The big burgundy Chevy wagon would tear into the driveway, tires screeching on the asphalt, declaring my Mother's return from a a morning at the market. She'd slam it into park, throw open the door and race for the steps.
Mom would cry, clawing at the latch and tearing open the screen door.
Any boy unlucky enough to be sitting on the toilet in the green and yellow powder room off the kitchen, would already have his Toughskins hiked up, barely wiped and hopping away from ground zero as my Mother rounded the dining room table.
"Peepee! Peepee! PEEPEE!"
She'd toss her bag in one direction, fling her nylon trenchcoat in another and shoot through the kitchen door way at speed, grabbing the corner of the birch end cabinet and sling-shotting around it as she made the corner. She'd spin her tail toward the bowl as she sailed into the tiny room, skirt pulled up by one hand, panties yanked down by the other. The stream would begin before she made contact with the pale yellow seat.
Disaster was safely averted. Again. My Brother and I would go outside to the still running car. One of us would reach in the open drivers side door, remove the key from the ignition and snap it alongside its mates in Mom's tan leather keycase, and click the door shut, then head back to assist the other. Together we'd remove the dozen or so brown paper bags from Almacks, Big G or McQuades; a weeks worth of groceries for three boys and a working man . We'd lug them into the kitchen and set them on the dark maple turned legged table in the center of the room, taking care not to step on Mom's coat each time we passed the open bathroom door.