the caboose of a train rattling across uneven tracks. "Gee, thanks for calling, Mom," he said.
"I'm sorry, Chad. Your dad and I went out—"
"Until two o'clock in the morning? On a school night?"
I couldn't help it. I laughed.
"So, it's funny, Mom? That I've been sitting around my dorm room all night, worried sick?"
"No, I guess. It's just..." I was afraid to go on. I was afraid he'd be able to tell that I was drunk.
"So why don't you tell me what happened."
"What do you mean?" For a crazy second I thought he meant at Stiver's, with the truckers.
"What do I mean? I mean Garrett says you hit a deer on the freeway, Mom. Are you
okay?
"
"Yes, Chad, of course I'm okay. Just the bumper's bent. Everything else is fine." I paused. "Except the deer."
"Jesus," Chad said. "People
die
that way. You guys need to move into the city. This commute is dangerous. Let me talk to Dad."
Jon was in the shower. I could hear the water running. He was singing, too, something operatic and ridiculous. Soon, he'd fall into a deep sleep.
"He's already in bed," I told Chad. "I'll tell him to call you tomorrow."
"Good," Chad said. "Now you'd better go to bed yourself. Did you go to the doctor? Did you make sure—"
"Nothing's wrong," I said.
"You don't know that, Mom. Sometimes people have skeletal or internal injuries without any immediate symptoms. Did you hit your head?"
"No, Chad," I said. "I hit a deer." I couldn't help it. I started to laugh again. I
was
drunk.
"Real funny, Mom," Chad said. "This is all real funny. Just go to bed, and tell Dad to call me in the morning. And thanks for getting back to me in such a timely manner."
He hung up.
A HANGOVER this morning. And, from sex, the exertion of it, my stomach muscles ache. I'm sore between my legs. A stinging burn just under the skin of my inner thighs. All these familiar, nearly forgotten, vague pains of passion.
"I want you to find out who this secret admirer is," Jon said last night, turning me over, looking into my face as he entered me, "and fuck him."
"Okay," I whispered.
"I want you to let him do anything he wants to you," he said.
"Okay."
"I want you to fuck another man."
Jon's eyes were narrowed, and the look on his face was more intense than any expression I'd seen there for years. My heart sped up, seeing it, as if I'd caught a glimpse of an animal at the zoo, outside its cage, or a man sauntering into the bank with a gun.
Anything could happen here, now,
I thought, and I was as excited as I was afraid to find myself in this ordinary place suddenly lit up with so much extraordinary potential.
"Do you understand?" he asked, putting his hands on my shoulders, his face on my neck, slamming into me.
Yes,
I said, arching my back to meet him.
It wasn't until after we were done, after I'd gone downstairs, called Chad, hung up the phone, and gone back upstairs to find Jon out of the shower and already asleep, naked, on his back in our bed, that I wondered how serious he had been—or, if he was serious at all.
That expression on his face—it had
seemed
serious.
But that was sex.
That was the moment, that was the fantasy. Surely, he wasn't serious. We'd never even come close, in the past, to acting out any of our fantasies—even when we were young, and childless, and only marginally employed, with so much less to lose, and so much more time on our hands. And that one time—with Ferris—when it had seemed that I might stray, Jon had reacted, in the end, with anything but pleasure. Those many years ago, when I'd told him about Ferris's profession of love, and the kiss (how innocent now, it seemed, that furtive parking lot kiss) and my own confusion, before Jon's tearful pleading
(You can't ruin our family, Sherry. You can't do it, to me, to Chad. Please, tell me you won't do it, that you'll just turn around now and come back),
he'd been furious. He'd picked up a bedside lamp and, holding it by the neck, had shaken it at me.
I'd been in bed, in a nightgown,
"I'm sorry, Chad. Your dad and I went out—"
"Until two o'clock in the morning? On a school night?"
I couldn't help it. I laughed.
"So, it's funny, Mom? That I've been sitting around my dorm room all night, worried sick?"
"No, I guess. It's just..." I was afraid to go on. I was afraid he'd be able to tell that I was drunk.
"So why don't you tell me what happened."
"What do you mean?" For a crazy second I thought he meant at Stiver's, with the truckers.
"What do I mean? I mean Garrett says you hit a deer on the freeway, Mom. Are you
okay?
"
"Yes, Chad, of course I'm okay. Just the bumper's bent. Everything else is fine." I paused. "Except the deer."
"Jesus," Chad said. "People
die
that way. You guys need to move into the city. This commute is dangerous. Let me talk to Dad."
Jon was in the shower. I could hear the water running. He was singing, too, something operatic and ridiculous. Soon, he'd fall into a deep sleep.
"He's already in bed," I told Chad. "I'll tell him to call you tomorrow."
"Good," Chad said. "Now you'd better go to bed yourself. Did you go to the doctor? Did you make sure—"
"Nothing's wrong," I said.
"You don't know that, Mom. Sometimes people have skeletal or internal injuries without any immediate symptoms. Did you hit your head?"
"No, Chad," I said. "I hit a deer." I couldn't help it. I started to laugh again. I
was
drunk.
"Real funny, Mom," Chad said. "This is all real funny. Just go to bed, and tell Dad to call me in the morning. And thanks for getting back to me in such a timely manner."
He hung up.
A HANGOVER this morning. And, from sex, the exertion of it, my stomach muscles ache. I'm sore between my legs. A stinging burn just under the skin of my inner thighs. All these familiar, nearly forgotten, vague pains of passion.
"I want you to find out who this secret admirer is," Jon said last night, turning me over, looking into my face as he entered me, "and fuck him."
"Okay," I whispered.
"I want you to let him do anything he wants to you," he said.
"Okay."
"I want you to fuck another man."
Jon's eyes were narrowed, and the look on his face was more intense than any expression I'd seen there for years. My heart sped up, seeing it, as if I'd caught a glimpse of an animal at the zoo, outside its cage, or a man sauntering into the bank with a gun.
Anything could happen here, now,
I thought, and I was as excited as I was afraid to find myself in this ordinary place suddenly lit up with so much extraordinary potential.
"Do you understand?" he asked, putting his hands on my shoulders, his face on my neck, slamming into me.
Yes,
I said, arching my back to meet him.
It wasn't until after we were done, after I'd gone downstairs, called Chad, hung up the phone, and gone back upstairs to find Jon out of the shower and already asleep, naked, on his back in our bed, that I wondered how serious he had been—or, if he was serious at all.
That expression on his face—it had
seemed
serious.
But that was sex.
That was the moment, that was the fantasy. Surely, he wasn't serious. We'd never even come close, in the past, to acting out any of our fantasies—even when we were young, and childless, and only marginally employed, with so much less to lose, and so much more time on our hands. And that one time—with Ferris—when it had seemed that I might stray, Jon had reacted, in the end, with anything but pleasure. Those many years ago, when I'd told him about Ferris's profession of love, and the kiss (how innocent now, it seemed, that furtive parking lot kiss) and my own confusion, before Jon's tearful pleading
(You can't ruin our family, Sherry. You can't do it, to me, to Chad. Please, tell me you won't do it, that you'll just turn around now and come back),
he'd been furious. He'd picked up a bedside lamp and, holding it by the neck, had shaken it at me.
I'd been in bed, in a nightgown,
Similar Books
