Chapter 6

No, no, no. I wanted to find out if he’d done my grandmother. I didn’t give a shit about Frank. I could remember my grandmother when she was old but I’d seen old pictures when she was younger, and quite a desirable woman. But, I started to read Frank’s letter, anyway.

Hi everyone. My name is Frank. I won’t say my mother’s name, I’ll just call her Mom. My story isn’t that long and maybe not that exciting, but it is what happened. My Mom and Dad always seemed to get on well and were about the same age. I was close to Mom because I was sickly as a small child. There was something wrong with my heart so I couldn’t be active in sports. So I’d always been closer to Mom than Dad and she always doted on me. We spent a lot of time together.

But that all changed when I discovered girls. Or, should I say, one particular girl. I became interested in girls late, not until final year in school. I went on a few awkward dates and Mother tried to be helpful to make sure I did OK. So she would ask me about the girls and give me advice on how to deal with them. She just hated for me to be disappointed.

Then I met this girl in first year college. Mom knew something was different because I didn’t want to discuss her. This really piqued her curiosity and she was relentless in trying to find out more about Donna. Now, I really did like this girl but I think the reason I wasn’t so eager to discuss her with Mom was because she’d already taught me a lot and I didn’t need to ask her much anymore. Things were going well; I didn’t need help. And this seemed to be exactly what seemed to bother Mom. She wanted to be involved, to be in the know, for us to be confidants again.

Mom queried me when I got home. She’d corner me in the kitchen when Dad was watching TV, in the living room if he was working in the garage, or even come to my room to grill me. Somewhere along the line, I changed from avoiding Mom to feeding her a line, about how Donna was different from the other girls, more mature, sexier. I even mentioned that her figure was more womanly than the girls I’d gone out with before, how she was more confident and more casual about her dress. “Not sloppy,” I assured her, just that she didn’t get flustered if part of her blouse opens a bit, or her skirt rides up when we’re laying around studying. And there was that one time when she was just wearing a long nightdress, because she’d forgotten I was coming over and had gotten ready for bed early.

“Well,” she said, “you want to be careful, Frank. You don’t want to have to get married and not finish college.”

“Oh, Mother,” I replied, “we’re not going to go that far.” And then I added, impishly, “It’s just that she looks so good, Mom. It’s a great feeling to be around a woman who’s comfortable with you, who doesn’t mind letting you enjoy seeing her.”

“Oh, I see,” Mom’s voice trailed off and she looked away, up toward the ceiling. “I see,” she said again, and wandered off.

Now, I had led Mom on a bit. Donna had been in her nightdress but she’d covered herself up with a housecoat before we started studying, and the glimpses of her legs and bosom were not intentionally provided. I just thought I’d put Mom off her questioning by providing answers that might embarrass her. But it didn’t. In fact, it seemed to intrigue her even more, and something else: It made her jealous that another woman was garnering her son’s attention.

I twigged to this the next day when Mom asked me again about how ‘comfortable’ Donna was with me, and how she showed it. This is where something evil in me sprang forth, something that made me lead Mom further down the garden path rather than admitting that I’d stretched the truth a bit.

“Well,” I answered, “she shows her legs at lot. I mean, she doesn’t dress in really short, slutty skirts or anything like that. But she wears night clothes when we’re at her place, you know, slips and stuff that she only wears around the house. But she’s not fussed about me seeing her like that. It’s nice.”

“Nice,” Mom repeated. “And is that it, she let’s you look at her legs?”

“Well, if she’s wearing button up pajamas,” I pushed a little further, “she doesn’t seem to mind if a button or two comes loose. It’s nice to look at a woman, especially when she lets you. It doesn’t do any harm. It’s just looking.”

“I see,” Mom responded, “I see.”

After dinner, I was sitting in the living room reading over my notes for an upcoming exam while Dad was watching a baseball game. Mom had gone upstairs after finishing the dinner dishes instead of joining us in the living room as she usually did. When she came downstairs, she had already changed for bed. She was covered in a floor length robe and wore her fluffy pink slippers. She sat down in the chair next to the couch to read a magazine.

The movement of her foot, bouncing in time to some music heard only by her, distracted me from my studying. The robe had fallen from her dancing leg, baring it to her knees but was held from parting further by the magazine Mom held in her lap. Her foot was tapping to the silent melody as well, and twisting around in a small circle.

Now, I had seen my Mom’s legs before, up to her knees in any of the dresses she normally wore, and all the way up in the summer when we went swimming. But I began to pay more attention to her legs and her swirling foot than I did to my notes. I sensed that there was something strange in the air, given our conversation earlier that day and the one before. Something was very different. I could feel it, and there was something odd about the pleased smile on her face.

Suddenly, I noticed her looking at me, watching my eyes following her legs. Flustered, I went red in the face but I couldn’t help looking back down at her legs, which never stopped moving.

“Studying for a big exam?”

“Uh, yeah,” I managed to squawk.

“Would you like some help? I could ask you questions.” She tossed her magazine aside and leaned forward, reaching out for my notebook, which I numbly handed to her. She asked me a question, to which I didn’t respond.

“Come on, Frank,” she urged me, stretching her leg out, scrunching her foot until her slipper fell off, poking me in the knee with her bare, pink-nailed toe.

I stumbled out an answer which I’m sure was wrong, but she went on to ask me more questions without saying anything. After each question, she poked the side of my knee with her toe, curling her foot as she drew it back a bit. The strange smile never left her face.

After a few more questions, my Dad burst in, “Come on you guys, take it upstairs. I can’t hear the game.”

Mom stood, “Come on then Frank,” and walked off with my notes. I followed her upstairs to my room, watching her hips sway from side to side all the way up the stairs. In my room, she motioned for me to sit on my bed. She closed the door and latched it. “We don’t want to be disturbed while we’re studying, now do we?” she said as she walked over to the chair by my desk.

She dragged the chair closer to the bed and then sat in it, facing me, crossing her legs as she laid my notes on her knees. “Now, where were we?”

I watched her legs as she wiggled her foot while looking over my notes, until her slipper fell off. She continued twisting her foot around, drawing my attention to her feet. “Oh, yes, here we are,” she said, lifting the notebook and letting her robe part a little above her knee, exposing the side of her thigh just a little. She began to ask me questions.