Not Today, But Someday(7)

“I’m gonna do you a favor today.” I breathe a sigh of relief. “I’m gonna write you up a ticket for all of your offenses. How’s that sound?”

“It doesn’t sound like much of a favor,” I tell him honestly.

“No?” he asks. “Because I could take you down to the station. I could have your mom come bail you out of jail. How do you think she’d like that?”

“She wouldn’t.”

“No, she wouldn’t. You know what else she wouldn’t like, Nate?” he says, punctuating the end of my name with a little spittle. I wipe my cheek. “She wouldn’t like me coming to her house and telling her that her only son’s remains are down at the morgue. She wouldn’t like having to come identify your body. Would she?”

“No, she wouldn’t.” I try not to think about what he’s said. It would kill my mother. I can’t imagine her that way. My body feels suddenly leaden, and I lean against the car for support.

“You better watch yourself, Nate,” he says as he starts to write down my violations on a slip of paper. “Next time, we’re taking you in, do you understand?”

“Yes.”

“And impounding that one-hundred-thousand-dollar car.” One-hundred-thirty-thousand-dollar-car. I don’t correct him. “And that will be the lucky outcome, right? Jail or the morgue. It’ll be one or the other.”

I swallow hard and take my license and insurance card back from him. He walks up to my door and opens it, leaning across the seat and grabbing the pack of cigarettes. “I love the smell of new cars,” he says, handing me the ticket. “Don’t make me visit your mom, Nate,” he says, his cockiness suddenly gone. “Don’t do that to her.”

“Yes, sir,” I whisper. I wait until he drives off to get back in my car. I reach under my seat and pull out another pack of cigarettes, my hands shaking as I open it. I depress the cigarette lighter and realize I’m sweating, despite the below-freezing temperatures outside. I shrug out of my jacket and light my cigarette as soon as the lighter’s hot. I inhale slowly, in hopes of regulating my breathing.

I imagine my dad’s mangled body and close my eyes. That won’t make the image go away. I don’t want to know this. I never needed to hear it, and yet I’m curious – and ashamed that I am, too. I wonder if my mom knew what he looked like. I could never ask her. She didn’t identify the body, though. Grandma and Grandpa did... and they’re not around anymore to ask.

Think of something else! Mom, answering the door, greeting the insensitive cop who’s only there to deliver the devastating news of my death. I try to shake that thought away, too. Misty. Fuck! I don’t want to think about her, either. Finally, I start the car and pull into the nearest parking lot to turn around. I need to go home. I need to clear my mind. I need to paint. I need to get it all out, and that’s my outlet. I think about the piece of art I’d sketched. Why’d I throw that away? It was good.

For her. I threw it away to make a point to her. To impress her. Emi. With her clear, calming honeydew eyes. Before I know it, I’m half way home, the cigarette is out, my heart rate is finally back to normal, and there’s a smile spread across my lips.

As was predicted earlier in the day, snow starts falling steadily just as I pull into the private road leading to our house. I park in the attached two-car garage so I won’t have to walk in the snow, even though Victor normally takes that spot. He can get his shiny patent leather shoes wet with snow and mud.

My mother opens the garage door as I step out of my car. “I thought that was you,” she says. “You can tell by the sound of that engine,” she says.

“It is fairly distinctive,” I agree. “Sounds very different from the Mercedes sedan we paid for.”

“Nathan,” she says, her tone warning. “Victor has been a huge help to us. He’s not just my business partner – he contributes to this household, too,” she says of her co-worker who spends much more time at my house than I think is normal. He’s closer to my age than hers, and the thought of them together makes me cringe. She denies there’s anything personal going on between them, but I still don’t believe it. “He cares about us,” she reminds me. He sticks his nose into my business. That’s all he’s ever done for me.

I smile warmly at her, the image of my dad’s body still prevalent in my mind. I wish I’d never known, and I hope Mom never finds out. The thought of something like that would destroy her, reliving that day, imagining what he went through, alone. I can only hope it happened quickly; that he didn’t feel any pain. The morgue or jail. His words still haunt me. I couldn’t do that to her, not with all she’s already lost. “Hi, Mom,” I tell her with a hug and a kiss on the cheek. “I love you.”

“Oh, Nathan, that’s so sweet,” she says, squeezing my arm. “I love you, too. I don’t tell you that enough.”

“You say it all the time,” I laugh.

“Oh, maybe it’s you that doesn’t say it enough,” she teases me. I’m sure she’s right, though. “I love you, Mom,” I tell her again. She reaches up to ruffle my hair, her smile bright and genuine.

“Anything exciting happen today?” she asks.

“Yeah,” I answer. “But I need to get to the art room.” She doesn’t ask any more questions, always understanding that I need to paint when I get the inspiration. Painting is my therapy. I’d been dabbling in art since I was a toddler, but I didn’t use it as a healing device until my father died. In the end, it was the only way I could get over the lingering anger and betrayal I’d felt.