Homecoming (Sequel)

VI. The YLC Handbook of Road-Tripping

Seven days after his Trans-Am had driven past the front gate of Great Circle with tires squealing over the rough dirt road and The Beatles loudly vibrating over the country air, it seemed that Tré had kept word to his promise. From the moment I had said my goodbyes to him and he had given Domenico the scruffy bear to the present day, no unfamiliar set of wheels had come rolling in over the driveway, showing their faces with the intention of a long-overdue reunion that I wanted to steer away from at all costs.
Even though Tré was one of my dearest friendly assets, a jewel I cherished out of the Cortesʼ treasure that was Rodeo, in a way, I had expected of him to let his loyalty toy with his diligence to keep the skeletons neatly sorted in my closet and make every piece of information he had obtained during his short visit in Big Sky Country, rather than Germany, spill out of his mouth in a wildly-running waterfall of words. It had been not only a fear of mine, as his case of foot-in-mouth disease too had crossed my familyʼs minds and had them doubt his sense of camaraderie towards me, but as no one starring in the California sequence of my past came barging back into my life, all of our fears were slightly stilled. At least, stilled enough for our lives to return to being terribly ordinary.
Our schedules were fully synchronized, having shed the chaos of a sudden drove, and the usual routine was enforced once more: shutting my alarm clock off at a bright and early four-thirty, taking Napoleon for a spin, so he could hurl me over any sort of obstacle to wake me up completely; and when all my chores were crossed off the list, I returned to the homestead to feed and canoodle with my own personal suture kit. Domenico usually slept until nine am and thus he only had to really miss me for three hours, with either Auntie Tess or Mam to wait on his every royal need as his chambermaids until I would come home to feed him and put us both down for a nap after lunch. Naps were a thing Domenicoʼs days had been filled with this past week, as he had been struck by a light fever that had him turning into a dictator every two seconds. And while the fever had obeyed to the herbs from my cabinet and died down, as the last waves of illness were subduing, my son still showed traces of totalitarian temper issues that were terribly hard to fight, even with my beloved Katyusha rockets, alias Tiger and Bear.

