Just a Joke

By the time she was the age I am now, my mother had pretty much given up. Too many years of alcohol and inactivity had allowed her weight to soar out of control, her knees had given out, she'd developed diabetes and chronic bronchitus and the cancer was waiting in the wings. She took to wearing oversized floppy dresses or cheap polyester pants and they emphasized her weight rather than hide it. She took a fancy to the color red and decorated her nails, mouth and cheeks with it and her gray hair took on a yellowish tint. She had become a caricature.

We left for Nova Scotia on a clear May morning, my grandmother's Lincoln crammed to the breaking point. We'd make Maine by lunch and be in New Brunswick by evening. My mother insisted on driving and Nana napped in the front seat most of the way while the kids occupied themselves in the back. We made several stops for gas and restrooms and each time a smiling attendant would come to the drivers side window then draw back as my mother attempted to flirt with him. At the border, my grandmother decided to drive and as she walked around the rear of the car, she suddenly stopped and I saw her face go white with anger. Once across, we pulled into the first service station. Nana got out and had a brief conversation with the attendant who nodded, went into the station and then reappeared with a scraper tool. She directed him to the rear of the car and stood over him as he knelt at the bumper. In a minute or two, he stood and placed something in her hand and she told him thank you and tipped him five dollars and got back into the car without a word. My mother sat in silence, refusing to meet my grandmother's furious eyes and after a few deep breaths, Nana started the car and pulled back onto the highway. The rest of that day's driving was done in deadly quiet. When my mother reached for the radio, Nana slapped her hand away with a sharp reprimand.

It was after eleven when we reached St. John and the hotel. My mother had become anxious and edgy and Nana's patience finally snapped. For Christ's sake, my mother whined, It was a joke. I jumped at the sound when Nana slapped her and my mother began to cry. It was trashy and I won't have it! my grandmother responded in a tone that scared me more than the slap.

The next morning, wedged under the seat, I found the ragged edged bumper sticker. It was white with bold, black lettering and read simply Ask me, I might.