Between the Shadow and the Soul - 7. Mothers and Intuitions Part 3

July 29, 2016

"I'm just gonna go home and do my homework then hang out after your mom gets here."

Kyle sat on the couch drinking water while I stood in the kitchen emptying the dishwasher and starting dinner preparations. He had his back to the armrest with his legs stretched out and crossed at the ankle, one of his bare feet bouncing to a beat only he could hear.

"I thought you had a date with Traci tonight?"

"I don't feel like going," he muttered irritably.

When I looked into the living room, he was staring at his bottle of water as though it held the secrets of the universe.

Let's talk about something else, shall we? Like, I don't know, how soon will he leave?

Let's stop being an asshole to the kid, shall we?

Despite my increasing unease with Basketball Boy—not him personally but what he constantly dredged up from my past—I didn't want to be rude yet again since that was pretty much becoming my usual attitude with him when left to my own devices. And that totally wasn't me.

"Are you two having problems?" I was genuinely curious in this case, given his attitude about canceling their date.

"No." A sigh, then: "Yeah." Another sigh, then: "I don't know."

He's struggling. Been there done that and don't want another tee shirt.

"How long have you been together?"

"I met her three years ago when we moved here. We were friends for a while. We started dating last year." He was watching me again, not closely or seriously though, just an empty stare because he had to look somewhere.

"Is it serious between you two?"

"I'm not sure. There's the sex, so that's okay, but I don't think I'm in love with her if that's what you mean."

"Did you just say the sex is 'okay'? As in just okay?" I had a frown on my face as I glanced over the bar at him. Standing up with a stack of plates in my hands, I clarified, "Not that it's my business, mind you, and you're both young and not expected to be experts in that field. But I'd think 'okay' would describe school lunches, not sex."

He chuckled as he wiped a hand down his face. "I'm not sure school lunches qualify as okay."

"Are you avoiding the sex question? Always feel free to tell me something's none of my business."

Please say it's none of my business so we can talk about the weather.

"I don't think that'll happen," he mumbled. In a louder voice he said, "No, it's okay. I don't mind you asking." He took a deep breath then sighed it out, long and thoughtful. "It's just okay. The sex. Maybe I'm with the wrong person. Can the person you're with make that big of a difference? Isn't sex sex?"

"No, it's not that simple. The wrong person can turn it into work or, worst of all, turn it off altogether."

"Can somebody else do that to you?"

I gave him a curious look as I asked, "What do you mean?"

"Like, say you're with someone and everything seems okay—not fantastic but good enough to keep doing—but then somebody comes along and it throws everything out of whack by making you question everything in your life. Does that makes sense?"

Oh shit...

"Yes it does. It's something you have to deal with. Are you attracted to this other person? Is your girlfriend attracted to this person? Do they make you question what you want? What do they make you feel? Or think? Those are just some of the questions you have to ask yourself."

He didn't say anything. He was staring at me with that neutral expression of his.

"What was it like when you were my age? Sex, I mean."

Fuck!

I nearly dropped the glasses I held. Had I not had them in my hands, I know I would have found the phoenix tattoo already.

"I had a really bad experience at your age. It was my first experience and it was..." Knowing I couldn't face him, I turned my attention to the dishes, keeping my hands occupied before one of them occupied itself. "You know what? I'd rather not talk about it, but I'll tell you it was bad and I didn't have sex again for years."

"I'm sorry."

"Nothing to be sorry about," I said with a catch in my voice and a shudder throughout my body. "It's history."

But my left hand had placed its load on the counter and worked its way down to the phoenix tattoo with the Italian script flowing away from it like a flag in a breeze.

"Is that what the phoenix tattoo is about?" he asked from behind me, having quietly made his way to the kitchen from the living room.

"Fuck!" I shouted as I jumped. Thankfully my hands had been empty.

I spun around to face him. He was leaning against the bar, his bottle empty, his eyes locked on my hand.

This time I knew it was happening, I knew where my hand was and what it was doing. And, it would seem, so did Kyle.

Right. It's history. If that's true, then what the hell's wrong with me?

I shook my hand as if it had caught fire

"I don't want to talk about it!" I snapped. Then I turned around, picked up the bowls I'd placed on the counter, and went back to work.

* * * * *

When the door to the garage opened and my mother marched into the kitchen, Nate right on her heals, her eyes immediately locked on Kyle. He stood leaning against the bar, still in the same place he was when I killed our conversation. We'd said little since my outburst, and what we had said was mostly about what I was cooking for dinner with Mom.

Stepping away from the stove, I leaned down and gave her a quick kiss and hug as I said, "Hey, woman, how you be?"

