound (could it really be called music?) was coming from her son William’s room directly above her head. She could ask him to turn it down, but that would require interacting with him, possibly screaming at the top of her lungs. She couldn’t bear the thought, so she remained amid the thumping and screeching surrounded by shopping bags.
The extra bedroom had not been used as an actual studio since Bridget had worked as a graphic artist for J. Walter Thompson. They’d allowed her to work from home briefly after her oldest child, Keira, was born. Those were the days when it had been impossible to stand at the easel or sit at her desk for more than three minutes at a stretch without Keira letting out a rebel yell. Then, two years later, along came Brendan. William, the surprise, arrived a week after Brendan started kindergarten. In the baby years, it had not even been a question—her children cried, and she responded. In those days, her main goal was to do everything differently than her own mother. She didn’t want her own children to know what it felt like to be someone’s last priority. Now, the joke was on her. More often than not, she was the one crying, and they could not have cared less.
The extra bedroom had functioned as a storage unit since she’d given notice to J. Walter almost two decades before. Briefly, when the kids first went to school, Bridget had thought about turning it back into an art studio, but somehow, with the lunchtime volunteering and the various sports commitments and the intermittent childhood dramas, that had never happened. Even so, it had not been a dump (her husband Ryan’s term) until last year, when Bridget began shopping while on college tours with William.
It had seemed like every single town sported an outlet mall, and that had been her solace when William, ear buds permanently embedded, ignored her many attempts at conversation.
Everything she had purchased over the past twelve months was piled high in the room. On top of that, William had decided he wasn’t going to college right away; he was going to take a “leap year” or a “gap year” or whatever kids called loafing around doing nothing.
“His meal ticket is running out,” Ryan said. “Someone ought to clue him in.”
It turned out that not only did William have an alternate plan, but he’d actually saved enough from his computer repair business to buy a roundtrip ticket to Beijing. Scrapping college was nothing Bridget’s other two children had even contemplated. They had gone, no questions asked. Keira had ended up at Colby, and as soon as she’d graduated, she’d moved to New York City. Now she lived a life of self-imposed poverty in Brooklyn, working temp jobs and trying to start her own web design business. Brendan had attended Georgetown, and then landed as a legislative aide on the Hill. Since Brendan was five years older than William, the other two had been gone for what seemed like a lifetime. For his entire high school career, William had had his parents to himself.
Well, good riddance, she thought when William told her he planned to see the Great Wall. It was a terrible thing to think, and she knew it, but if anyone spent more than five minutes with William, they wouldn’t judge her. No, that was not true, either. The truth was that William was kind—a better word might be obsequious—to everyone except her. He saved all of his vitriol for Bridget, the softie who had purchased the entire Harry Potter LEGO series and the expensive trampoline, which he wasted no time riddling with BB pellets. A few years later, she’d been the sucker to outfit “his” rec room with a leather sectional, only to walk in on him several days later slitting the underside open with a pocketknife to hide pot.
There was nothing to be done about it now. In a week he would be gone. The ticket was open-ended, and though he had not decided when he was coming back, in theory he was supposed to start college the following August at Oberlin.
Now, Bridget turned her attention to the shopping bags. It was astonishing to see exactly how much she had acquired. She hadn’t opened any of them. Every time she bought something new, she simply dumped it in the studio.
The initial shopping spree had been at an art supply store, where she’d filled several bags with tubes of oil paints, colored pencils, charcoal pencils, various brushes, and linen for canvases. Then she’d hit a bookstore, where she’d headed straight for The Art of Abstract Painting, The New Artist’s Manual, and The Painterly Approach, veering off to the self-help section for My Nest Isn’t Empty: It Just Has More Closet Space and Chicken Soup for the Soul: Empty Nesters, then on to Barefoot Contessa and The Guide to Eating Mindfully. Somewhere along the line, she’d succumbed to the lure of the clothing stores as well.
The first thing that caught her eye as she entered the room were all the art books she’d bought spilling out onto the floor. William, who had been listening to a headache-inducing rap station in his bedroom, must have fallen asleep, because now there was ’70s music blaring above Bridget’s head. Maybe he had fallen into a submarine sandwich–induced coma. Every morning, he woke up early, mowed his lawns, came home with two submarine sandwiches, and pounded up to his room to sleep the rest of the day before heading out with friends just about the time Bridget was going to bed.
Whatever the reason for the new station, Bridget was grateful for five minutes of relative quiet. She stood and faced the bags lining the back wall, which were stacked horizontally from the floor to just above the windowsill. She would have to be careful when she removed the first one or the whole heap might cascade down. As she latched onto a tiny bag at the top, she realized that “Dancing Queen” by ABBA had come on the station. It used to be her favorite song in high school. She grabbed the handle and shuffle danced around in a circle. For a small bag, it was surprisingly heavy. She put it down and cleared a space in the middle of the room.
“Dancing queen, young and sweet, only seventeen, yea you can dance, you can sing, having the time of your life.”
Bridget closed her eyes and twirled around in the tiny space available to her amid the rubble. Wouldn’t it be great to spin back to seventeen, to flip-flops and short shorts?
The last time she heard “Dancing Queen,” she’d been on an exchange program in London. She had worked for TV-am on the weekends and once sat opposite Prince Andrew during an interview. When she got home, she told everyone he’d been flirting with her. She’d said it so often it felt true. She had even sketched him and still had the drawing. ABBA had been playing on the ferry from Dover to Amsterdam when Bridget was taking a weekend trip with a boy, who, when she was high, bore a marked resemblance to Tom Cruise. They’d never had anything to say to each other. She couldn’t even remember his name, but she could still envision his abs, which were miraculous.
Decades had passed since then. When she and Ryan were first married and she’d moved to his hometown, fresh from her travel adventures, her mother-in-law, Toni, would share anecdotes about her own junior year in Paris. How pathetic, Bridget had thought. She’s talking about that trip like it w
as yesterday.
She should ask Ryan to go dancing sometime. It wasn’t that much to ask. There were plenty of things she did for him that didn’t appeal to her—golf, gin rummy, driving to Frankenmuth for chicken dinners came to mind. As she danced, she opened her eyes briefly to make sure she wasn’t going to collide with anything and saw that someone was standing in the doorway.
She stopped mid-spin and nearly toppled over. It was William. How long had he been there? He was staring at her, scowling from beneath his long greasy bangs. The room wobbled.
“You looked sooooo stupid, Mom,” he said, shaking his head before turning and walking away.
Bridget, deflated, abandoned the studio, closing the door on the mess. She went upstairs to her room and slipped under the covers. There she lay with her palms up, staring at the ceiling light.
Bridget had grown up in a large city on the East Coast surrounded by her parents and their friends and all of their monstrous ambitions. At cocktail parties, imposing men with cigars talked about this deal and that. The women discussed travel and art shows, the books they were writing, the weight they were losing, the jewelry they were making, the PR firm they had just opened, the charity they had devoted their lives to promoting. Bridget stood amid the clatter of silver trays and the swoosh of their ominously puffy fur coats and the nauseating plumes of smoke. It seemed to her that they were like great colorful bubbles floating through the room, completely encapsulated, each unable to see beyond their own illuminated orb.
Bridget’s mother was one of the most splendiferous bubbles. She painted, she wrote, she chaired organizations. All of her telephone conversations began like this:
“Well, I’m onto something new . . . it’s going to be terrific if we can get it off the ground.”
“I’ve been working like a dog . . .”
“I really think this is going to be sensational . . .”