Page 11 of Sam to the Rescue
“Judging from the teeth marks on my boobs, I’ll be back soon.” When it starts to rain harder, I unfold Mikey’s plastic bubble, pull it down around him, and up my pace.
My head shakes as I sigh, staring at my now angelic son. “I don’t understand. I’ve done every damn thing under the sun, from the practical to the totally ridiculous and nothing works. My son is a biter.”
My aunt nods sagely. “He’s a Vitale, all right. I suggest you keep him away from firearms until he’s past middle school.”
“You’re not helping, Mom.” Rose rolls her eyes as I tick off yet another inherited trait to worry about.
“You don’t think he’s showing signs of autism, do you?” Since watching a special on TV, I’ve been obsessed with eye contact. I practiced on Catrina who arched her back, hissed, and toppled several glasses off the kitchen counter.
“Don’t be ridiculous. Did you start him on cereal?” My mother takes the stroller handle from me and, with not enough width on the sidewalk, I fall back.
“Cream of white tasteless mush was not his favorite.” Picturing his tongue shoving food out, down his chin, and into a pool on his tray, I grimace.
“Look at him, Samantha. He’s a healthy, happy baby. Stop worrying.”
Easy for her to say, she’s the grandmother. I’m supposed to make sure I don’t fuck up his whole entire life.
After settling in at my childhood home, Mikey tries pancakes and syrup. Everyone insists he likes them but I’m pretty sure it all ended up in his hair, under his neck, and squished between his fingers.
Done with brunch, my mom pulls my son out of the high chair. “I’ll take him. Why don’t you go out and play with Joey?”
“Yes, why don’t you?” Rose laughs and helps Nonna to a chair in front of the ballgame.
“She makes us sound like we’re five.” I mutter for Joey’s ears only on our way out the door.
Good natured, he laughs it off, and sprints. “C’mon, I’ll race you to the gun club.”
I pound the pavement on his heels, surprised I can keep up. When we arrive at our old birthday party venue, I stop at tinted glass doors with the faded paintings.
So, it’s true. Circus Clown Pizza Palace has been converted into a shooting range. A breeze cools the perspiration from my run and a chill runs down my spine. Unlike Suds, I don’t have spidey senses but something keeps me from entering. My fingers curl around the door handle but my arm refuses to honor my brain’s command to pull.
“What?” My cousin’s brows raise.
If I say I’m spooked, he’ll think I’m foolish and I’ll never hear the end of it. “Nothing. I, ah… I think we should take a few pictures of car licenses before we go in.”
“Sure.” He wanders up and down the street with his phone camera clicking and I text my overprotective hubby to give him my locale.
We’re on one of the busiest streets in the neighborhood. It’s not like someone is going to jump out and kill us in broad daylight. It would be bad for business. So, borrowing a phrase from Father O’s sermon this morning, I gird my loins.
Then, I open the door, and step aside. “Age before beauty.”
“And pearls before swine. This place is fucking weird, Sammy.” He leads me down a dimly lit hallway lined with painted faces, reminiscent of every clown horror movie ever made.
Shuddering, I cover my mouth, hold my breath, and try not to inhale backed-up sewage, mildew, and God knows what else.
At the front desk, a multi-pierced, tattooed man narrows his beady eyes. “Members only.”
His no-blink contest is an easy win for me because I’ve been practicing with my cat. “I was hoping to enroll my husband for his birthday. Do you mind if me and my cousin shoot for an hour and check it out?”
“Whaddever. Follow me.” He lifts two-hundred pounds of ass out of the chair, waddles along what used to be the restaurant’s play area, and stops at a white board.
While I try to make out the pricing, he places a waiver on the countertop with a couple of mismatched hotel pens. Speed reading through the document, I take note. If Joey and I accidentally kill each other, the gun range is not liable.
“Good to know.” My cousin snickers when I point it out to him.
The big guy studies my credit card for the longest time before swiping it through a machine. Then, he places ear protection on the counter and points to the shooting bays on the opposite side of the hall.
“Target button is on the right. Enjoy.”