“Yes.” She stared straight ahead, both hands on the wheel. “I think we can accomplish more with this configuration. Be more productive.”
“But I thought you may want to teach Ethan Latin. You know, stretch him. He’s expressed an interest.”
Karen started up the van.
“Fine,” I said, sliding open the side door. “I can confirm our reservations for Fredericksburg from back here.”
*
Back on the road, I launched into a classic episode of The Stinky Bear Show, featuring scenes from famous movies. Offering exaggerated accents, acts of simulated violence, and extravagant body functions, it was one of Ethan’s favorite routines.
“Fredo! I know it was you. You broke my heart!” I said as Grandpa kissed Stinky roughly on the lips. “You broke my heart!”
Stinky Bear then farted loudly.
“That’s from Godfather: Part Two, minus the fart,” I explained to Ethan in my John Nichols voice. “Heartbreaking scene. Fredo wasn’t a bad guy. Just stupid.”
“More!” Ethan cried. He pounded the seat with delight.
“Ooookay! More it is!”
My next scene featured Stinky Bear doing sit-ups while Grandpa Bear angrily looked on.
“Now, why would a slick little hustler like you sign up for something like this?” Grandpa demanded.
“Wanna fly jets, sir!” Stinky shot back.
“My grandmother wants to fly jets! Now I want your DOR!” Grandpa Bear yelled. “I want your DOR!”
“I ain’t quitting!” Stinky Bear yelled as I furiously bent him backward and forward at the waist.
“Give me your DOR! Spell it. D-O-R!”
“No, sir!” More sit-ups from Stinky Bear.
“That’s it, then. You’re out!”
Stinky stopped with the sit-ups. “You can’t do that! You can’t do that!” he yelled.
“Why not?!”
“Because I got nowhere else to go!” Stinky cried. “I … got … no … where … else … to … go!”
Grandpa Bear then farted.
“Officer and a Gentlemen,” I said to Ethan. “Lou Gossett Jr. is a sergeant trying to get Richard Gere, a recruit, to drop out of the air force officer’s school. Great scene, great line. And just so you know, in the actual movie, Lou Gossett Jr. did not fart. Or, if he did, it was a silent one.”
“More!”
“Sure. Sure. I have all day. Nothing but time, nothing but sweet, sweet time.” I began to pummel Grandpa’s face with Stinky’s furry little paws while loudly humming the theme from Rocky.
“Dad, can you knock it off? I’m getting a headache.”
I stopped with the pummeling. “Sure. But can I drive?”
Karen was quiet.
“I said, can I drive?”
More silence.
I leaned forward and raised Stinky close to her ear. “Yo! Adrian!”
*
“They don’t serve booze at the Cracker Barrel,” I informed Karen. “Sorry, but no wine.”
Her worst fears confirmed, Karen slapped her menu down on the table and disappeared in the direction of the equally alcohol-free Old Country Store.
“What’s with her?” Mindy asked.
“What do you think?” I pushed my menu aside. I had no appetite for anything but alcohol and aspirin.
We were sitting in a booth by a window just off another exit, still buzzing from the road. That day’s ride had been particularly brutal, a death march of Bataan proportions. We stopped an agonizing six times, the last at a desolate water-filtration plant somewhere in northern Virginia, where I’d attempted to play catch with Ethan/Tonto in an empty parking lot. It was hot out and, much to Ethan/Tonto’s intense delight, the parking lot was asphalt, always an intriguing surface to explore since it heated up so well. It took us a full hour to coax Ethan/Tonto back into the van.
I drained my water, tried to gather myself. Everyone was exhausted and on edge.
“What a nightmare,” Mary said.
“It wasn’t so bad. We got through it,” I said.
“That fucking Tonto thing.”
“It comes and goes,” I said.
“It really came today,” Mary said. “It really came today.”
I looked around the half-empty restaurant, searching for poor Karen, then made the mistake of saying, “Poor Karen,” out loud.
Mindy glared at me. “Poor Karen.”
“Come on. Try to remember what she’s going through, okay? She was supposed to be getting married. Instead, she’s eating here. How would you feel?”
Mindy gave an especially slow shrug. (Note: as you may have discerned by now, the Nichols women are frequent shruggers. They’re also very good at it, world-class. They raise their shoulders deliberately, holding them up high and tight for an exaggerated second, before carefully lowering them back to standard, Greenwich Mean position. It’s an effective and sometimes dramatic way of conveying a “not in my job description,” “I don’t know,” or, in Mindy’s case, “I don’t give a fuck” sentiment. I was never sure of its origins, but over time the gesture had become an ingrained part of our family’s culture, a primary form of communications. Even Ethan did it occasionally.) “She’s never been able to spend any time with Ethan,” Mindy said.
“That’s not true,” I said.