Got Judo?
Carol Harada



 Her car, ready to be sold, is sitting in the driveway. Grammy Nan squints at me as I put the scraper to the inside of the rear window. Through the glass I notice she’s wincing, afraid that her beloved will be damaged. Not me, the car. I look at the implement and wonder if some solvent would unstick the sticker. Her little white Honda Civic with the ‘got judo?’ decal has always puzzled those driving behind her. A week before they took her license away, she was fetching me from the dentist. A huge stubbly guy on a motorcycle slowed past her open window, rasping, “What belt? What belt?” I forget what color she shouted, but it was pretty impressive for a seventy-two year old. The motorcycle guy gave a thumbs up, bowed a little, and sped off into the hills.
When I emerge from the back seat, Grammy Nan smiles up at me. “Hey, you’re a good looker! If I were a few years younger, watch out.” It doesn’t make me blush anymore. Doc Reynolds says it’s a good sign, that despite the forgetting, she’s still essentially herself. The world’s biggest flirt. “Thanks, Grammy. I’m gonna leave the sticker for now. I’d probably mess it up if I took it off with this.”    
 
“Okay, Bradley. I’m going for my walk.” She turns and with her sparkly gold cane toddles off down the driveway to do her cul-de-sac rounds. She will stop to greet the Bartons’ cinnamon-colored Bouvier and give him a dog biscuit from the jar that Mom tolerates by the breadbox.
 
I call the number on the email and arrange for a giggling Suzette to come by and see the car. When she shows up half an hour later, Mom answers the door and leads her into the living room where the light is better. She takes Suzette’s face in her hands, turning it from side to side with gentle fingers. The woman holds still during this odd appraisal. Suddenly remembering that this is not one of her ER patients, Mom steps back.
“I’m sorry. It’s just that you’re the spitting image of my mother, when she was your age. Look, Brad!” 
Mortified, I nod at Suzette and slide my sweaty hands down into my pockets. Mom flips through a photo album. There on one of the black felty pages, is a scalloped black and white photo showing saucy Nan McIntosh in her tennis whites at the college, having bested the man later known in our family as Papa Bear. As if we were watching that decisive tennis match, Mom and I swivel our heads between Suzette and the picture of young Grammy. Like twins separated by a time machine.  
 
Suzette smiles gamely, “What a coinkidink! Can I see the car?”
 
I lead her through the kitchen, offering her a glass of water on the way, but she shakes her blonde ponytail, totally focused. When she sees the Honda, she actually squeals. “Eeek! I love it!” 
“You do? It’s nothing flashy.” I can’t help but notice the spangles sewn onto her tight white capri pants and matching jacket.
“I love love love it!”   
I remember my job here. “You’re right, what’s not to love? It’s a great reliable car that’s only been driven by a little old lady. Only 84,000 miles on it.
Just got a full tune up.”
“Oh, it’s perfect! White’s my color!” Her clothes, her teeth, the area around the big brown in her eyes are all blinding. She claps the palms of her hands together neatly, fingers splayed. She has a silver ring on each finger.
 
I open the door for her and she slides into the driver’s seat. She pulls the lever for more legroom and tilts the mirror. Wrapping her ringed fingers around ten and two, she makes vroom vroom sounds. She’s like a kid in one of those drop-a-quarter racing cars outside a grocery store. Thrilled.
 
Suzette opens the window and adjusts the side mirror. I lean on the car, hoping my pits don’t smell. “It’s exactly how I pictured it. I dreamt about this car two weeks ago. When I saw it on Craigslist, I knew it was mine.”
 
I’m nodding, smiling, considering a higher starting price. There’s sure to be haggling, what with the woman being my grandmother’s time machine twin. Just then Grammy Nan comes up the driveway, having chatted up the home-schooled Jensens. She sees Suzette in the Honda, and me leaning over to chat. Something misfires in her brain and she goes ballistic. With invisible strength little Grammy Nan charges, pushing me aside and thrusting her cane into the open window and thrashing it around. “You hussy! Get out of my car! It’s my car and my boyfriend!”
 
Suzette is petrified, trying to make herself small on the passenger side, as I disarm Grammy Nan, holding the gold cane high above her head. Grammy points at me, “Cheater!” She grabs my upper arm, ready to throw me to the ground. And with a grunt and an audible whump, here I am on my gravel-eating back looking up at this tiny stranger. I am grateful that Mom is a doctor.
Grammy Nan puts her hands at her sides formally and bows to me, her vanquished foe. And then I remember, she’s a brown belt. She showed the judo sash to me after the dentist and the curious motorcycle guy. It was frayed and coiled in her underwear drawer, patiently waiting for the next match.
 
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About the Author:
Carol Harada is a healing practitioner at Deep River Healing and a member of Laguna Writers community in San Francisco. She incorporates awareness of healing and creative processes into her short stories and novel-in-progress. Carol’s work has been published in Fickle Muses; Still Point Arts Quarterly; The Saturday Evening Post; Bryant Literary Review; Flash Flood Journal; Lake: a Collection of Voices, volumes4, 5, and 6; and Birdland Journal. She has read at the esteemed literary series Why There Are Words and Bay Area Generations. Some excerpts of her novels-in-progress are available here. ​

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