Chapter 4

On the short drive home, and afterwards, in the house, my mom was all over me about why I wasn’t married, then launched into a litany about how she’d like grandkids before they threw dirt in her face. Next, it was extolling the virtues of Breanne: college graduate, a teacher, a widow, very attractive, et al. I tried to put in a ‘yes mom’ at intervals, to let her know I didn’t have earplugs in. Finally, she ran down, and I snuck off to bed. Now, I just had to make it through the three remaining days until I could see Breanne again. I felt like I was back in my teens. I had no idea of what we would talk about. We hadn’t set a time, and I didn’t have her phone number, I didn’t think it warranted me invading her sanctum on Wednesday or Thursday, just to verify an arrival time, so I just took a chance and arrived at 6pm.

Going up the walk, she opened the door almost immediately after I rang the bell. Ushering me in, she looked disheveled; much like the proverbial harried housewife. But to me, she still looked delicious. Pulling me into her small kitchen, she waved me to a chair at her little snack bar. Seeing steam from an assortment of pots on the stovetop, she was moving back and forth between the counter and the stove. The counter had an array of veggies in different stages of dismemberment.

“Could I give you a hand, Frosty?” I offered.

Giving me a frustrated look, she blew breath out of the corner of her mouth, trying and move an errant curl which had dropped down dangerously close to an eye. She finally stopped and looked my way, pleadingly.

“Oh, Drum, please! I’m about ready to just say: let’s go to the Malt Shoppe. It’s been over a year since I cooked for anyone else, and Larry and I only had a few months here before he shipped out. We’d stayed with my parents for the first six months of our marriage, and my mom did most of the cooking. I’m so confused, I don’t even remember what’s in which pan.” she exclaimed.

Walking to the stove, I investigated the contents of the steaming pots. Finding the potatoes done enough, I turned that burner off. The pork chops needed turning, which I accomplished. The third pot was empty, except for boiling water. I glanced at the counter and assumed she was trying to cut up carrots and cauliflower to go into the water. Not the order I would have chosen, but I said nothing. She watched me go to the counter and finish cutting up the veggies, then take them to the boiling water and drop them in, oblivious to their tortured screams as their skins hit the boiling water. I placed the nearby lid on the veggies and said:

“What next, Breanne? Did you want to drain the potatoes yet? I think the chops will be done in about five more minutes. I figure about fifteen minutes for the veggies.” I informed.

Coming up to me, she let her arms hang at her sides but put her head into my chest as though she were exhausted and using me as a support.

“Oh, Tom, I’m such a failure as a housewife. I think I’m a pretty good teacher, but I would hate to be at a high school teaching Home Economics!” she sobbed.

Placing my hands on her shoulders I drew her to me and put my arms around her in a close hug, keeping my pelvis pulled back.

“Frosty, you are just out of practice, or haven’t had the chance to gain all the experience you mothers’ had. I’ll bet your dad could tell tales about their first year or so of marriage.” I said soothingly.

Pulling back from me, she looked into my eyes, and I was immediately lost.

“You really think so? I always believed mom came into her marriage to dad as a gourmet cook. I need to ask her someday.” she wondered.

“If she’s not too proud, I’m sure she could tell some tales, too!” I assured her.

Casting a glance at the stove and then toward the dining table, I looked at her.

“Look, honey, why don’t you get dishes out, and I’ll help you set the table, and I’ll keep an eye on the stove, too, so you can relax a little.” I suggested.

Breanne jerked her head up and looked at me intensely.

“What’s wrong, Frosty?” I chirped.

“You never called me ‘honey’ before!” she gasped.

“I’m sorry if I offended you. I won’t say it again.” I vowed.

“No. I’m not offended. It just caught me by surprise. All our times together, you only called me: Breanne, Frosty, brainless, snotty, bratty, or butthole. I kind of like ‘honey’!” she smiled.

“Hmm, okay, what other names would you like me to call you?” I exposed my throat and breast to an assassin’s blade.

“Oh, I wouldn’t mind smart, intelligent, well-read, beautiful, sexy, hot...” she wheedled.

Taking a deep breath, and wondering if life would end for me, as I knew it:

“Breanne, before I run, screaming, out of here, let me say: you are all of those, and more. Before you slam the door in my face, I must tell you what I never had the courage to tell you over nine years ago and every day since: you have always been my fantasy girl; the one I could only dream about making love to. You would always be my best friends’ little sister, and that made you untouchable. I was afraid if I ever said anything to Tim about how I felt, he would kill me. I’m sorry to shock you like this, Frosty. I’m leaving, and I won’t bother you again.”

Heading for the exit from the kitchen, towards the front door, she sprang like a spider monkey and blocked my exit. I tried to move her aside, but she exhibited amazing strength. I finally turned and headed to her back door. Again, she raced me to that exit point and blocked my way. I was nearly sobbing with mortification, so I just put my head down and wept. She gently put her hand on my arm and guided me to a dining chair, bidding me to sit. Wallowing in self-loathing, I just kept my head down and my eyes shut, somehow expecting to hear the cocking of a pistol or rifle. I sat there for what felt like an eternity but was probably only five minutes. Finally, she cleared her throat and began:

“Drum, I’m really surprised, and pissed, you never saw it! Tim knew, my parents knew. Hell, even Larry knew. Drum, or Tom: whichever gets your attention; I have loved you since the first month you became friends with my brother. I was so happy to be around you, though I know I was a nuisance, at times. That summer I dreamed about getting big, growing boobs, and showing them off to you. When I did grow them, I was scared to make it obvious I was trying to seduce you, though I didn’t know that was what it was called. When I started high school, and you and Tim were seniors, I almost went crazy, every time you took notice of me at school. When you came to my house, my mom made me keep away from you and Tim. She knew I’d try to get you to do things sexual, if you knew how I felt. That time I told you about the other night: about feeling your boner while we were dancing? I wanted to drag you out of the dance and have you fuck me on the ball field. My panties were a mess when I got home.

When you went away to college, and never came back, my heart broke into a thousand pieces. I didn’t date much during college, but when I did, I only let a couple guys screw me. They were the ones who reminded me of you. When I met Larry, he didn’t resemble you, but his personality was like yours. Before we got married, I confessed that I loved someone who I could never be with. I think he suspected it was an older man: maybe even my brother, or father, for fucks’ sake! He wanted me enough to still marry me and live with a ghost. He was not a great lover, but he was considerate. I didn’t want anyone’s children but yours, so I kept on birth control all the time Larry and I were together. After Larry was killed, I resigned myself to leading a motherless widow’s life, until you showed up on my porch last Tuesday. Since then, I’ve been a basket case, reliving all my fantasies of you and praying I might be able to fulfil just a few of them. I’m sorry to lay this on you, Tom. For the record, though: I love you. I always have, even when I was too young to know what love was.” she fell silent, letting the sound of the sizzling pork chops be the dominant sound. She suddenly said: