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Do you know what most surprises are like when you grow up in a wealthy home? Generally unremarkable, but sometimes pleasant. I’m not saying life is a party, some cloud nine affair without concerns of any sort, just different concerns.
As for worries, well you get them too but, no matter your postal code, life always provides the chance of a great big, unpleasant surprise. A surprise bigger than any you might have thought possible, even probable, and with sudden new worries to go with it that make your old ones seem as laughable as they were.
Take my High School graduation, for example. There I was, receiving my diploma with honours and championship standing on the swim team, my mother smiling proudly from the fleet of chairs in the huge gymnasium and pointing the camcorder at me, waving as I smiled back at her. That was no surprise, (her Gestapo like dedication to my education is hugely responsible for my marks) but the empty chair beside her was a surprise, alright. Dad wasn’t the best father in the world, nor the best husband going by some of my mother’s shouted accusations the past few years, but this was way beneath even his style. I figured there was a good reason.
I was right.
The day after, after the prom and the ensuing party with my friends that ended with me screwing the hell out of my girlfriend, Staci, in the back of my Hummer, my surprise was deepened. I woke up and came down for breakfast, being told then by Mum that there was still no word from him. I stayed home and, using the phone, excused myself from the day’s planned activities with my friends to wait and experience a new kind of worrying with her.
At three o’clock, Mum called his office and that’s when they got to be surprised because, as far as they knew, he’d been on vacation for a week. Mum didn’t explain before she thanked them and hung up, turning to stare at me with a blank expression before she told me what they’d said.
It wasn’t as if Dad wasn’t always gone, but when he did leave on his frequent business trips, he usually let us know, even if it was his secretary calling from the office after he’d already left for the airport. This was different. He’d missed my graduation without so much as a message, but beyond that it just felt different. Looking back, I may have just been reacting to how Mum seemed about it.
Two detectives visited us the very next day. We feared the worst, as anybody would, my first experience in the true art of fretting coming to a head as Mum invited them in.
Well, we couldn’t have imagined what they’d tell us. We both just sat there, stunned and speechless at the news that dear ol’ Dad had disappeared, presumably having fled the country, just ahead of a lot of “very serious fraud charges”. They also informed us that we were now being investigated in order to ascertain whether or not we were involved.
Just over a month later, by the time the Vancouver Police and the RCMP were done with us, we realized that the term, “very serious fraud charges”, was a terrific understatement. If there was any doubt, it was cleared up as we stood in front of what was once our beautiful home while watching the locksmith change the locks on the front door. We each had a suitcase, the clothes on our backs and one thousand Dollars Cash that Mum had stashed somewhere in the house in case of emergency. This seemed to qualify, alright.
At the time, I could only mumble, “Fuck.”
She didn’t even bother to give me flack for my language.
My name is Steven Golding, and on August ninth, twenty-eleven, the day I should have been getting out of my Hummer at the beach to celebrate my eighteenth birthday, I was actually stepping off of a city bus with my mother at a place called King Square in the Maritime city of Saint John, clear across the country from where we started.
I felt sorry for her, standing there in her slightly snug, black casual slacks and light purple pullover with a short V-neck. She never looked her age, sometimes appearing as much as ten years younger with long blonde hair, hazel eyes and six inches shorter than my six-one. Both of us were feeling three feet shorter after the public nightmare we’d just somehow survived. There was really no resemblance to the people we were just over a month ago, no more than there was between us, my eyes being blue, my hair dark with completely different facial features, but there wasn’t any resemblance between me and my father, either. At the time, that was probably for the best.
She looked around herself, both hands protectively clutching her suitcase to her thighs as a man who looked like he’d just been thrice run over by a car ambled by, looking at her large boobs and soft, curvy hips.
I was worried for both of us, but more her. She really didn’t seem to be adjusting since that day we watched the locksmith at work.
Something you should understand about my mother is that when Dad was gone at work, away on a business trip or halkalı escort whatever, there was never any doubt as to who was in charge and I never once while growing up, ever heard her say anything like, “You just wait ’till your father get’s home!” She never felt there was any need for waiting and punishment from her was more undesirable than it was from my father.
