"I'm Ted Wilson now. Very responsible. I could be a carny. Driving from city to city, handing out prizes. I once dressed up like the Muffin Man for Halloween. True story. Handed out muffins to all the neighborhood kids. I don't even like muffins! How do you say muffin in Mexican? Oh right, you can't talk still. How about this, Cheech? How about we ditch this den of creepy sadness, and go have some real fun?" Stevie's WTF look has not changed, throughout.
Nancy and Shane play some kind of ball-tossing game, and talk eventually turns to how much fun it is to shoot people. Eventually Nancy sort of wigs out and yells at him about how shooting isn't cool, violence isn't cool, go to the contemplation corner, and finally he's like, "Are you mad at me?" It takes her awhile of fumbling around in the dark to find the words, but she's not mad. She's scared that he's becoming something, mobile and isolated.
"Like you?" Nancy's skin goes cold, because that's not the point, and the more he tries to tell her it's okay, there the same, she really does get mad for a sec. "Don't try to tell me what I am, all right? I know what I am, I've been what I am a lot longer than you've been what you... Maybe are." And even if Shane is "like" his mom, he's still a boy. He's just a kid, yeah, but he's also privy to whatever weaknesses of his frail sex, which means he can't possibly work the world in any way she can teach him: "Smart -- so smart -- but a little lost." Everywhere you look, Teabagger posters and flags.
Leveling with him, the way she does when she's alone with him, she explains: "Shane, listen. It's my job to make sure you don't turn out to be a psychopath, okay? So if that means dragging you to some amusement park or... Or slapping you on the head every time you say cunt or bitch or... Motherfucking cunt, I'm gonna fucking do it, okay? Because I'm still your mom, and I haven't finished... Trying to be your mom. Okay? Understood?"
He understands. He thinks it's lame, but he understands. At some point you just have to say it like that. She swoops in for a peck, hopes it'll take. A mobile home is like a snail: It's a house that runs as fast as you do. It's also a good way to take all your baggage with you, because you can't ever leave it behind; you can't outrun the bear. But what she wants to be for him, for her children, is beginning to see the light, and it takes form from both. The good parts of both: To be nimble, to be the center of a unified family. To be one less wolf at the door, or bear in the cave, and part of their lives in a way that can't hurt them.