Chapter 1

What’s a mother to do when she finds out her son is a voyeur? Yes, he is young and still in high school. But ‘boys will be boys’ is not an excuse for spying on the neighbors, even if they are practically throwing it in his face. At least that’s what I thought ... at first.

It all started when a young couple moved into the third-floor apartment of the building next to ours. The neighborhood is old and still very ethnic Italian and Irish Catholic. Our apartment is on the third floor of a three-decker (a three-story wood-frame apartment building). The next three-decker can’t be more than 20 feet across the alley from our apartment building.

Having grown up in this neighborhood, I’m tapped into the rumor mill. The word was the young couple that moved into the building next to us were married about a month ago and had just come back from their honeymoon. Brenda is from the neighborhood, and her husband, Abram Goldberg, is from across town and definitely not Catholic, Irish or Italian, which was considered scandalous and an affront to the matriarchs of the neighborhood.

I’m a 39-year-old divorced Irish Catholic and proud mother of an 18-year-old, half Italian and half Irish son we named Ronald. I married the love of my life Andrew Cavallo when I was 19, but to my regret, it did not work out. I had my son Ron at age 20 and divorced at age 24. I started using my maiden name, Helen Murphy, after the divorce. My mother warned me I was too young to get married. Maybe she was right. But if I had listened to her, I would not have Ron.

Ron will be graduating from high school in a few weeks. I thought it unusual that at 10:00 at night, he was still in his room working on his homework. I’ve never seen him working on his homework past 8:00 pm. He hasn’t even come out of his room for a snack, and this was the third night in a row.

I put half a meatloaf sandwich together. I was about to take the sandwich and a glass of milk to him in his room. Usually, when I go to his room, I knock on the door and wait for permission to enter. Tonight I just tapped the door once and opened his door without waiting for permission to enter. I walked into his room and inquired, “How’s the homework going, Ron?” I stopped and stood there for a few seconds with my mouth open. Then I made an inane comment, “I brought you a sandwich.” Ron stood in the dark looking out the window with his hand in his pajama bottoms, touching himself.

Ron quickly removed his hand from his pajama bottoms while giving me that innocent ‘I am not doing anything wrong look.’ “Oh hi, Mom, I was just taking a break and stretching my legs.”

I certainly was not going to make a big deal out of it. Boys touch, scratch, and adjust themselves all the time. Watch any testosterone-dominated sporting event, and you will see what I mean. My ex-husband was a great one for scratching his nuts when he hung around the apartment in his underwear. I walked over to the desk in the corner of his room. I put the sandwich and milk on his desk next to his computer. I noticed his desk lamp was off but thought nothing of it. I turned and walked over to my son and gave him a quick peck on the cheek. “Don’t stay up too late doing homework. Tomorrow is Saturday, so get some sleep.”

I caught some movement in my peripheral vision. I looked out the window, and there was the newly minted Mrs. Brenda Goldberg in her bedroom on her hand and knees and very naked. The lights were on, and an equally naked Mr. Abram Goldberg was putting it to her from behind. I quickly closed Ron’s curtains. Brenda apparently failed to put up curtains in their bedroom. I turned to my sheepish-looking son with a very noticeable tent in the front of his pajamas.

I couldn’t scold him. What boy his age wouldn’t watch a free sex show? Ron’s bedroom window overlooked the alley and right in the Goldberg’s bedroom window. I decided to work on his moral behavior. I took his hands and looked up into my son’s face with those brown eyes and his coal-black hair that is always a little shaggy. He could use a haircut, but he liked it that way. He is a handsome five-foot-ten boy that is just starting to fill out. He looks a lot like his father but without the Italian temper that clashed so often with my Irish stubbornness.

“Ron, I know you know that spying on people in their most private and intimate moments is wrong. I know it’s tempting and most likely very exciting for you. But you need to be more considerate of other people’s feelings.”

Ron hung his head and shuffled his feet, “I’m sorry, Mom. But...”

I held up my hand to stop him from speaking. “I’m not mad at you because I understand the temptation. But just try to think of how embarrassing it would be for them if they knew you were spying on them. Or how embarrassed you would be if you found out they were spying on you. Keep your curtains closed until Mrs. Goldberg can get her curtains hung up. They have only been married a few weeks and just came back from their honeymoon. So a lack of time or money may be keeping them from putting curtains up. Now give me a hug and go to bed.”