"I'm fine, boy of mine," she responded as she hugged me tightly. Then she released me so we could step out of my best friend's way.

"Hey, G-Man," Nate said, bumping my shoulder with his. As he walked away he gave Basketball Boy a fist bump while saying, "Hey, dude. Good to see you."

"Hey, Nate," Kyle replied with a smile.

Never missing a step, Nate carried his gym bag with him as he headed upstairs. Mom gave me an inquisitive look.

Returning to the stove, I said over my shoulder, "The man has a date. You know how he is when there's a woman involved."

She chuckled. Then she clarified, "You misread me, Greg. I know about his date tonight. The only way I could get him to slow down and talk to me was for me to walk in front of him."

As she talked she fetched a wine glass from the cabinet before returning to the refrigerator.

"Can you get me a beer while you're in there?"

"Of course."

She poured herself a glass of red wine, then she opened an ale for me and set it on the counter.

"Have a seat," I heard her say. When I glanced over my shoulder, I noticed she was gesturing Kyle to the dining table.

"Uh..." He gave me an unsure look, but Mom wasn't to be deterred. She wrapped an arm around him and turned him toward the dining room, guiding him with her hand on his back.

She was about his height, maybe half an inch shorter, and she was a petite woman, slim but not skinny. Her wavy auburn hair flowed freely down between her shoulder blades, her ice blue eyes keen yet warm, her full lips always smiling either in delight or in mischief but never in malice. She was an ordinary woman, not terribly pretty but not unattractive, just an average person if you judged her on her looks.

But she was a formidable force in personality. With a chuckle, I feared for Kyle.

Soon they were both seated at the table. Mom had an interesting expression on her face as she gazed at Basketball Boy. Not only was it evaluative, but it also had a hint of discovery in it. When she caught me looking at her, she smiled in a dismissive way before taking a sip of wine.

"Did you know it looks like it's going to storm?" she asked him.

"I didn't know that." He sounded more than a bit unsure.

Had I not been busy with dinner, I would've marched over there and chaperoned what was about to happen. As it was, I had no intention of letting my work go to waste, so I'd have to intervene from the kitchen. Because I knew Mom was up to no good.

"Will you be dining with us this evening?"

I started to answer. "No, Mom, he's—"

"We're talking over here, Greg. You mind your dinner preparations and let us chat."

He's in so much trouble.

Turning back to him, she asked, "Did you know it'll probably storm soon?"

"Uh, no, I didn't know." He again glanced at me, eyed somewhat wide, questioning.

"If you're not dining with us, are you waiting for the rain to start before heading out, or are you waiting for something else?"

"I... Uh... I guess I was waiting for you to get here before I left."

As I walked to the dining room, beer in hand, I had to bite my tongue to keep from laughing. He sounded almost terrified.

"And why is that?" Mom asked him, reaching up and patting my arm as I leaned against the wall near her chair.

His eyes snapped to mine briefly before returning to my mothers. Then he answered, "I wanted to meet you."

My mouth fell open, my famous impression of a guppy out of water, but my mother didn't skip a beat.

"Did you now?" This brief conversation had piqued her interest. Well, piqued it more than it already was if her expression coming in the door was any indication.

"She's just my mom." I regretted the words as soon as they fell out of my mouth.

"You hush your mouth, you heathen. I'm talking to your friend." Turning back to him she asked, "And why did you want to meet me?"

Blushing, Kyle hesitated a moment before he said, "Nate and Greg make you sound like a really nice person. So I wanted to meet you."

"Of course you did. Every young man wants me."

"Mom!"

Kyle's skin flamed crimson. He ducked his head just as he started to chuckle.

She took a sip of wine, as casual as you please, then said, "I meant to say every young man wants to meet me. You didn't let me finish."

"Mother! Don't embarrass him. Or me."

Looking askance at me and pretending great offense, she mockingly cried, "I would never!"

My faced showed pure disbelief. "Excuse me?"

"Perhaps you're right. Because I would. Besides, any friend of yours needs to know I take no prisoners. If Kyle—I'm assuming you're Kyle, by the way, so correct me if I'm wrong." He nodded but said nothing. "As I was saying, if Kyle expects to be around for any length of time, he needs to know the lay of the land." Reaching across the table and offering her hand, she added, "I'm Yvonne, by the way, since my sons lack the social graces necessary to introduce us."

I rolled my eyes and sniffed derisively, but I couldn't stop the grin that crept onto my face.

Kyle shook her hand. "Obviously I'm Kyle. It's nice to meet you, Mrs. Beaumont."

"I'm divorced, honey, so I'm not a Beaumont anymore. Besides, don't give me any of that miss or missus or ma'am crap. I'm Yvonne. If we're to be friends, let's keep it friendly."

