by Herta Feely
The truth was Sandy loved sex. Whether Les’s careful lessons had enflamed her sexual desire then taken it to stratospheric heights, or she was just built that way, she didn’t know. By being married, though, she sometimes missed the fun of getting guys to do exactly what she wanted. A little coaxing and moaning, a little sucking on their dicks, and they’d do just about anything. Anyone who didn’t, she had tremendous respect for.
Until that lunch, she’d thought Ron might fall into that latter category, but now she was pretty sure he’d be a willing victim. She considered him a topnotch catch for all sorts of reasons. He was cute, for sure, but on their recent date he’d even promised to get her into the White House, which made her think of doing it in the Oval Office! Since their lunch she sometimes lost sight of her original goal – rubbing her achievement in Isabel Winthrop’s face – but she reminded herself of that now. If he didn’t email again soon, she’d think of another reason to contact him.
She finished the dishes, and instead of watching her favorite show, Desperate Housewives, she caught a few minutes of the pre-election day newscast. Things had reached a feverish pitch, something she wanted to be able to discuss with Ron. She’d tell him she cast her vote for Obama, because that’s what he planned to do, though she couldn’t understand why when DC residents’ votes didn’t count in national elections. In contrast, though her ballot counted, living in Maryland and all, she doubted she’d go. Lines would be unbearably long, and she figured Obama would win without her.
On her way upstairs to talk with Jessie, she thought about passing on a few of her “how to get your man” tricks. She was a freshman in high school after all. Maybe she ought to introduce her to birth control pills. She grabbed a pack from her bathroom then went and knocked on Jessie’s door, though she entered without waiting to be invited in.
“Hi, toots, what’s up?” she said to Jessie, who was propped against several pillows on her bed, her knees slightly bent, her laptop resting against her thighs.
Jessie looked up, an Eeyore expression on her face.
“Don’t be glum, puss.” Sandy went and sat down beside her. “Okay, here’s what we’re gonna do,” she said and laid out the plan for the next few days until the party. “See? It’s that easy. And by the way, Mick Jagger had it all wrong. He said, you can’t always get what you want, but I say you can!” She chuckled at her own cleverness.
Before she left, she laid the package of birth control pills on Jessie’s bed. “Now, hon, I’m not condoning sex with boys, but I am trying to be realistic. You do not want to get pregnant. You just wanna have fun.” She smiled at her daughter. “Remember, more than anything boys want to have sex. But you’re in charge. You put out when you want and when you’re ready. Don’t give it away for free or too often, because that’s just plain cheap. You understand?”
Jessie stared at her mother. She chewed on her lower lip. “I think so.”
“And don’t forget, I got your back. Any questions, you come ask your ole’ ma! Okay?”
“Okay, Ma,” Jessie said, elongating the word “Ma” and rolling her eyes.
“Do as I say and I have a feeling Dylan won’t even give that Phoebe girl another glance,” she said as if Phoebe were some stranger. “I can’t believe he’d care about her when he can have you.” She was at the door, about to exit, when she stopped and swiveled to face her daughter. “Anyway, didn’t you tell me that Phoebe was all sweet on that guy Shane?”
Jessie nodded.
“I’ll bet Dylan doesn’t know that?” She tossed her daughter a meaningful look.
“Nope,” Jessie said, grinning.
Adopting a look of concern, Sandy added, “She isn’t still doing that awful cutting thing, is she?” She paused, observing her daughter nod yes. “Sure hope she outgrows it. Sleep tight, Jess. Mama loves ya.”
With that, she closed the door and swayed her hips down the hall to her bedroom. On the way, she made a detour to her office to see if Ron had written back yet. She rubbed her hands in glee when she saw his simple, elegant one-liner:
“Great seeing you, too. Maybe we’ll meet up after things die down post-election?”
