Scott’s Asperger’s symptoms are mostly remediated now, but if you know what you’re looking for, you can still see small remnants of it.
“Hi, I’m Dan,” I offer, extending my hand.
“Scott.” He shakes my hand, and then quickly breaks the contact. He’s not unfriendly; he just doesn’t appear overly comfortable meeting new people.
Dinner is nearly ready when we arrive, and we all settle into the kitchen to prepare. Carol’s made enough food to feed twenty people. I wonder if that’s for my benefit, and if she’s expecting me to eat my weight at every meal.
The conversation throughout dinner is surprisingly comfortable. Carol asks me about work, and we talk about the state of education in the U.S. She is definitely up on her knowledge of the subject, and we converse in more depth than I would have expected about the role of unions, reform legislation, and educational inequality in poor areas. I now know where Sarah gets her analytical mind. Carol is sharp.
The more interesting thing, though, is what she doesn’t say. She’s carefully watching every exchange that Sarah and I have. And whenever I bring up something about Sarah’s career or schooling, she gets a skeptical look on her face like she wants to challenge me, but she’s holding back. It’s clear I’ve got a lot of work to do here.
I insist on doing dishes after dinner, and can’t help but notice that the faucet leaks like crazy. It’s nothing to fix something like this.
“Hey Carol, if you’d like, I can run to Home Depot in the morning and pick up a new washer for the sink.”
“Oh, don’t trouble yourself. I’ll call someone.”
Right. The same someone who’s coming to fix the heater, I presume.
“It’s no trouble.” I sincerely mean that.
“Mom, let Danny do it. He can fix almost anything. He’s really handy.”
Carol appears conflicted, so I take a slightly different tack.
“Is there anything around here that you’d like to have me take a look at? Something I can help with before I go?”
My guess is that the faucet doesn’t bother her much, but maybe something else does. And maybe she’s short on funds to hire someone to take care of it.
“Well, I guess there is just one thing. The light fixture in my bedroom has started buzzing, and I’m afraid to turn it on. I was going to call someone, but I haven’t had the chance to.”
Bingo.
“The chances are the fixture’s just bad. I’ll take a look at it in the morning. Why don’t you make me a list of anything else you can think of, and I’ll knock them out tomorrow while you and Sarah do some shopping. Scott can help me, if he wants.”
And just like that, I win my first battle for Carol’s approval. Unfortunately, I lose the second battle in a far more spectacular way.
We’re all preparing for bed, and it’s obvious that Scott has the couch for the night because Carol’s already got the blankets out, and he’s settling in with the TV remote. The less obvious thing is who is sleeping in the second bedroom. Sarah preempts the discussion by carrying both our bags into the room, and getting us unpacked while Carol is busy helping Scott with sheets for the couch.
I quickly change into sweats and a t-shirt, and grab the toothbrush from my bag.
When I bend to give Sarah a peck on the lips, she grabs the front of my shirt for a deeper one.
“You’re aware that your mom already hates me, right? You know that if you try to stay in here, she’ll assume that I’m defiling you under her roof?”
“I’m assuming you’ll defile me under her roof,” she says, running her evil hands up under my t-shirt, and teasing my nipples.
Of course, I’m instantly hard, and these are not the right pants to wear if I’m trying to convince anyone of my intentions to be well behaved.
I grab her hands over my shirt. “That is not a good idea,” I try to argue. “I’m not fucking you in your mom’s house. Period.”
My words might sound convincing, but my obvious hard on is arguing for the opposing side. And, when Sarah grips my erection, all common sense seems to get lost in the mass evacuation of blood from my brain to my dick.
“We can be quiet,” she whispers, nipping my neck, and tightening her grip around my length.
“Jesus, Sarah. When are you ever quiet? You’re like a banshee during sex.”
I force the words out through gasping breath, just as her hand slides into in my pants, stroking me just the way I like.
Shit.
“Let me just suck on you a little.”
Now, that’s just mean. She knows how I feel about oral.
She licks her lips and bats her eyes, as she stares up at me innocently. If I were twenty years younger, I might have come in my pants from that look alone. I don’t think I’ve ever been more grateful for the hard-earned control I’ve developed over time. This woman is my undoing, for sure.
“Maybe you could just touch me for a minute,” she continues.
Goddammit.
In the war between my head and my dick, my head is quickly losing. Could I do that? Touch her for just a minute? Before I can consider the negatives of the idea, I push my hand down the front of her little sleep shorts, and run my fingers over the soft skin between her legs.
Yes, I guess I can.
And, fuck, she feels amazing.
She’s wet already, and I find myself smearing the slickness all over her lips, and up onto her clit. She takes a step closer, spreading her legs apart slightly to give me better access.
Shit.
I close my eyes, and give in to the temptation as we stroke each other, her thumb spreading a drop of pre-cum over my tip.
I’ve been with plenty of women in my life, but somehow with Sarah, everything is better. With anyone else, this kind of hand job wouldn’t even rate, but with her, my level of excitement is already off the charts.
I lean in to take her mouth. I want badly for her to come at my hands while I swallow every banshee groan she makes. She seems to have no concept that her noises during sex could wake the dead.
