The Station Wagon Ride: A Short Story

She was wearing her favorite jeans, her only jeans, and thought she should have saved them to wear later because they were finally clean after being in the wash for a couple of weeks. It was nice to have them on but soon they would have to be washed again and become lost in the quagmire of laundry in the basement. Articles of clothing might not reemerge until they no longer fit. She might have to look through piles on the floor to find them, and even wear them dirty, smelling of dampness and other people’s clothes. She would need her brother Lawrence to go down in the earthy basement with her because she was afraid to go alone. He might refuse and she would have to wear a dress, even in the cold. The dresses were no good to wear because her black patent leather shoes, with the ribbon bow at the toes, were too big. They were handed down from her cousin Irene and did not fit yet. “You will grow in to them,” her mother said. She kept the shoes on her feet by crunching her toes and not lifting her feet too high. She thought that other people might not notice that her shoes didn’t fit and wished they were Mary Janes with a strap to keep them on.

“Stuff some paper in the toes,” her mother said. They still slipped off.

The car was warm inside with a smell like an old blanket. Honey wished she were not alone with her mother. An outing with just the two of them meant that all the attention would be on her. Lawrence or her brother Brian usually did most of the talking and that saved Honey the trouble of dealing with her mother’s intrusions. Lawrence was best at taking off some of the pressure. This particular excursion was based on her mother’s notion to “go get a bottle of booze.”

“They won’t be open much longer but we will just make it, with some time to spare,” said her mother.

Her mother’s full auburn hair was falling down from a poorly executed French twist. Many bobby pins showed through the matted hair spray that she quickly applied for the ride to Wagner’s in a sincere attempt at looking tidy. Temporarily gluing her errant strands with the caustic glistening drops of spray only exaggerated the fact that she had no business going out. Quickly the car filled with a brew of strident odors; Guerlain Shalimar Eau De Toilette, Ushers Scotch, Chesterfield cigarettes and Aquanet hair spray filled Honey’s nostrils and landed on her tongue and in the back of her throat. Honey watched as the cigarette ash grew on the Chesterfield and she guessed if her mother would put the ash in the overflowing tray before it fell on her green dress. Finally the ashes fell as her mother’s hand bumped against the blue-green and chrome steering wheel. Vaguely noticing, she pointlessly tapped the Chesterfield on partially burned butts in the tray. A bit of the burning tobacco landed on an old filter and quickly burned out, adding an acrid layer to the dense collection of odors already present. The car swerved slightly while her mother complained that Max Cohen only wanted to go helling around and could not be counted on to work on the second act of a play they were rehearsing the next day.

The ticking triangular blinker on the dashboard glowed green off and on as the car made the corner past the tree-covered field where just that morning Honey skid and fell while making a sharp turn on Lawrence’s bike. She had been riding fast in the open air and challenging her previous limit. Fear and excitement jumped in her chest as she realized her miscalculation and the bike quickly slipped from under her in the apex of the turn. She could have crushed her foot under the hard metal parts of the bike and skinned her leg or hurt her hand or elbow, but she recovered beautifully. As the bike gave under her she pulled her body up and away. It was thrilling standing unscathed in the early morning sunshine as the fall wind blew the dust away and sent her strawberry hair up around her face. The expressions on the faces of her brother and friends went from concern to relief as she yelled, “Did it look cool?”

Her mother was still speaking, but about a book now. “The most important line in the book is when the Greek tells the protagonist not to live his life by hazard. You understand? Lead a deliberate life Honey. There is no reason you couldn’t do anything you want to. You’ve got more talent and good stuff in your little finger than most people have in their whole body. What interests you Honey, what do you think you want to be when you grow up? ” Honey wondered how she could ever decide what to do or be. There were too many choices.

“I’m not sure.”

The car grew warmer. The lyrics to a hymn moved through the child’s mind like the dread of punishment. “…eat his body, drink his blood, then we’ll sing a song of love.” Why, she wondered, are adults so afraid to admit that song is creepy and scary and just weird? Her mother said that it was “marvelous” and made it clear that asking about it was not going to be tolerated. And why, when she recently asked her mother how a person could be a Catholic and a scientist too, did her mother dismiss her with such a negative tone. No adult seemed to even want to admit that it was an obvious question.

The tires of the station wagon made a crunching sound over the pebbles as it pulled into the empty parking lot of the stand-alone liquor store. Beyond the store was the road leading out of the small college town into the rural tree covered country of northern New York. The late-afternoon sun shone through the dust that was sent up as the car came to a stop. Standing next to the car, Honey felt the air was already cooler than it had been just ten minutes before. Crickets in the field next to the store ushered in the fast-approaching evening. Bells jangled against the opening wooden-framed door of the shop and well-worn aromas mixed with the smell of bubble gum and floor cleaner. Trying to seem invisible, Honey studied the labels on the many bottles. There was a smiling man in a red kilt with a bagpipe and red cheeks; another label had a devil with a short pitchfork, and another a large-breasted woman in a folk costume of green and gold.