"Okay," he said with a smile. "It's nice to meet you, Yvonne."

That's when we heard the first distant rumble of thunder.

"You're a real charmer, Kyle," she gushed, sending me a knowing look that flashed by too quickly for Kyle to notice, "but it sounds like we're about to have some unpleasant weather. Are you sure you wouldn't like to stay for dinner?"

"No, ma—Uh, I mean no thank you. I just wanted to stay long enough to meet you."

She reached over and squeezed my hand. My head snapped in her direction, but she'd already pulled her hand back.

"That's very thoughtful, Kyle," she told him. "I appreciate the effort. You're a true gentleman."

He ducked his head and grinned.

"Greg's a very good cook. Whatever he's brewing over there smells delicious," she cooed. "Are you sure you don't want to stay?"

Why is she pushing? Stop pushing, Mom!

"No. I have homework to finish. Besides, I don't want to interrupt your visit," he answered.

Smirking with her eyes cut to me, Mom added, "You're right, of course; homework comes before visiting. Education is important. Not that I want to sound like a public service announcement." She rolled her eyes at her own cheesy sentiment, true though it was.

Kyle stood first, my mother immediately after.

"It was a pleasure meeting you," she told him as she held out her hand.

"It was nice meeting you, too," he said as he shook hands with her again.

She watched me with eagle eyes as I walked him to the door and said goodbye.

* * * * *

"Come on, Mom," Nate whined, "I'm going on a date, not to church." He sounded positively childish, and when he pouted to ensure she got the point, I chuckled and shook my head.

My mother tightened his jacket around his shoulders and used it to pull him down as she leaned up to kiss his cheek. Then she said into his ear, "No son of mine is going out in the rain underdressed."

She leaned back and snugged the jacket shut in front, then she patted his chest with affection before adding, "I'd never get between you and a girl. After twenty years I know better. I just want you to stay dry, at least for as long as you have your clothes on."

His skin darkened with the ferocious blush that spread across his face. My best friend squeezed his eyes shut and mumbled, "Mom! Don't do that. It's embarrassing."

My mother chuckled with warmth and delight. She always loved teasing us boys, and to her nothing was sacrosanct in that regard.

"Do what?" she asked with mock sincerity. "You mean talk about your endless stream of female admirers? And your penchant for having them undressed and under you before they learn your last name?"

"Sometimes before they learn his first name," I quipped.

"Stop, you two!" he moaned as Mom and I laughed.

Giggling, she hooked her arm through his as she turned him toward the kitchen.

"Do you have condoms?" she asked as they walked.

"Mom..." He rolled his eyes even as his shoulders quaked with a chuckle.

"I want to be sure you're prepared to attack the pink fortress."

"Mom!"

"Organ grinding can be a messy business, Nate."

"Ugh!"

"Fine, release the Kraken without restraints and see what kind of trouble it causes."

"I have condoms!" he managed to declare through his guffaw.

Still primly serious, Mom replied, "Good. That's all I was asking, honey."

At the door to the garage, he pulled loose from her and leaned down to kiss her lightly. Then he said with love, "Thanks, Mom. Even when you embarrass me I still love you."

She gave him a quick hug before he turned and walked toward his car. But before he could take more than one step, she smacked him on that delicious ass of his and crowed, "Be sure she enjoys her ride on the Bony Express!"

"Mom!" he howled in mock horror, though I could scarcely hear him over my own raucous laughter and my mother's impish giggling. Leave it to Mom...

* * * * *

My mother helped me clear the table and rinse dishes before placing them in the dishwasher. We'd enjoyed a relaxed dinner filled with conversation.

Except for one topic. She'd strategically avoided any mention of Kyle throughout our meal. I knew what that meant, though I hoped I was wrong.

Once we'd cleaned the kitchen and put away the remnants of our dinner, I poured her another glass of wine before grabbing a beer. Then we retired to the living room.

I settled against the armrest, my left arm slung atop the back of the sofa and my left leg tucked beneath me. She kicked off her shoes and settled next to me, her legs bent so her feet dangled off the seat.

"Seeing anyone?" she nonchalantly asked, though she knew as well as I did that she'd've already been told if I were involved. Either Nate would tell her or I would.

I snorted. "No. I'm working a lot and don't really have time."

"You have to make time, Greg."

"I'm not interested in dating at the moment."

She shook her head and frowned before saying, "I know you, sweetheart. You're not being honest with me or with yourself."

"Too many things on my mind," I told her as I looked away.

"Like the past?"

I almost dropped my beer when I shuddered. Opening and closing my mouth several times failed to produce words.

