Some Place Better Than Here

Chapter 26: Band On The Run

Moving trucks came all week, taking only half of what was primordially set to leave. But the majority of boxes that had been piled up along the corridor of our house for months were now suddenly gone. Our cousins from Pittsburgh came that Sunday afternoon to pick up Mom's Jetta. It was weird.

There were mournful hugs and goodbyes—though we hardly ever saw them—and jokes made about how—now that'd I be on my own—I could bring back girls without troubling Mom, which only made me painfully think of Mary, but reaffirmed my stance.

They gave me a birthday card with a crisp twenty-dollar bill, which was nice enough, I guess, and then left soon after, happy to be in their new car.

After the Jetta had turned around the corner, off Eneleda Crescent, Mom glared at me with a piercing look of disproval. The jokes about my new bachelor pad angered her. And it was the worst kind of anger—the silent anger.

"Let's go get lunch," Mom finally said.

We went to a little panini restaurant downtown Gilmore that, in any major city, would've been packed on a summer's afternoon. Mom had gotten to know the owner through regular visits. The Italian momma that served us had opened the joint last spring with her husband, hoping the governor's alteration to the tax plan, and the Gilmore Park Gladiators fans pouring in there after games, would guarantee them some success.

But the city refused them parking space, and ever since, they've been involved in year-long negotiations with lawyers and were forced to close on afternoons they spent in court.

"Eggplant parmigiana," the Italian Momma said, placing a plate down in front of Mom. "Chicken pesto." Clinking my plate against the table before me. The emboldened afternoon sunlight permeated the large glass window we sat next to, working me up to an uncomfortable sweat as I ate the hot panini.

Nibbling most of our lunch in silence, Mom, after every few bites, would glance at me. It was not until our coffees arrived after our meal that we made any conversation.

Beginning with Mom asking me, "Is it really because of your friends?" Then took a cautious sip of her coffee, steam rising out of the flat brown surface. With my attention zoned in on the crumbs on my plate, not answering her, Mom continued. "Okay. This isn't one of your mood swings, is it?"

"No, Mom. I don't want to move."

"You are being very tenacious... so okay. Let's have a serious conversation then. How do you plan on earning an income?"

"What?"

"Well, I cannot afford to own two homes, Danny. You're going to be a homeowner, living on your own. So, just tell me, how do you plan to pay your taxes? Your utilities? You know? Hydro, gas, internet, phone bill—well, I suppose you don't need a landline, but your cellphone bill will be an additional expense. Oh! Can't forget about groceries. You'll go broke eating out every night."

My fork scratched the plate as I jabbed at the crumbs.

"And there's our home insurance plan. I mean, that could always be canceled, but Heaven Forbid the damages if we get hit with another hurricane.

"Danny, I'm not trying to patronize you. I'm treating your decision very seriously because, as you said, you're a legal adult now, so I'm not insouciant about this. Let's figure out how you're going to live. Perhaps you can teach guitar at the Gilmore Park Conservatory of Music."

Mom was obviously trying to push all the right buttons to persuade me out of staying home. She lifted her coffee and took a hearty sip, staring at me past the porcelain brim.

"Mom, I'm—I'm just not ready."

"Because of your friends?"

"Well—yes. Mom, I just can't leave. Not, not yet."