As an example, when I was in grade eleven, a few of my friends decided to break into a local convenience store. The cops came by to question me about it and, after lying my face off to them, I had to endure another interrogation from my mother that made the one the cops conducted look like the joke it was.
As soon as they were gone, she grabbed me by the hair at the top on my head and sat me down on the couch and started ragging, giving my face a medium force slap every now and then when my eyes wandered from hers, demanding to know everything I didn’t tell the cops. (I never lied to her because she was always too smart for that and the results always ranged from bad to horrific every time I did) I told her everything, how I knew it was going to happen and when, exactly who all was involved and that I opted out when asked to participate. She went on ragging me out about the company I keep and how easily they could ruin my life, how I had to think of my future, that she didn’t invest seventeen years of her life to see me end up in jail, that she was going to keep me on a short apron string from then on, so on and so forth. She’d maintained her fistful of my hair while she ‘explained’ these things to me, every once in a while shaking me roughly, angrily, to be sure she’d made her point, slapping the shit out of me afterward. Of course, I stood for it.
Standing there in the Square, her features were as transparent as the bus shelter we stood beside, allowing me and anyone else who cared to look to see her fear and indecision. This wasn’t my mother and even I knew that she needed to be her old, strong, sometimes incredibly bitchy self if we were ever going to make it.
“Mum,” I said, getting her to focus on me. “Here, give me your suitcase, you take the map.”
“Why? Where are we going?”
” … First we gotta get a newspaper so we can find a place to stay. Remember we talked about this last night?”
“Yes. Okay. Uh… Over there,” she said, looking about herself again and pointing across the street at the newspaper box there.
“Lead on, then,” I allowed, taking her suitcase and giving her that role in the hopes it would lift her spirits somehow.
It seemed to work a little. I followed behind her as she marched across the sidewalk, her head held just a little higher, maybe with some remembered parental responsibility. She paid the box, took a newspaper and then led the way across another sidewalk and into the square.
There was a huge, two storey gazebo in the center of the nicely mowed, grassy park area with paved walkways that were lined with benches, flower beds and some scattered shrubbery. We sat near the gazebo, only the lightest Atlantic breeze ruffling the pages on that warm day in early August as she performed a focused search up and down the ‘apartments for rent’ columns, her gold coloured Parker held in her perfect white teeth until she found something that looked as promising as our cash reserves could afford.
Before long, we were off again, both the newspaper and the map folded in her hands, her stride yet a little more purposeful, chin higher as I followed my mother to a pay phone. She briefly spoke to someone concerning the apartment before we went to look at what would hopefully be a roof over our heads.
It was, but not much more.
“Hello, we just spoke on the phone?” Mum politely, if nervously told the Superintendant who greeted us outside the four story brick building on the corner. Wisely using her maiden name to avoid any recognition the media had provided for, she introduced herself.
“I’m Kathleen Burchell, this is my son, Steven.”
The Super was just about her height, maybe a half inch taller, stocky but not exactly fat with graying hair and somewhat dark complexion. He was dressed in green work clothes and a red, sleeveless jackshirt, work boots looking like they were produced the same year as the approximately two hundred year old structure he maintained.
He looked us over, his pale, almost washed out blue eyes glancing over Mum’s body like those of the traffic accident victim had earlier. He smiled, stuck his meaty hand out and replied.
“Joe Blanchard, pleased to meet you.”
“Likewise,” Mum told him, shaking his hand while I nodded a silent hello, barely polite after his blatant indiscretion with my mother’s body.
“May as well just go on up,” he suggested before opening the solid steel door and walking in, correctly assuming we’d follow.
It wasn’t an apartment at all. Not even close. It was a room, approximately ten by ten feet. Just as dingy as harbiye escort the stairs and hallway, there was a single, tall window directly opposite the door. The plaster walls were painted an old, filthy yellow with royal blue trim. On the right wall was a fireplace and mantle, a steel cover bolted securely over the opening that was covered in god knows how many layers of thick paint. The left wall showcased a large area of missing plaster, tinder dry, horizontal slats showing like ribs. There was no furniture and nothing at all sitting on the heavily scuffed and scratched hardwood floor, save for the plaster that had fallen from the wall, the only fixture being a naked bulb in the center of the twelve foot ceiling.