She breaks our kiss, and pulls my shirt up with one hand so she can lick my nipple. Fucking hell, there is almost no chance now that this scenario doesn’t end with me losing it in her mother’s guest room.
This is so jacked up.
I finally just resign myself to the idea that I have become, in fact, every mother’s worst nightmare, when I push her mouth harder against my chest.
“Bite me,” I whisper.
If I’m going to hell, I might as well thoroughly enjoy the ride. She licks my nipple once more, and then presses her teeth to the hard tip, causing me to lengthen further in her hand.
“Ah, yes.”
I find her clit with my thumb, and begin circling as I press another finger inside her. She shudders in my arms, and I feel her hips grinding roughly against my hand.
“Almost there,” she gasps. “Almost!”
I press harder with my hand. I can’t worry if Carol heard her outburst. Sarah has no capacity for whispering in the face of an impending orgasm.
And there is absolutely no stopping this crazy train now, anyway. We’re headed straight for utter lunacy. Sarah is beginning to contract around my fingers, and I feel my own release gathering low in my spine. I just relax and let it happen.
Oh, fuck yes…
“Sarah?”
Oh, fuck no!
Carol’s voice sounds just as the door begins to open.
That’s when all hell breaks loose. It’s a blur of wild, flailing of arms, loud snapping of elastic, and hasty covering of genitals. If I wasn’t literally coming in my sweatpants as my potential future mother-in-law steps into the room, I might have said the whole moment was comical.
But it’s like everything is happening in slow motion.
Sarah’s squeaking something about helping me with the dresser, whatever the hell that means, and I’m spinning around like I’ve been shot, trying to hide my obvious pulsing erection.
Me
rcifully, this means that I don’t have to make actual eye contact with Carol, while my body finishes its dirty business.
I brace one hand on the nightstand, and begin straightening the lamp with the other, for lack of anything better to do. I hear Sarah ask her mom what she needs, her voice sounding guilty, particularly to my guilty brain.
“Well, I assumed you’d be staying with me,” she says politely. “Come, let’s not crowd Dan.”
Yes, let’s not crowd Dan. He needs to clean some cum out of his pants after he’s finished straightening the lamp.
Fuck.
“Okay, I’ll be right there,” my traitorous girlfriend says, in an uncharacteristically compliant voice. She must have been so easy to bust as a teenager.
“Dan, do you need anything before I go?” Carol asks.
Yes, some tissues and laundry detergent would be great.
“No, thank you. I’m all set,” I choke out, rubbing the back of my neck, and looking over my shoulder to face her. I’m pretty sure that my dick and my balls have crawled back up inside my body at this point. In fact, it’s possible I’ve become a girl.
“Okay, good.” She steps out of the room, and closes the door quietly behind her.
“Oh, shit!” Sarah mouths, her eyes like a lemur.
“I cannot believe you talked me into that!” I whisper urgently. “I’m trying to make a good impression here!”
“Well, you’ve definitely made an impression!” She’s laughing, and obviously not sorry at all.
“Christ, does your mom ever knock?”
“We’ll have to be more careful next time,” she says, still giggling.
“I don’t think that will be a problem. I may never be able to have an erection again.”
§
I wouldn’t exactly say it was a restful night after that. I spend most of it torturing myself with various scenarios of my impending castration. It’s bad enough that I’m going to have to keep my hands off of Sarah for the next two days before being separated from her for another week, but now I have to worry that her mother will be inspecting my every move for possible perversion.
Consequently, I’m up before the rest of the household, and head out for a run. When I get back, Sarah and Carol are seated at the kitchen table. I bend to give Sarah a very chaste kiss on the top of her head, and see that Carol has made enough scrambled eggs to feed a small country.
“Morning, baby. Sleep well?” Sarah smirks.
I smirk back, and then work the expression into more of a smile when Carol catches my eye.
“Let me get you some breakfast,” she says, gesturing to the yellow mountain on top of the stove.
I’m not a huge eater first thing in the morning, but I recognize that I have some penance to do for last night, so I’ll suck it up and take whatever is coming to me.
I watch as Carol scoops spoonful after spoonful of eggs onto a plate, and then tops it off with bacon and some melon.
“Mom, Danny’s not a linebacker. He doesn’t eat that much.”
But Carol is undeterred, and sets the heaping plate in front of me.
I rub my hand across the stubble on my jaw, as I consider how the hell I can avoid offending her. This is the price for violating her daughter.
“Thank you, Carol. This looks great.”
As Carol heads back to the sink, Sarah leans over and snickers softly, “Are you trying to eat your way out of trouble?”
Yes, actually, I think I am. I glare at her in response.
“I don’t think she saw anything,” she giggles. She’s enjoying this little scenario just a bit too much.
“Evil,” I mouth to her as Carol returns.
“Hmmm?” Carol asks me.
I brush it off innocently, and give Carol my best good-boy smile, while Sarah’s shoulders shake with an inaudible laugh at my expense.
§
I spend the entire day on Carol’s list. If I had a nickel for every time she approached me and said, “You know, there’s just one more thing I thought of…”
But it’s a win for both of us. I really do enjoy working around the house, far more than just sitting on Carol’s couch while she grills me, and she desperately needs the work done. Some of the things on her list are really unsafe.