"I'm not blind," Mom told me.

All I could do is shake my head and turn my gaze elsewhere, anywhere, somewhere.

"Met anyone recently?"

"There's a—" No there's not! I cleared my throat. "No. Not really."

Her keen expression told me she'd filed away that aborted statement for later.

"I like your friend," she said out of the blue. She had the same gift Kyle and Teresa had, the gift of redirecting conversations at the drop of a hat.

"What friend?"

I know better with Mom. But hell if I'm going to make this easy for her considering it won't be easy for me.

"Don't play games with me, Gregory Alan Beaumont."

Uh-oh. Full name. Game's over.

"You mean Kyle."

"Yes, I mean Kyle. I like him."

"Yeah." I was as noncommittal as I could be.

"Seems like a good friend. He's responsible. Mature for his age, I'd say. And he looks up to you."

Divert and delay.

"I help him at the gym."

She squinted, giving me that discerning yet displeased expression that said she damn well knew there was more to the story. She always knew. When I didn't say anything else, she prodded. She always prodded.

"What kind of help?"

I shifted uncomfortably, took a swig of beer, then said, "Offer occasional guidance and kudos, correct form or posture when necessary, answer questions, change up his routine from time to time, spot for him when he lifts, stuff like that."

"So he's a gym rat like Nate?"

"Probably for the same reason. Aesthetics, I think."

"Meaning?"

"His casual mentions of hoping to one day have a build like mine make me think his major goal is to improve the way his body looks."

Who can blame him? What guy doesn't want to look better?

She frowned at my clinical tone and verbiage. "How long have you been working out with him?"

"Maybe a month."

"And?" The frustration in her voice was clear as a bell.

"He's done well."

After an exasperated sigh, she sipped her wine. Then: "You can dance around all you want, Greg, but we're having this conversation."

Knowing her tone brooked no more playing, I took a swig of beer before telling her, "He listens, he asks questions instead of making assumptions, he doesn't balk at the regimen Nate and I put together for him, he considers suggestions." I was warming up to the topic suddenly, possibly because what made me so resistant to and unsettled by Kyle had been pushed into that mental blind spot temporarily while I focused on the good. "And we enjoy a comfortable camaraderie that helps time fly by and workouts seem less painful."

Then it was back. That discomfiting sensation of having the past yanked from the darkness and pushed in my face. All because of Kyle.

Is it really him? Or is it me?

Mom watched me closely, understanding on her face, but she remained silent, knowing my mind was working, my thoughts falling into place.

"What is painful is my growing irritation with him. Well, not with him so much as with what he reminds me of, what he makes me think of, who he makes me think of."

"Because he looks like a younger version of you." When my eyes snapped to hers, she added, "Oh, you're plenty different. You were much bigger by his age, much better looking too. But he looks like a younger you, a few years before—"

I interrupted her, not wanting her to go there. "More often than not I have to bite my tongue to keep from lashing out for no reason. I struggle to remain friendly when I want to push him away. And I resent him for making me remember, making me deal."

"I could see it in your face."

"What do you mean?"

"Sometimes you look at him with the same kind of affection you have for Nate. Sometimes you look at him with daggers in your eyes. And sometimes you look at him like he terrifies you."

I found myself increasingly disconcerted by how I felt, whether breathlessly enraged, achingly nervous, or simply confused. Honestly, it was more denial than confusion, denial of what lay in the past, denial of the need to face what had happened, denial, denial, denial.

More and more my thoughts centered on The Fiend and my freshman year of high school, which was exactly what I didn't want to think about.

"He looks up to you. Respects you. Like a roll model or something."

I flashed an incredulous look in her direction. "You can't know that. You only just met him."

Mom snickered in a way that said I was daft. "Mother's can tell things, honey. It's in our genes. That and we pay attention, like watching his eyes defer to you when I made him uncomfortable or unsure."

Inhaling a deep breath and letting it out slowly, I considered that. I already knew why he was spending so much time around me—me specifically and Nate secondarily—though I kept trying to ignore it because it amplified my fear and irritation. He was me fifteen years before, which meant I was suddenly someone else.

Nevertheless, I explained, "I think he's sexually confused."

My mother laughed as though I'd just told her she was a woman and I was a man. "Well of course he is, Greg!" She giggled some more before adding, "He's a teenager. Sexual confusion comes with the territory."

"I mean—"

"I know what you mean, honey," she said as she patted my arm, making me feel like a child, "and you may or may not be right. If you are, he needs someone like you to help him see there's nothing wrong with it or with him. Maybe he even needs guidance, someone to answer questions, whatever."

"That's kind of what his mom implied."