On her way to bed, the mere notion of seeing Ron was making her feel super turned on. I know, she thought, I’ll invite him to help chaperone the party next Saturday. That seemed as good an excuse as any to initiate contact and brought a huge smile to her lips. She prayed Bill was still up. If not, she’d have to wake him, gently. Slowly. The way he liked it. And fuck his brains out.
Chapter Eleven
Wednesday, November 5, 2008
The morning after Barack Obama’s momentous win, Isabel felt justified heading into work late. She could almost feel the elation sweeping over Washington – with its largely Democratic constituency – and imagined the celebratory mood in her office. She had offered to buy a few items for a party they were hosting later on. First, she needed to do something else.
Ron and Jackson had left a few minutes earlier and she’d watched Phoebe run down the sidewalk to catch the bus. If Phoebe was going to Jessie’s party, she needed to get a handle on Shane. And in Isabel’s mind a great big “if” still existed despite Ron’s proclamation: “Of course she can go.” She’d raised other factors besides Shane. The hostess, for example. Ron had reacted as if she were an incorrigible child. “What is it with you and Sandy Littleton? It’ll be fine, Iz.”
She logged onto Phoebe’s Facebook page, then connected to Shane’s to see what he was up to. He seemed older than 15, but maybe not. Hard to tell. But Phoebe was right, he was good-looking. That stray lock of hair, those intense eyes. A slight air of mystery. That caught her short. No, mystery was not good, not for her daughter, not with a stranger and not when she could police Phoebe’s Facebook site, at least officially, only until she turned 14. Only one week and six days away. According to Facebook rules she’d then have to become one of Phoebe’s “friends,” which gave her no access to private messages.
She recalled the moment Phoebe had turned 13, the legal age for Facebook, when her pubescent daughter had asked that she be allowed to have her own page, and of course Ron had supported her wish. Ever since, it seemed as if life for Phoebe had been on a downhill slide. Not that Facebook had caused it, but somehow her mind linked the two.
She reviewed the comments Shane had posted on her wall. Nothing out of line there. Then she checked the private messages between the two. A few seemed unusual for a boy. Why would he want to know about her outfits, for example? And other guys? There seemed an unusual number of references to Jessie as well. But she continued on.
Aha, so his jersey number was 10. But the next few sentences nearly made her gasp. I bet you’re a 10 too! I want you to be my number 10. Are you coming to Jessie’s party? I’ll show you what a 10 is all about!
You will do no such thing, not if I can help it, Isabel thought. She would tell Ron. This should change his mind. Innocent, right! There was no way she would let her daughter go to that party and meet up with this vulture. Another one ready to steal her daughter’s innocence. Oh, God, male hormones. Surely, Ron would agree with her.
As she began moving back in the history of Phoebe and Shane’s messages, she ran across: Oh, come on, your mom can’t be that big of a…you know what! Rhymes with w-i-t-c-h! And Phoebe had called her “crazy.” Well, as she scanned the rest of their frequent interactions, she felt that she had plenty of ammunition to keep her from attending the party. Of one thing she felt certain, it was time to have a mother-daughter talk – not just about this guy, and guys in general, but once again about being careful of what she said to others on Facebook. She could easily imagine things getting out of hand. Because there it was in writing. But first she’d talk to Ron. Hopefully, for once, he’d see things her way.
When she reached him, he said a little breathlessly, “It’ll have to wait til tonight, Iz; I’m hot on the trail of an Obama story.” She hung up, feeling proud of her husband and his renewed enthusiasm for work and career. Of
course it could wait.
Phoebe and Skyla hopped off the bus and walked to school together, as they did quite often. Along the way, Phoebe mentioned that things between her and Jessie had gotten pretty tense again, and that she thought it might be about Dylan. “I feel like I don’t even know her anymore. It’s weird, you know?”
“Jessie, well, she’s not really the kind of girl I like to hang with,” Skyla said in her know-it-all manner. “No offense, Feebs.” Then she put her hand on Phoebe’s arm and fixed her with a confidential stare. “Did you know her mom got pregnant with Jessie in high school.”