She directs me to some old tools that had belonged to Sarah’s father. They aren’t great, but they’re adequate, and I’ll pick up anything else I need at the store.
And Scott joins me, even though he doesn’t know much about home maintenance. His father passed away before Scott was old enough to learn. But the engineer in him is definitely curious. He’s receptive to my instruction, and it gives us a chance to bond without a lot of forced conversation.
Together, we change the bedroom fixture, seal drafty windows, install new locks, change batteries in the fire alarms, put new hinges on the kitchen cabinets, fix the faucet, of course, and a number of other things, both big and small.
And then there is the matter of the heater. It’s very likely original to the home and appears beyond repair. But the ductwork is intact, so she just needs a new unit. I put a heater in my own house, so I do know how to install it. When we’re out, we stop by a local HVAC supply store and buy one. Scott’s eyes bulge out when he sees the total at the register.
“I’m not planning on telling your mom how much the heater cost. Is that okay with you?”
“I guess so,” he answers, a little unsure.
We bring it home, and get it installed while Sarah and her mom are out doing some Christmas shopping. By the time they get home, the condo is feeling warm.
“You fixed the heater?” Sarah asks in shock.
“We bought a new…”
“Fuse for it,” I cut in, interrupting Scott. Carol looks beyond happy. She actually hugs me and thanks me for my help, offering to reimburse me for any costs. That I decline. When she leaves with Scott to see the other things we’d done, Sarah gives me a level stare.
“What did you do to the heater?”
She doesn’t look mad; it’s more relief, I think. But I can also see that her pride and her issues with money are right there, entangled in that look.
“Do you want me to tell you?”
She knows what I’m asking. I won’t lie to her. But we both know that my telling her will make her feel some misplaced sense of obligation to pay me back, which I would flatly refuse, anyway.
She doesn’t reply. Her eyes well up, and she looks at me as if she’s conflicted.
“I fixed the heat in the condo. And it’s among the easiest things I need to do here. So let’s move on.” And we do.
The rest of the trip goes smoothly. Scott and I find unexpected common ground over Star Trek, and we both enjoy pulling up a few of those old episodes online. Carol and I never quite get that “I love you, man” moment, but I still put the visit in the win column. I think she can see how much I love her daughter, and that I’m not a pervert or a psychopath. She’s still wary of my wanting Sarah barefoot and pregnant before her career gets rolling, but I think only time can reassure Carol of that.
For my part, it’s obvious to me that Carol worships Sarah. There are major issues between them, but Carol is trying hard to earn the right to be Sarah’s mother again. And how could I not respect her for that?
§
As I’m packing up for my flight, Sarah comes into the bedroom with a wrapped gift. She looks as nervous as I felt when I gave her the piano.
“This is for you. For Christmas. I was hoping you could open it here.”
She hands me the gift, and we both sit on the bed as I unwrap it. Inside the box is a large scrapbook. I open it to find that she has amassed an extraordinary number of clippings and photographs relating to my accomplishments from high school forward.
I’m shocked. Where did she get all of this? I don’t have most of it. There are newspaper articles about key games in the various sports I played in high school, my diploma, awards I’ve won, my acceptance letter and scholarship offer from
UVA, loads of college basketball photographs of me, articles relating to various teaching awards, and newspaper stories highlighting many of the teams I’ve coached through the years.
It’s all right here. Painstakingly arranged and preserved. I can’t begin to imagine how much time she put into this. And time isn’t something she’s had a lot of.
“Where did you get all of these things?” I ask her, my voice rougher than I can help.
“Lots of places, really. I got some of it from the library and online newspaper archives, but a lot of it came from your sister. She was a huge help. Did you know that your mom kept boxes of clippings about your achievements?”
I did know that. But after she died, it was too painful for me to go through it. So, I left it all with Casey to keep. As I flip through the pages, I see that many of the early articles and photos are noted with the date or occasion in my mom’s distinctive handwriting. I run my fingertips over one of them–thoroughly overcome by a sense of connection to her that I haven’t experienced in years. It’s momentarily stunning. And then the most random things begin to pop into my head–like the way her grocery lists used to look in that handwriting. I have a hard time just tearing my hand away.
As I flip to another page, I see a photo that also gives me pause. It’s of my parents and I at the California State Science Fair, where I won first place in my category in eleventh grade. My sister must have taken the picture. My mom is standing on one side of me and smiling into the camera. My dad is on the other, his hand on my shoulder, and in the picture he’s looking at me, rather than at the camera. And he’s smiling, too. I don’t know why I stop on that one, but I do.
“I had enough material that I could have made this book three feet thick.” I look up as Sarah directs her sweet smile at me. “Apparently, I have to become a private investigator if I’m going to learn of all of your accomplishments.”
I sniff out a laugh. “I think you have it pretty well covered here. This is…”
I’m at a loss for words. I just shake my head and clench my jaw to keep control of my emotions. I meet her eyes again, and they are so beautiful and loving and affectionate. I see absolutely everything I need there.
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