"See," she grinned, "I told you! Women—especially mothers—are born with attentiveness and intuition."

"What are men born with?"

"The inability to ask for directions," she replied with total seriousness.

Despite the scowl on my face, I couldn't keep from chuckling.

She took a sip of wine before stating, "Does he bother you because you think he's attractive?"

Fuck! She's in my head! Get out!

I could feel tears pooling in my eyes. But I refused to weep. I wanted to refuse to have this conversation, but I knew she wouldn't let me get out of it.

Dropping my head, I mumbled, "Yeah." Then I added defensively, "But I'm not attracted to him!"

"There's nothing wrong with thinking he's attractive, Greg. If we locked up every adult who ever found a minor attractive, we'd all be in jail."

Shaking my head in dismissal, I said, "I doubt that. Not everyone's a creep."

"Creep?" she laughed. "Is that what you think you are? You think you're a creep because you look at an underage boy and think he's good looking? Because if that's the case, I'm a huge creep for looking at those hot boys on Teen Wolf and thinking I'd like a piece of every single one of them. I'm a creep for enjoying the fleshy bits of those boy bands. I'm a creep for watching boys play at the beach and thinking they're a lot hotter than the boys I grew up with."

"But that's different!" I was whining. I hated myself for it.

You're dancing around it. She's gonna see right through that.

And she did.

"Bullshit, Greg!" She rarely swore. That wasn't a good sign. "Any adult would be lying if they said they'd never seen a teenager they thought was hot, even if they later felt horrified when they found out they'd been lusting after a minor. It happens all the time."

"No it doesn't, Mom! Not like this!"

"What makes you so different?"

Don't say it. She's leading you and you're walking right into it. Just drop it.

But I couldn't. My emotions were in such an uproar, my anger flaring for being in this position, and I'd lost control of my intellect to the overwhelming sense of betrayal and hurt and self-loathing that had gone nuclear inside me.

"Because of him!" I shouted. "Because of what happened! I know what it's like to have an adult find me attractive! I know the kind of damage that can do!"

"His name's Richard—"

"Don't!"

"You still won't say it, will you? You're still calling him 'The Fiend,' aren't you? You still haven't faced what happened, have you?"

"Because I don't want to be him! And Kyle drags all that out of the darkness and rubs it in my face! I hate him for it! I hate him because I'm a danger to him just like—"

My voice broke in a sob, a quick and loud inhale, another sob. I was breaking beneath the weight of it, the heaviness of history with its terror and anguish. I was breaking and Mom knew it.

But she wasn't done yet.

"Have you sneaked around so you can watch him sleep?"

"I've never seen him sleep."

"Have you tried to seduce him?"

"Of course not!"

My body was shaking.

"Have you touched him inappropriately?"

"No!"

"Have you seen him naked?"

I jerked as if she'd slapped me.

"Mom! No!"

"Have you tried to convince him he's gay?"

Blood roared through my ears, whether from anger or upset I couldn't tell.

"What's gotten into you? You know I'd never do something like that!"

"Have you paraded around naked in front of him, maybe at the gym?"

My left hand flinched.

"There are separate shower stalls! At most we've seen each other in a towel!"

"Have you invited him to spend the night?"

"Ugh. I would never—"

"Have you put on porn just so he'll see it playing?"

My left hand lurched toward me before halting.

"Not a chance! I can't—"

"Have you made sure he's seen you masturbating?"

My hand did more than flinch that time; it practically leaped.

With lightning speed she grabbed my arm before it moved more than a few inches. My eyes snapped down to her iron grasp around my wrist, and suddenly I knew that she knew where that hand intended to go. And she knew why.

My whole body shook. Even as I tried to stop the tears, they washed my cheeks in a torrent.

"Have you plotted and planned to have your way with him?"

I cried out in agony.

"Have you manipulated his family so you could be closer to him?"

I wailed.

"Or do you just want to be his friend, someone he can look up to and learn from, but you can't get beyond your own trauma, your own fears?"

The floodgates opened and I wept, sorrow and frustration and agony gushing from me in endless tears and sobs, doubt clogging my throat, misery wracking my body with tremors.

"You're not him, baby boy," she murmured into my ear once she pulled me to her and wrapped her arms around me.

Despite being released, my hand didn't find its way to the phoenix tattoo, but instead it joined its sibling in wrapping around my mother and holding her tight against me.

We rocked, my tears staining her blouse, my sobs quaking both of us, and the whole while she reassured me, telling me, "You did nothing wrong, Greg. You've done nothing wrong. You're not him, you hear me? You could never be him. You're a good man with a good heart. You'd never hurt that boy, I know it and you know it."