“This is it,” Joe said, as though to casually confirm our worst fears. Glancing at Mum’s chest again, he added, “Like I told you, the rent’s a hundred bucks a week, heat and power included, paid every week on Friday. Fifty bucks for you right now, since you’re getting here on a Tuesday, and you can pay in advance if you want.”
“Uh… Mum dithered, taking a second look around and wrinkling her nose despite her best efforts to remain polite. “What about the uh, bathroom?”
“Down the hall, on the left.”
“You mean…?” I asked, dreading his answer.
“Communal bathroom, one per floor,” he answered me, confirming another fear for us.
We looked at each other, silently conveying our horror and disbelief.
“How many other people on this floor?” I asked.
“Five right now,” he said. “There’s a lock on the bathroom door, though. Look, I don’t wanna rush you, but I gotta be somewhere for three-thirty.”
” … Alright…” Mum responded, nodding and resignedly digging into her purse.
He removed a receipt book from his shirt pocket, made one out, tore it off and traded Mum for the crisp, red bill she’d produced. After a last look at her chest, he wished us a good day and left, closing the door behind him.
I put the suitcases down and we both just looked at the door as some loud Blues music started up somewhere beneath our room. Mum turned around and hugged me. She held me tight, the full breasts that Joe couldn’t seem to keep his eyes from pressing into my chest, cheek on my shoulder as she cried silently. All I could do was hold her as tight as she held me, feeling much the same way as I willed my eyes to look around our new home once again.
After a minute, she moved away and looked up at me, wiping her eyes and managing a crooked smile, saying, “It’s just us now.”
“We’ll be alright, Mum. Don’t worry, okay?”
I had no idea if we’d be alright, or not.
I’d gone out on a mission after Joe the pig took his leave of us, looking for food and the things we had to have at rock bottom prices, free wherever possible. After our social retreat across the country and by the time I’d completed seven trips, our ‘savings’ were whittled down to one hundred, seventy-three Dollars.
Meanwhile, Mum had managed to clean our new home up a little, having removed the fallen plaster from the floor, lugging it all down to the dumpster in the back alley using one of our suitcases. With a mop and bucket she’d found in the bathroom, she cleaned the floor up quite well and her ankle length, white silk bathrobe covered the lower portion of the window, which she’d also cleaned along with its sill.
She seemed a lot better by the time I’d completed my last trip, moving around purposefully, beginning to take charge like she always did. I figured it was the natural nesting instinct that women have showing its confident usefulness as she who makes the home.
It was late by the time we got things set up in our cramped quarters and, both of us feeling wiped out, we decided to just turn in. We both had to get right to job hunting the next day.
“Steven? … Honey?”
“Ummm?” I responded, trying to pretend I’d been sleeping where I was bedded down on the hardwood floor for the night, one blanket below me, another to cover myself with.
“I know you weren’t sleeping,” she said from above me on the ancient, twin sized, spring frame bed I’d found.
“You’re not sleeping on the floor and that’s it,” I told her. “I can’t have my mother-“
“I can’t have my son going to look for work tomorrow after a night on the floor and I am still your mother.”
“You’re going to look for work tomorrow too, how would it help you any more than me?”
She drew the sheet aside and said, “Just get in.”
” … What, like… both of-“
“Steven, for god’s sakes, I’m your mother. I’m sure you’re safe in the same bed with me.”
“It’s not even big enough.”
“There’s just enough room to manage it and I won’t get any sleep while you’re down there, anyway. Come on, we both have to be at our best tomorrow.”
I didn’t move. Of course, I’d slept with Mum before, as a kid during lightening storms and after nightmares. Things were different ikitelli escort at that age though, weren’t they?
For whatever reason, I remembered her nicely rounded ass and soft, curvy hips as I followed her around earlier that day, subtly encouraging her to be the strong, decisive woman she’d always been with her son toting her bag for her, walking dutifully behind.