The last thing I had on my list before I could check out, was checking up on my gift-horse as he experienced solitary confinement in the barn while his mates were out frolicking in the pasture. The only time when he hadnʼt seen the inside perimeters of his box was when it needed to be mucked out or when I took him out for a small stretch of the legs to keep his muscles active, without straining them. At the sound of another organism entering the barn, Eagle whinnied loudly, excited to interact, only to make even more noise when realizing it was me, his best human mate. Able to walk around his box again, he waited for me at the door, ready to step out and nudge me aside with his nose to get a taste of the free world when I slid it open.
"Ciao, ragazzo," I spoke, using whatever authority my petite frame had to make him take a step back into his box so I could join him inside.
The chocolate pinto whinnied once more, the sound containing more glee each day as the poultice was doing its job and the swelling on his fetlock was dying down, as I kneeled down by his left leg and took a peek into the one of the last poultices he would have to wear. As the swelling hadnʼt died down after three days, out of concern, we had brought the vet in to voice his opinion on the matter at hands, and he confirmed it wasnʼt anything serious, just an obstinate swelling that would eventually go down if we continued with the Devilʼs Claw mixture. His fetlock didnʼt feel warm anymore and the swelling his reduced in size tremendously, thus he would be back to his rodeo-ready self shortly. To console him in his loneliness, I commenced in drawing small circles over his broad neck, and as my hands neared towards his pointed ears, he let his head hover close above the straw, enjoying the massage thoroughly.
When Eagle was almost entirely nodding off, I left him to enjoy the slight warm breeze that filled the barn and headed out to expose my skin to the bright sun. With similar intentions, Nate and Joe too were out and about, though the sun could not thoroughly penetrate their cowboy skin, as the both of them were covered in grease. In the driveway, they were the picture of every cowgirlʼs fantasy as they were trying to make the tractor rethink giving up on life, whilst showing off their incredible torsos to the busy flies, thus ridden with shiny grease and sweat.
As Nate was laying underneath the massive machine and messing about with complicated wrenches, Joe was leaning against the body, only really helping when the blonde boy asked him to pass another tool down as he spend his time simultaneously sunbathing and reading a Playboy that Mam and Auntie Tess didnʼt know about. However, in between looking at stimulating female bodies, he found time to look up at the sound of my boots nearing out of the barn.
"Hey, belle," he smiled charmingly.
Though busy with trying to make the machine run again with his superior grease monkey skills, as soon as he heard the nickname they both used for me vibrate through the air, in surprise, he dropped the wrenches and very stupidly, bumped his head against the very part he was attempting to fix. At the string of colourful words that tumbled from his filthy mouth after impact, Joe found himself unable to hold in his gloating laughter, while I snuck in a cheeky smirk. Even though I considered myself to be his good friend, seeing Nate get mildly hurt out of his own stupidity was absolutely hilarious.
Not rubbing his forehead to make the sting dissolve, he slid out from underneath the tractor, standing up and leaning against the machine quickly, as if nothing had happened at all, putting on a charming smirk to restore his pride.
"Gʼday, sweetheart," he spoke, with a gravelly tone that hardly ever failed to swoon the buckle bunnies into the back of his pick-up truck. However, seeming as I had been one of his best friends for years, I had grown immune to his flirty banter, no matter how much of an expert he was.
"Are you divvies nearlies done?" I asked instead, ignoring Nateʼs twinkling blues peering into my face.
"Yeah, we should have it running in a bit," Joe nodded, speaking for the both of them even though he wisely had Nate do all the hard graft.
Nate rolled his eyes at him, before he turned his undivided attention back onto me. "If Turbo Dick can take a few seconds off from mentally wanking off to help a lad out, then we should be sorted shortly, belle."
"Wicked," I grinned. "Then we can go propa akka."
Sending giant grins my way, they both ducked behind the tractor and went on to finish fixing it, while I had enough of solar radiation bronzing my skin for today, as I was already becoming too Mediterranean for this remote an area, and went inside, meeting Mam and Auntie in the kitchen as they shared a cup of fresh tea around the kitchen table, traditionally having a discussion about whether to put the tea or the milk in first. Darting around said table, was my son, chasing a little lamb that had been repudiated by his mam and was now our responsibility to care for, and scaring the living hell out of the animal with his excited toddler-giggles. Sitting down on the floor, letting the poor thing pass me by, I caught Domenico by his tummy and caged him in with my arms, to avoid him giving the lamb an actual heart attack.
"Howay," I mused. "Yous are a propa bouncy doylem today, arenʼt ya?"
Cooing incoherently, he made it very clear that having his fun terminated was not going to fly with him, and before I could even begin to reason with him, he opened his mouth, activated his strong lungs and made sure the entirety of Hot Springs could hear him cry.
"Heʼs been ganninʼ radgie all morninʼ," Mam spoke, seemingly not really bothered about the rise in decibels. "Divvinʼ knaw who pissed in his fruit loops this morninʼ. Maybies heʼs still a wee out of fettle..."
As the tears streamed down his chubby cheeks, he attempted to claw the neckline of my top down to bare his favorite mean of comfort, but he only found the cup of my bra, which only set him off further – making him fuss to the point where his head coloured a deep red. Auntie Tess rummaged through the mountain range of sandwiches sprawled out on the table, where beacons of baby gear were placed amidst, and grabbed his dummy, throwing it into my awaiting hands. As the soft tete failed to provide milk but did remind him of my nipple, he settled slightly, but the dummy didnʼt quite manage to halt his fussing entirely, for his loud tears and hiccups still remained.
"Heʼs problies clamminʼ, like," she reasoned. "Ceeʼmon, giz the little wazzock here. I put his scran in the fridge."
Setting the little half-blood on her experienced lap, I headed into the storage bordering the kitchen and opened the deep freeze, where a supply of my milk was being conserved for later use. As if I were going through life with a hundred frames per second, I warmed one cup up in the microwave, put the milk in a bottle and let a drop fall onto my wrist to check the temperature before taking Domenico back in my arms to sit on the floor.
"Divvinʼ shoot yer gob off, pet, hereʼs yer food," I spoke softly while I showed my son the bottle. If anything, he was his as much his fatherʼs son as he was mine, and calming his father down when he was throwing a temper tantrum was usually succeeded through bringing my own calmness.
Once the tete was latched onto and the warm milk was tasted, his fussing immediately halted, his skin returning to its usual light olive tone, and his cries of distress were replaced by little coos that translated his content while he leaned against my chest to suckle comfortably.
"There, there," Mam chuckled. "Like a new bairn already."
"Even though ya have the loudest bark in the kennel, youʼre an easy baby, arenʼt ya?" As I ruffled his already unruly head of curls, he paused in his drinking for one second to nod before resuming once more, in full agreement with me.
"Are yous ganninʼ into toon after lunch, like?" Mam asked, whilst bringing both her and Tessʼ cup to the sink, which was awaiting an army of plates and utensils when lunch time would have rolled by.
"Wey-aye, once those whistle dicks are ready, weʼll gan. Do yous need us to get anythinʼ while weʼre there?"
"Nappies," Auntie Tess spoke clearly. "Weʼre almost oot after that two-day incontinence fest of his."
"And loads oʼ chocolate, and kets," Mam added to the grocery list, as she was a bigger addict than I.
"Duly noted."
"Ya knaw," she began, handing me a paper towel to wipe off any specks of milk that were bound to end up on Domenicoʼs cheeks. "You lot can stay in toon toneet, have a bit of fun. I have had Terry blast me ear off about how he wanted the old trinity back together on his stage."
"Are ya havinʼ a laugh?" I mused. "If thereʼs an open mic night in the pub, I ainʼt gan let baby here anywhere near those drunken bell-ends."
"Youʼve had him there before whilst yous were oot deeinʼ business...Ceeʼmon lass, youʼve got such a canny set of pipes. I bet Joey and Nathaniel would love to jump back into the swing of things wiʼya."
Mentally rolling my eyes, in alert mommy-mode, I caught the empty bottle as Domenico had rendered it useless and saw no more need for it, and thought it belonged on the floor. It was standard practice really, Mam trying to get me out of the house and socialise, seeing as she thought I had the soul of a fifty-year-old hermit. However, things were different than how they used to be when I was raging through puberty and line-dancing the night away in the Owl Creek pub. My stripes had almost entirely disappeared as I had entered adulthood in a terribly premature fashion. And seeing as the trinity had once been a quartet, and now missed a vital member, I could not see myself singing country blues whilst my left hand bassist was not there to harmonise with me.
"It would dee ya some good, pet, to gan oot wiʼyer marras. Yous have all been workinʼ like dogs," Mam reasoned, throwing in her last penny. But she ended up going bankrupt, as my night would solely consist of humming Domenico to sleep and then pass out myself.