Free Jump Cut by Ted Staunton

not bottle crapola.” Like Jer, he’s big on garlic. Right now, he’s saying to GL, “So, you really were in movies?” GL has made them both martinis in juice glasses. She’s got a second little plate beside her glass with all her pills on it.
    I want to say, “So, house arrest: good times?” to AmberLea, but I’m guessing this isn’t such a great icebreaker.
    She says, “Your grandpa had a place like this, huh?”
    â€œYeah,” I say. “We’d go up and water-ski and windsurf and stuff.” Okay, okay—you’d have said the same thing. Anyway, this is the time at the cottage I almost loved, when everyone was having dinner and talking all at once and I could just listen and not have to say anything, except maybe when I had to help Bun a little. And I’m not sure what counts more, the “almost” or the “loved.” See, there’s a worm in the apple, like there always was with me and Grandpa.
    I find myself telling AmberLea, “At Grandpa’s there were two picnic tables end to end, to make one big long table so we could all sit together. Grandpa would sit at the end, in a chair, to make room, and he had this trick he liked to play. The plastic table cloth hung over the sides of the table, and when people weren’t watching he’d curl up his end of the plastic under the table—like an eaves trough—and he’d pour water into it. If you were paying attention, you’d see the water coming and lift up the plastic too, so the water would run past you. If you weren’t, it would run into your lap. And then you’d jump up and everyone would laugh.”
    Grandpa got Jer a lot, ’cause Jer would always get all involved in the conversation. Jer would always laugh when he got wet. I almost cried the time it happened to me. After that, I was always worried that I wasn’t paying enough attention. I’d watch extra hard, and I’d laugh extra hard when he got someone else, just out of relief. And now I don’t even know why I’m telling AmberLea about it.
    â€œEww,” says AmberLea. “That’s mean.”
    I think, She’s right. Weird thing is, though, it makes me feel a little bad for Grandpa. Not exactly sure why.
    Meanwhile, GL is saying something about doing live TV with Paul Newman, and Al is eating it up faster than his burger. She stops to scoop up a handful of pills and swallow them with the last of her martini. She looks out over the lake. “Haven’t seen anything like this in a long time.”
    After dinner, Al goes out to put the tarp from the woodpile over the car. Even though we’ve ditched the Wings, and have “clean shirts,” he says he’s still nervous about being spotted. Go with it . GL, car keys in pocket, sits on the porch in the evening sun. AmberLea and I get to clean up. I wash. She doesn’t say anything for a long time. Finally I ask if she’s seen her grandma’s movies.
    â€œSome,” she says, drying a glass. “They’re pretty boring, except for a couple of the mystery ones. And they’re hard to find. I mean, we’re not talking Star Spawn here.”
    â€œThank god,” I say, scrubbing. “I hated that.”
    â€œOh, totally.” She nods and takes a plate out of the rack. “Have you seen Stress Fracture yet?”
    â€œNo, it’s on my Got To list. I downloaded the three trailers, but it hasn’t opened yet.”
    â€œIt has in New York. I went, before my—Anyway, it was awesome. There was this divided-screen bit where you follow all four of them and they’re all getting to where the bomb is, only they don’t know each other yet so they’re in each other’s shots from different angles and—”
    â€œLike in Crossfire —”
    â€œYeah, just like that, and—”
    We talk movies and TV shows until the dishes are done. It’s fun.