Rambler

Chapter 13: Come Clean, Redux

They pulled out of the gas station, the boy scowling, his arms crossed in front. His mom looked furtively around, then stepped on the gas, being careful not to make too much exhaust noise in town.

He stared out the passenger window, refusing to give her eye contact.  “I don’t believe you. Is it your hobby to go into stores and make things up? Or is your sickness telling people your family is sick?”

“Oh, hon. Little white lies. I just tried to smooth our way with your Dad’s credit card. And I likely wouldn’t a had a problem this time if you hadn’t scotched it at the last Amoco. But you didn’t know. Now I just gotta keep my speed down a little so as not to use too much gas and we’ll be fine.”

He swung around toward her quickly, his bile rising. “Okay, Mom--it’s time to come clean. You need to tell me what’s going on, or I’ll...I don’t know--the next time I’m around people, I’ll holler out or something. I’ll just tell them you kidnapped me.” She looked at him, stuck out her tongue and laughed. “I will!” he emphasized, opening his eyes wide.

She brought her laughter under control, seeing how serious he looked. “Okay, okay. Lemme think a minute.”

“Maybe you should just tell me--don’t think about it. That’s what I think,” he said to her in a low, serious tone.

“Okay,” she paused, puzzled. “Wow. Didn’t we just have some fun--back with the fart water? And now you’re getting all heavy on me. Whew.”

“Well, I made the mistake of asking about the tachometer instead of focusing on this. I let you distract me. I don’t know why--it’s just what I did. But it isn't because I don’t want to know what’s up, or where I’m going, and why. Okay?”

“Okay, Bud. I just don’t know where to start.”

Well,” he said, looking at her, “we seem to have plenty of time for you to start from wherever.”

“Phew.” she said. “How old are you anyway? Don’t answer. Okay.” She drummed her fingers on the steering wheel.  “Well. I guess I maybe... kinda got in some trouble.”

“Trouble?” he said, looking at her. “What do you mean--like police trouble?”

She pulled out her cigarettes, shook out the last one, crumpled the pack, and tossed it over the seatback. “Remember that cat we had that used to fetch us the crumpled-up cigarette packs?”

He sighed in exasperation. “No. Maybe. But it doesn’t matter unless the cat has something to do with why I’m here.”

She lit the cigarette, took a drag, and exhaled as she gave a laugh. “No--you’re a sharp one. Anyway, no--I don’t think it’s police trouble. At least I hope not. But it’s union trouble, I think, for sure. And likely job trouble. And maybe mob trouble. Who knows?”

He cocked his head back skeptically. “Mob trouble? How you figure that? And if it is, you wanted to drag me along?”

She took the speed of the Rambler up a notch, maybe hoping to speed the story along, or pass some part of it. She thumped her thumbs on the spokes of the steering wheel. “Lemme turn on the radio. That’ll maybe help me think.” She turned the left dial of the AM radio in the dash and turned up the volume to raise a fuzz of static. She twisted the right knob and the radio alternated fuzz and bits of talk, rock, local news, elevator music, and, finally, some country. But the reception cut in and out until she banged her fist down on the top of the dash and the station took hold and poured from the speaker on the dash. “We’ll see how long that lasts before we get outta range or I gotta smack the dang thing again. Wish I’da got an AM-FM one. Or one of those 8-tracks that plays in stereo.”