Going home (again)

The tollbooth clerk twirls a lock of her hair with a pencil while her left hand multitasks like it’s used to going it alone. I hand over four singles. A patch of Manhattan under a gray sky fills my rearview mirror. Bye-bye Midtown Tunnel. Bye-bye for now, my kind of town.

“Here’s your receipt.” I pop the clutch and gun the accelerator, the receipt clenched between my lips. My Mini Cooper springs ahead like I just said “hike.” A quick flip of the shifter to second gear and now we’re really unwinding; third gear’s straight ahead and I have just enough time to turn up the stereo. Brian Wilson sings about not belonging anywhere.

Each time things start to happen again
I think I got something good going for myself but what goes wrong

Immaculate self-pity, but the Mini’s having none of it. Motor on, old chap, motor on, it hums in overdrive. Traffic chokes the city-bound lanes of the Long Island Expressway but it’s fairly smooth sailing heading east. The Mini flies past billboards of aloof, half-dressed models, slows down a bit by the perpetually clogged Queens Boulevard exit and then screams with glee at the sight of open road and acres of bony, leafless trees as we enter Nassau County. I think of something Stymie of the Little Rascals once said, “I don’t know where we’re going but we’re on our way.” Aye, and there’s the rub. I’ve driven this route many times before, but I never know what to expect when I reach my mother’s. Whoever first said “you can never go home again” obviously didn’t have to mind an at-home elderly parent. I do, however, appreciate the sentiment.

The Mini slows to a stop before a red light off the exit ramp. Enough of “Pet Sounds,” what’s going on in the world today? I eject the CD and flip through the dial. Fallujah is not secure; Fallujah is secure. Fallujah will go down as one of the great combat victories in the annals of the US Marine Corps. Condi’s got style but no substance, says some talking head on NPR. Yeah, and Madeleine Albright has a bridge to sell you in Brooklyn. Arlen Specter again tries to placate his conservative critics with doublespeak that would make John Kerry envious. Sorry Arlen, next time think before inserting ego in mouth.

I steer the Mini into my mother’s driveway. Two minutes later I’m standing in her worn kitchen. We hug; I could be 5 or 40. It’s a confusing moment: at 5 I was a happy little soldier in this place; at 40, with my father deceased, I tried unsuccessfully to get her to sell. A potholder she’s had forever reads, “Clean enough to be healthy, dirty enough to be happy.” But the house could use a face-lift.

Out comes a tray of muffins and two coffee mugs. “So how’s by you?” she asks.

“I’m OK. And you?” She has no complaints. I study her face; the lines seem to run a little deeper at each visit. If she dies here it’s her choice, and I’ve learned to accept that. The important thing is, she looks well today; that’s something I can take back to New York, along with the leftover muffins.