Phoebe had never heard this and wondered if Skyla was making it up. “Are you sure?”
“Just do the math.” She smiled at her own cleverness.
“I always sort of liked her mom.”
“Seriously? You haven’t noticed how her mom dresses? Like totally—” she searched for a word, but couldn’t come up with one. “One time I saw her thong sticking out when she bent over! It was so gross. It’s like she wants guys to notice her, you know?”
“Really?” This all came as news to Phoebe and she tried to imagine how Skyla knew. Probably something her mother had said. She gazed off, staring at the campus entryway in the distance. Red brick pillars connected by the famous Georgetown Academy wrought-iron arch, with the curlicue letters “GA” in Victorian script. The need to defend her old friend rose up in her. “Even if it’s true, Jessie can’t help what her mom does, or did.”
Skyla smiled knowingly. “No, but you know what they say.”
“No, what do they say?”
“The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. Jessie dresses kind of slutty too, in case you haven’t noticed. I guess it’s in the genes, Feebs.”
Phoebe stared at her a moment. Had Skyla found out about Monday’s conversation at Dylan’s? “So you think being mean or jealous or whatever is inherited?”
Skyla screwed up her face, looking slightly confused. “My advice: steer clear of her. But that’s just me.” Then her eyes transformed into glittering emeralds. “Let’s talk about our party, okay?” And for the next couple of minutes Skyla veered off in this new direction.
Though Phoebe nodded and added a word here and there, all she could really think about was Shane. Finally seeing him, actually meeting him, and maybe – well, probably – kissing him.
As Sandy got ready she kept worrying that Ron would cancel on her. She’d gotten a text from him mid-morning: Are you up for adventure? Meet me at the Jefferson at 1. Text me from the lobby. Did this mean he was getting a room for them? The thrill that coursed through her was palpable. And the word “adventure” kept echoing in her mind. She was in a kind of feverish state, almost like a teenager on her first date with a really hot guy, and she was also talking to herself, trying to keep her emotions in check.
She tried on an assortment of outfits, casting aside one after the other, until she finally found a slinky, pale pink cashmere dress with a black suede belt to cinch about her waist. Black suede highheeled boots to match. The ensemble would show off all her best features. But first she chose her lacy under-garments, all in creamy whites, and dabbed herself with perfume in all the important places.
As she got dressed, a hodgepodge of thoughts spun through her mind. Anxious thoughts. Would some last minute work assignment trump their date? Was this a “one-time” fling for him? How could she make sure Isabel eventually found out? Did she want Isabel to find out? What did she want? Only then did she think of Bill and Jessie. Certainly they couldn’t find out.
After slipping into her dress, she gave herself one last long look in the mirror. Her reflection was pretty close to perfect. She gave herself a dimpled Marilyn smile, imagined what Ron would feel when he saw her and ran out the door.
The room she left behind looked like the proverbial tornado had just struck. But with her thoughts so far away, she hadn’t noticed. She hadn’t had an affair in a long time.
That evening over dinner Sandy noticed an unusually reserved Bill. It made her uneasy, but she said nothing. She didn’t want to provoke him, not with Jessie there. Finally, in their bedroom, he launched a small grenade: “Can you tell me where the hell you went this afternoon?” Anger creased his brow.
Shaken, Sandy said, “What do you mean?” Though now she understood his earlier mood. Bill had only one rule: No fucking around. He’d made that clear when he proposed to her. And there had only been a couple of times that he’d questioned her this way.
“I came home this afternoon and your shit was all over the place,” he said.
How could he possibly know she’d gone to The Jefferson? It was rare for him to come home mid-day, which tempted her to ask why he had, but she thought better of it. She’d returned home after a frustrating few hours and hurried to make dinner, failing to take note of the mess when she’d briefly gone upstairs to change. “Went out with some of the Academy moms and wanted to look my best,” she finally said. She grabbed a fistful of clothes and tossed them into her roomy closet. “I’ll get to it later, hon’,” she said over her shoulder.
