Home, Home On The Strange

The celebration for the day Endora was hatched came and went without incident. At least on J.'s end. I am confident he and I were raked over the coals with the grilled Branzino at the restaurant. "Give us this day our daily bread, and forgive us our trespasses, but not those that trespass against us, troublemakers that they are. Amen."

The next day, J. called his mother on the phone a couple of times to see what opportunities existed for gathering with her and his girls to celebrate her birthday. Throughout the day the phone went repeatedly to voice mail, either ignored or not heard by Endora and the newlyweds. J, accepted the fact that it was probably coincidental. It was a Saturday; they could be doing anything. No need to assume anything sinister was afoot. Just the same, he decided to drive over to her house to pay a visit.

He made his way into the neighborhood and examined the car situation in search of some clue as to who might be home. The Vroom Broom was nowhere in sight. Witchiepoo must be out lunching or taking in a movie on her senior citizens discount with the Blue Hairs.

Em's car was not on the street so she must be out doing something terribly important.

Chuck's car - What does Chuck drive again? The parking situation is tight on the one way street, only one block long. There were no driveways. So Chuck normally parked ON THE LAWN to make the strenuous waddle from vehicle to dwelling more manageable. But that appalling habit was the only thing J. had ever observed about the car. In any case, there was no Batmobile on the crab grass. (That frankly, Chuck had better decide to volunteer to cut. And soon.) But could it be among the cars parked along the curb?

J. stood in front of the house he grew up in and wracked his considerable brain trying to think of what lame-o car Chuck drives.

And then he had a thought that struck him like a lightening bolt.

He stood in front of the house he grew up in trying to figure out who was home so he could decide whether or not to go to the door.

The house he grew up in.
The house that is always unlocked.
The house whose door is (figuratively speaking, of course) standing open with a welcome mat in place.
His home.
His home.

Suddenly he was less sure about the rules. For decades he's announce his arrival as he walked in the door. At any time of day or night. He'd putter and fix things. Take a nap on the couch. Retrieve things like yearbooks or photos from his room. Nothing was off limits. Not the fridge. Not the pool. His room still his room.

And now, his parents' bedroom and his bedroom had been transformed into the "honeymoon suite" - a bedroom and a TV room, outfitted with the furniture, flat screen and gaming system Em and Chuck managed to buy while they were not saving for their wedding or some sort of independent housing.

Would the door be locked?
Would he be asked to call first before popping over in the future?
Would he be turned away at the door if his mother were not home?

He took one long last gaze and turned to walk to his car.

He did not need to know today.