Wooh Wooh Red 

Wooh Wooh red, it’s the color nail polish she wears when she’s feeling fancy. It doesn’t matter that she’s 55 with nowhere to go, her fingers and toes glow in the soft light of the late-night show.

 She keeps odd hours: asleep for Frasier, awake for Judge Judy. So she’s not disturbed when the phone rings at 4 am. It’s a call from her daughter, with that special voice: high and thin like a scream threaded through a needle. “Can you come? Mom, can you come now?”

No more explanation needed, she’s in a trenchcoat and on the 405 before the next commercial break. She feels a silent camaraderie with the few other drivers she sees. Anyone on the road at this time is on a mission.

Through the expressway, over the water, and into the suburbs: unlit streets that loop back on themselves at will, but she knows the way blindfolded.

About a mile from the house she sees his car, a Cadillac nosed into the grassy bank off the road. It could have passed as a messy parking job if he’d remembered to close the door.

She pulls up behind and kills the engine. She walks around the front. She can’t see much. No dents, but what could dent a Cadillac? A chance footstep reveals the keys dropped in the grass. She sits in the driver’s seat and clicks on the light. The air is flammable with vodka breath.

There’s a little blood on the steering wheel, nothing serious.

One last look: a losing lotto ticket, empty ‘coffee’ thermos, and $20 in ones. She helps herself to the cash and does him the favor of shutting his door and taking his keys.

Back in the car, she approaches her daughter’s house at a purr with the lights off. Seem’s he’s had a second wind since his snooze in the ditch, a drunken voice is singing: I did it my way.  

She leaves the engine running and steps outside. She puts the keys in the mailbox and leans against her door with a cigarette, waiting. Every light is on but she knows better than to knock. On nights like these, the boundary had been spoken: “Stay off my property!” he’d spit in her face... That had been the first time, now they’d all found their places: hers was on the sidewalk.

 Still, she can’t resist throwing the still glowing butt of her cigarette into his precious lawn. The anxious silhouette of her daughter in the window—packing toys maybe?— almost makes her lean down to scoop it up. Almost. She can’t make it that easy for him to forget. So she leaves the evidence of her presence and adds to it a small tap on the horn.

The singing doesn’t stop, but her daughter straightens in the window and a few seconds later her two grandchildren emerge, precious bundles laden with bags big enough to stay the week. The older leads the younger across the yard. She crouches with open arms, and the warm bodies fall into her.

“Grandma!” They coo.

She loads them in the back. “Is mommy coming?” She asks already knowing the answer. The older one hands her a note. It’s written on the back of a used envelope: “Thanks Mom — I’ll be by tomorrow at 3. Need to stay to make sure he doesn’t have a concussion. XO”

On the road, the kids fall asleep immediately. The sky is lighter, the traffic is heavier. It takes twice as long to get back over the bridge. Home is close, but why wake the kids? She cruises past the apartment building towards the waterfront. They’ll wake up to the ocean. Hot cocoa’s on Dad today.

She doesn’t mind the in-between times: a moment to exhale. She turns the radio on to a barely audible hum. Her nails on the steering wheel look like the cupped lights on the roof of an ambulance--whoo whoo--the siren blares in her head. She taps her fingers to the beat--whoo whoo whoo.

Meridian Payseno is a fiction writer exploring the land of make-believe from her home in Berlin. Originally from Seattle, Meridian's affinity for rainy days and strong coffee should come as no surprise. Since graduating from Seattle University, Meridian has contributed to editorial publications such as Whitewall and Kink Magazine.