She took a moment to freshen up in the bathroom then hopped onto their king-size bed. “Now come here and tell me about your day,” she said breezily.
He eyed her then acquiesced. As he talked, she relaxed. Slowly, she began unbuttoning her sweater, one by one, keeping her eyes on him, just as Les had taught her. She continued undressing until there was nothing left between her bare skin and the air but a lacy thong and bra. She beckoned him. “Come here, baby?” She leaned back against the pillows and began to fondle her breasts.
A moment later, Bill had stripped down, and she felt the rough suck of his mouth on her nipple, his roughness being something she liked. She breathed a sigh of relief as he touched the wetness between her legs.
Though less than nothing had happened with Ron, she’d have to be more careful in the future.
It hadn’t begun as an argument. Ron had showered, then after a little chitchat about the overwhelmingly positive international reaction to the first black president of the United States, Isabel switched gears and gave him a rundown of the private messages between Phoebe and Shane. He shrugged.
“So you think all that talk about making her his number 10 means nothing? She’s your daughter, don’t you feel a need to protect her?” Isabel said, hoping Ron would have a last minute change of heart about letting Phoebe go to the party.
“For heaven’s sakes, Iz, stop worrying about it,” he said dismissively, adding, “I trust Phoebe to do the right thing.”
“I trust her too, but he’s older and you know how boys are.” She looked at him for some sign that he agreed, but his eyes were trained on the newspaper, which he’d brought to bed. She was changing into her silky pj’s. “Between her meeting some phantom kid we’ve never met, a cute guy who will no doubt break your daughter’s heart, and being at that woman’s house where I just know they’ll look the other way on the whole drinking business, how can you not worry?”
Ron seemed about to snap at Isabel when instead he finally looked up and took note of the pajamas he’d given her. “Well, there is a solution.” His voice contained a teasing tone.
She stopped and peered curiously at him. “What’s that? You’ll go there as a reporter and cover it for the society page of the Post?” She laughed.
Suddenly in an indulgent and obvious good mood, he smiled. “Something like that.” He patted the bed next to him and Isabel extended her leg beneath the sheet, then slid in. They scooted close to one another under the covers. “I was invited to be one of the chaperones at the Littletons’ party,” he finished.
“You’ve got to be kidding?” She turned and stared at him in disbelief.
“Nope. I was asked today.”
“Bill?” she said hopefully. He shook his head, and she said, “Sandy?”
“Uh-huh.”
“The nerve of her, Ron! How could she ask my husband? No one does that. No respectable woman anyway.”
He shrugged, recalling the sultry tone of Sandy’s voice. Ron, she’d said on the phone, I have a favor to ask. Despite his last-minute cancellation, due to a pang of guilt and the need to be on top of election results, Ron was surprised at what a perfectly good sport she’d been. She’d said a few other things too, but he wouldn’t be mentioning those either. His thoughts switched back to the matter at hand. Of course he understood Isabel’s indignation. Women asked other women. Not their husbands.
“I have half a mind to call her.”
Ron, looking slightly alarmed, stayed her arm as if she were about to reach for the phone that sat on the bedside table. “Iz, you know I’m not going, don’t you?”
Her face crumpled a little, and her head lolled onto Ron’s shoulder. “That woman is the bane of my existence,” she said.
“Don’t let her be,” he replied softly and kissed the top of her head.
She pushed the newspaper out of his hands. “You’ve read everything there is to read about the Obama win,” she said, “so let’s concentrate on something…something more important.” She bussed his cheek and slowly moved her hand below his navel.
He breathed in the familiar scent of Isabel’s hair, drew her to him and kissed her neck and face, then ran his hand down the length of her spine, cupping her buttocks and letting her feel his hardness. They made love the way they always did, not too vigorously, but lovingly. It was comforting, but for some reason, afterward, Isabel wept a little.
Chapter Twelve
Saturday, November 8, 2008
“Mom, can’t you hurry up a little? At this speed we’ll never get there!”