Now, I’ve always been the horny type, much hornier (and more imaginative about it) than my friends, I’m quite sure, although I hadn’t exactly carried out any surveys with them on the subject. In most cases, my perverted imagination actually makes porn seem kinda weak in comparison, but I’ve never, ever had any thoughts of that type toward Mum, despite how good she looks. And Mum does look very good, lots of my friends have confirmed it and they weren’t just talking about her beautiful face, either. Hey, a guy like my father wouldn’t have married any woman that he couldn’t think of as a personal achievement.
I continued to look up at her, trying to banish fresh thoughts of her boobs in that slightly snug sweater with the short sleeves and how she pressed them to my chest after Joe-
“Steven, I told you to get in bed with me,” she informed, that serious, parental edge in her tone.
That tone was the reason I rose from the floor, bringing my blankets along with a slight case of nerves, but mostly leaving my stupid thoughts of her body behind on the floor.
It was pretty hot and our semi luxury suite wasn’t equipped with AC at the moment, so I only had a pair of boxers on under the blanket. I’d turned around earlier while Mum was getting changed and into bed underneath the single sheet it was made up with. I couldn’t quite tell what she had on in the glow from the streetlight outside the window, but it looked white and at least somewhat revealing as I began getting in.
“Don’t bring those blankets, it’s too hot. Just get under the sheet. … There you are. Now, isn’t that better than the floor?” she asked approvingly, covering us with the sheet after I got somewhat settled.
“Yeah,” I admitted, my body relaxing a little, my mind not at all.
“Oh, no.” she complained.
“The springs in the frame must be worn out,” she guessed.
It was either that, or the fact the thing just wasn’t made for two adults, but one sure fact of the matter was how the middle sagged in the small area between us, just low enough to make us eventually slide down into it, pressed tightly against one another.
“I can just…” I strained, trying to work my way back up to the edge, feeling her trying to do the same.
“Okay…” Mum said, “I’ve got the wall, so I can’t… Ump! Oh, darn…”
It wasn’t working for me, either. We both gave up and, over the course of about five seconds, slid down into the depression again, being pressed firmly against one another, half on our backs and half on our sides. We faced each other with sober expressions over this final injustice of the day, an extremely surprising whiff of alcohol reaching my senses from her full lips, and that’s when she suddenly laughed aloud.
I suppose it was the absurdity of the situation, possibly just a release from the stress we’d been under for the last month or so. At the very least, it could be chalked up to her appreciation for that kind of humour, the other side of her sometimes strict demeanor as my mother. As someone who had every episode of Are You Being Served and Keeping up Appearances recorded on CD, it’s really not surprising she’d laugh at a time like that.
In any case, I could only laugh with her, this relieving my nerves at being so close to what I suddenly and personally recognized as a very beautiful and desirable woman.
Once we stopped, she twisted more on her side, saying in a light tone, “Come on, get on your side, or I’ll end up right on top of you.”
“Okay,” I said, humour still in my tone, but soon finding myself with another predicament, that being Mum’s impressive bust line crushed firmly against me. “Uh, Mum…”
“What?” she asked, resting her hand on my side.
“Well, we’re… your br- … Your…”
“My breasts?” she asked, humour still in her voice. “Look, Steven, there’s just no choice, alright? It’s not like this would ever… Just accept it. Here, put your hand on my side like mine is on yours so you can at least brace yourself and be comfortable. … Right. Now, stick your top knee between mine.”
“Stop being a baby.”
I did it, not feeling a hem on the top of my thigh and wondering if what she was wearing was that short, or if it had ridden up.
“There, isn’t that better?”
“Of course it is. You can sleep like this, right?”
“I guess, it’s just…”
“I said stop being a baby.”
Whatever she had on, it was silk and slippery. My hand didn’t want to stay, so I simply allowed my forearm to lie over the small of her back, the inside of my elbow resting on her waist. After I shifted again, it was more comfortable. Quite comfortable, in fact.
“Now you’re getting the hang of it,” Mum said, herself shifting again, giving my bare side a little rub of approval as her face settled about an inch from mine on the single pillow.
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