No Brakes

The old woman sits, hoary hair tufted at right angles from her skull. Her gnarled fingers work the yarn, lips moving silently as she twists the hook through and through again. A disheveled feline with harvest moon eyes and sooty pelt vibrates as it lays draped across my leg. Beside me, a boxer idiot mix snores with the timbre and tenacity of a pond full of bullfrogs. I thump the beast with the flat of my hand only to incite disdain from the feline, who unfolds itself and drops noiseless to the floor.
“So George will be home Wednesday.” The old woman queries.
“Monday.” I flex my grip on the dog’s thigh – refraining from digging my nails in as I feel the tension knot between my shoulder blades.
“Wednesday?” she repeats.
“Mom, he said he would be home Monday. This is Sunday.”
“Son of a bitch. I thought I’d have a week without him. You know he doesn’t do a Goddamn thing around here but sit in that chair and come out and turn the TV on at three o’clock in the morning and play solitaire on his phone.”
We’ve done this verbal dance ad nauseum since I arrived on Thursday. It is now hardwired in my brain, seeping into my core like the reek of cat piss and despair that saturates the very air of this hell hole she calls home.  That she can let loose a tirade against her one-time hero in perpetual flannel and denim and not lose count of her looping crochet stitches makes me question the new monster I see – the slow distortion of dementia replacing the old dragon lady bit by bit. Like a python coiling round an alligator. I have limited empathy for either predator.  The sad truth is, she is not wrong. Two toilets, multiple rusted out vehicles and miscellaneous boat scrap punctuate a yard overrun with brambles and saplings – a perfect playground for the four feral cats and giant possum she’s feeding on the front porch.
***
It’s the summer of ’73 and I’m planted on my red bicycle, sans training wheels and Gwen the babysitter’s little sister grips the handlebars. She breaks a sprint and sends me off to eminent disaster. I miss the tree by a breath as my front tire wedges in the quarter inch edging between sidewalk and grass. Sweaty and huffing for air Gwen flops beside me on the well kept lawn. My mom, Polaroid in hand offers motivation.
“If I can ride a motorcycle you can ride a bike without training wheels.” Her expertly curled wiglet perches on her dainty head in a crown of ringlets in the exact brunette shade as her sideswept bangs. She adjusts the strap of her crochet halter top and motions me back to the dreaded bicycle. I’m not sure what terrifies me more. My mother’s disdain for her only child or the steep grade the sidewalk makes past our driveway as our street empties into a forbidden and busy road.
You’re the only kid in third grade who can’t ride a bike.” Her derision sets my mind.  Grass stained and humiliated I grab the bike, walk it up to the corner and attempt to ride it.  I’ve seen the picture in the photo album she used to keep under her polished coffee table of me unfettered and pedaling past her on my bike. I just don’t remember how long it took to master my balance. She can still make me feel like I’m hurtling toward a busy intersection with no brakes. 
​(draft March 2022)