A lengthy exchange ensued between the young male clerk and Honey’s mother. He pushed up his horn-rimmed glasses and scrunched his nose so that his mouth had a disgusted look for just a split second. His worn button up shirt clung to the bones of his slender frame. His nametag was black with a green embossed plastic label that said Richard. It was crooked. Her mother began addressing the young man by his first name as if she had given him the name herself.

“I’m giving a party and I’ll be needing a number of things. What do you have a good deal on today Richard? Richard is a fine name. It means powerful leader, like Richard the Lionheart. Did you know that Richard?”

“Uhm, no, sorry. We have a special on this vodka, it’s two dollars off.”

“That’s fine, I’ll take that and better make that two, people like vodka. I’m having a cast party for a play I was in at the Trent Theater, Marat Sade, it’s about the Marques de Sade, are you familiar with that Richard?”

“Um, no, no I’m not.”

Honey moved away from them down a row of bottles and widened her eyes. No one at the liquor store knows that play or any other play she thought.

“It’s marvelous really. The music is fantastic.” She spoke through a fresh cigarette dangling between her lips. After she struck the match three times it began to disintegrate. “Goddamn matches are damp.”

“Here you are.” Richard leaned forward over the counter with the generous flame of a Zippo lighter. The click and hollow slap of the lighter closing made a satisfying sound that Honey liked to hear.

“Thank you Richard, I need to get one of those, that’s just what I need. It’s terrific. But right now, let’s see I need a couple of bottles of scotch and a couple of ah, I don’t know, what are people drinking these days? Martinis! Gin martinis. Let’s get a bottle of gin. Bombay gin. Do you know how to make a martini Richard? You pour the gin in a glass and you open the refrigerator and show the glass to the vermouth and shut the door and drink.” Her laughing was met with a weak but genuine smile.

“I’ll get a box.”

He walked around the corner to the back of the store and began picking through boxes, looking for one with dividers to place the bottles into. Her mother followed.

“Are you a student at the University Richard?”

“Yes, I go to the engineering school.”

“Oh, that’s marvelous, my husband was an engineer. I’m a widow, I lost Charlie four years ago. What are you studying, mechanical?” Smoke her mother couldn’t wait to blow from her lungs mixed with her breath as she spoke. Her mother always said she lost her husband, as if they might find him again somewhere. Honey wondered why anyone would say that.

Standing in front of a display of small exotic bottles, Honey fell in love with the shape and color of one in particular. She wished it were hers because it seemed so fancy. The gold trimmed green label fit perfectly on the bulbous body of the tiny bottle and the thin neck stood up like a minaret. The amber liquid inside sparkled in the warm light of the setting sun. She picked it up, tipped it to watch the liquid move and glow, and set it back down again.

Her mother continued. “Engineers have a hell of a good future right now Richard. You’re a smart young man to get into the field. Good for you. You don’t go by Rich or Rick ever do you? ”

“No, just Richard.”

“That’s right, you have a fine name and you should use it. I don’t go in for nick names.”

Honey picked up the small bottle again, and looked in the direction of her mother’s voice. “If your parents went to the trouble to give you a fine name, why ruin it with a nick name,” said her mother.

Honey moved slightly further down the row and slipped the bottle in the front pocket of her jeans.

“Richard, I’m going to need whiskey for whiskey sours and I know I’ll have some rum drinkers but I only need one bottle of rum. Whatever you recommend. I’m not a rum drinker myself you see.”

“I’ll tell you what, I’ll throw in this bottle of Myers, it’s popular.”

“Oh, you are a dear. Thank you Richard. That’s fantastic.”

Honey looked at the gold and red sunset as the young man placed the box of bottles in the back of the car. “Good man, Richard, thank you so much” her mother said. The chill in the air gave the child goosebumps and she wished she had her jacket as she opened the car door.

Seated behind the wheel, her mother’s head swung toward the child “Now that’s how you get a free bottle of booze. Ya tell ‘em your having a party. Did ya see that, how that works.” Honey wondered if she would have to do that when she grew up. She didn’t want to and she was sure she would never want to.

The car, still warm from the sun, made the ride home a sleepy lull. The interior now had a sweet smoke fragrance of autumn bark and flowers while streams of sunset changed the chrome dash gold. The words of a prayer she knew by rote began to play through Honey’s mind.

Give us this day our daily bread,

and forgive us our trespasses,

as we forgive those who trespass against us,

and lead us not into temptation,

but deliver us from evil…

She wondered about the word trespass, and how it must mean more than just going on someone else’s property.

It was nearing twilight as the station wagon pulled into the driveway. There was a golden glow on the front of the house that made the old frame look very appealing in spite of its age. The green trees were becoming dark silhouettes creating an arched shadow on the house. The crisp air smelled fresh like green grass and there was still warmth in the golden bath of the setting sun.

Walking together, her mother looked over at her. “Your hair is a beautiful color Honey. The light is so lovely on you.” Honey bumped into her mother’s hip slightly and put her hand on the railing.

The child looked up and the light was lovely on her mother too.