Page 75 of Intoxicated
I still think it’s nuts she’s moved out here all by herself. I don’t care how spry, whip smart, or capable she is. This isn’t the kind of place you come to be an old lady by yourself. I’m going to get a phone call from a nice Eastern Washington sheriff one day who says my grandmother was found in her yard, torn apart by a pack of mountain lions and grizzly bears. Mark my words.
Until then, I’ll do what I can to prevent that.
The sun glares through my windshield as I turn off the highway and into her driveway. The little white house at the end of a straight, gravel road doesn’t take form until I’m practically there. It’s a good thing I was finally allowed the gift of sight. I’m not used to there being a car in the spot where I usually park.
I don’t recognize the black sedan. The plates are Oregonian. A rental? Who the hell is renting a car in Oregon to come visit my grandmother? Why do I smell her award-winning smoked ribs as soon as I step out of my truck and slam the door in announcement of my arrival?
“Hey, Gram.” I slowly approach the porch, where my grandmother appears in an old pair of jeans and a baggy sweatshirt that says she didn’t go out today. She leans against one of the posts and cocks a wrinkled hand on her hip. Am I in trouble? Because she’s looking at me like I’m about to have my allowance taken away. Which only happenedtwicein my youth, thank you. I never made a habit out of smoking after she caught me with a cigarette at fifteen. Nor did I ever again sneak out to see a 21+ concert when I was only seventeen. When your allowance is the size of some parents’ paychecks, you learn how to hold onto them. “What’s going on? Did I drop in at a bad time?” I gesture to the unknown car in the driveway.
“Actually, you’re right on time for one of my early dinners. Got ribs a’cooking, and we’re in here shelling peas to go on the side. You better get in here and join us so it goes faster. Earn your dinner, while you’re at it.”
“Us?”
“Oh, yes.” My grandmother opens her screen door. The front door is already open. “Us.”
I don’t know how to take this. Am I in trouble? If I am, is it with my grandmother or the unknown guest? I look back at the car again, searching for any identifiable marks. Nothing. No vanity plates. Nothing hanging from the rearview mirror. No dashboard ornaments. Not even a ding in the door that tells me they’re a shitty driver. Is it a man? A woman? If it’s a man, I might be in trouble. But if it’s one of my clients, like Jason Rothchild, then what are they doing driving such a lackluster car? It’s a Honda sedan, not a Mercedes!
I’m over thinking this. Time to get my ass inside and see what the fuss is about.
My grandmother leads the way back to her kitchen, where the smell of ribs is the strongest. There, in the center of her round table, is a huge bowl of peas recently taken off the vine. What survived the deer, anyway. I have a faint memory of Gram expecting me to help reinforce the garden fence against deer.
It’s not the peas we’re shocked by, now is it?
Because if you’re seeing what I’m seeing, then somebody has a lot of explaining to do. Mostly Cher, who is sitting on the far end of the table, shelling peas like it’s second nature.
What. The.Fuck.
