by Sarah Black
(10/12/05)

John pushed open the kitchen door and dropped his backpack next to the table. Mom turned and gave him a little wave. She had a knife in her hand, and bits of the red bell peppers she was chopping for supper flew across the kitchen floor. He opened the refrigerator and stared inside. Nothing decent to eat. John grabbed the bottle of chocolate milk and closed the door.

Mom turned the volume down on her little stereo. "How's my college boy? Everything okay at school?"

He shrugged. "Do we have to listen to this again?"

"What, Creedence Clearwater Revival? I can't remember the last time I listened to this." She smiled at him. "Have I ever told you why I named you John?"

John tipped the bottle of milk up to his mouth and drank. "Yeah, Mom, only about a million times. You know, some women name their sons after a grandfather or something, not some hippie guitar player."

"Very well," Mom said, turning back to the bell peppers. "Would you like me to call you Marvin or Earl?"

"It's too late, Mom. The damage is done."

She cut her eyes at him. "Your room is still in the same place. Why don't you stay here tonight?" He drained the bottle of chocolate milk. "Proud Mary" started playing, and Mom cranked the volume up a little more. Oh, God. She was shaking her butt and wiggling all over the kitchen, pretending she was Tina Turner.

John's ex-girlfriend, Amber, had never danced. That should have been his first clue. She never listened to music and danced around the kitchen. The second clue should have been when she shaved those gorgeous flame-colored pubic curls he loved so much into a narrow strip no bigger than a piece of Juicy Fruit gum. Third clue? When her luscious, buttermilk pale belly suddenly sported a tattoo that said Nasty Gurl in Gothic script. He had had three clues, so how could he have been so fucking clueless when he walked in and found one of his fraternity brothers buried up to his balls in her ass?

John felt like snarling and ripping the throat out of some pathetic bunny or something. He looked over at Mom. She was singing along to 'Proud Mary' at the top of her voice. He reached over and turned the volume down. "Mom, please. Give me a break. You don't look like Tina Turner. Tina doesn't wear size sixteen jeans and glasses and a T-shirt that says One Tough Mother."

Mom pushed her glasses up her nose. "You sure about that, son? Well, it doesn't really matter. Dancing to "Proud Mary" isn't supposed to make me look like Tina, it's supposed to make me feel like Tina. And it does. You want to dance with me?"

He shook his head.

"To tell you the truth," she continued, "I've always been partial to John Fogerty's version. I swear, his voice gives me hot flashes, has since I was nineteen. The first time I ever danced with your dad, 'Susie Q' was playing on the jukebox in this bar across the street from the University. I think he and I wore out every CCR record they had in that place over the next few years."

"Your hot flash might not be John Fogerty, Mom. It could be menopause."

Dad spoke up from the kitchen door. "Hey, Susie Q." How long had he been standing there?

Mom looked up and waved at him with the knife. "Hi, handsome. Guess what? The fortunate son has left his exciting college life to visit his menopausal parents."

"Good to see you, Son." Dad dumped his briefcase and raincoat on the table. "Bad Moon Rising" started playing, and Mom turned the volume back up. Oh, God. Mom and Dad were dirty dancing, right in the kitchen, right in front of him. Dad reached over and grabbed her size sixteen butt, and she laughed and kissed him.

John picked up his backpack. Mom looked at him over Dad's shoulder, then she stood up on her tiptoes and whispered something. Dad gave her another quick pat on the butt and followed John out of the kitchen.

"Son, is everything okay? You and Amber getting along?"

John looked up into his father's eyes and wanted to blurt it all out, how humiliated he had felt when the two of them just kept right on fucking in front of him like he was invisible. He wanted to tell his dad how he almost threw up when Amber crooned, "Oh, you got the biggest dick, baby, you fuck me so hard," exactly the way she had said it to him. He wanted his dad to tell him what to do when his cock gave a lurch, filled with heat and need when he remembered what it was like to sink into her. He was so fucking weak. He was afraid he would take her back, and he wanted his dad to tell him what to do, tell him how to stop wanting her.

Dad's eyes were Superman eyes: strong, good, full of warm understanding and tenderness. Looking into those eyes, you believed he could do anything. When John looked into the mirror, he didn't see Superman eyes. He only saw weakness, like he had failed some test of character and was marked for life.

Dad hesitated. "Son, listen. Can I tell you something? It's a good thing to make a woman feel happy, to say something nice, make her feel proud. You pass up the chance to do it today, that chance may not come around again. Whatever's going on? It's not Mom's fault."

Guilt settled into his stomach, settled in next to the humiliation and the thumping little ache of unfulfilled sexual desire. "Me and Amber, we split up."

"I'm sorry, John. You okay?"

He nodded. "Listen, I'm gonna go upstairs and lay down for awhile."

"It's good to see you home, Son. I'll help Mom in the kitchen. We'll call you when supper's ready."

"Susie Q" started playing, and Mom stuck her head out the door. Dad joined her, and the kitchen door swung shut behind them. As he made his way up the stairs, John heard the unmistakable sound of Dad's briefcase hitting the kitchen floor.

Oh, God. There they go again, and right on the kitchen table. We have to eat on that table, for crying out loud. When John got upstairs, he lay down on his bed and put a pillow over his face.

He remembered the first time he looked down and saw Amber's bright red curls buried between his legs. His heart had given a lurch and suddenly he had it all planned out, the wedding, the birth of their first kid, the rocking chairs on the front porch facing west. It had taken him a while to realize Amber had not fallen in love with him in that same instant. But he had never believed that it had only been about sex between them. He was sure that she had some feelings for him, and maybe in time...

Of course, they never did anything but have sex and sometimes eat pizza, so maybe it had just been about sex and he was trying too hard to make it something else, something more. They never danced. They didn't sing along together to the same songs. They had never cooked supper together.

John rolled his eyes at what was going on in the kitchen right now. Oh, right, Dad. Go help Mom chop the veggies while John Fogerty belts out a few of those fuck-me tunes the oldsters call rock-and-roll. He couldn't imagine Amber chopping bell peppers with him when she was forty-five, then screwing him on the kitchen table while "Susie Q" played on the stereo.

When he thought about never touching Amber again, never tasting her mouth or feeling that sweet curve from her waist down over her ass, it felt like there was a giant fist squeezing his insides. But that wasn't the worst part. He had plans for them, and now his plans had been fucked over as surely as he had been. That was the worst. He wouldn't ever see the velvet curve of her belly pregnant, the Nasty Gurl tattoo obliterated by stretch marks. He wouldn't ever see Amber in the delivery room, holding his child, arguing with him about naming the kid after some hairy guitarist.

John could imagine a daughter. He had thought his daughter might have red curls and freckles and his brown eyes. Mom would go crazy over a grandbaby. There was a thump from downstairs and he could hear Mom laughing like a hyena. Oh, God.

John wanted a woman who would still love him after twenty some years the way Mom loved Dad. Whoever she was, though, he would never walk in on her fucking a friend of his, he was sure about that. He thought she might dance to "Proud Mary" while she was cooking dinner. Maybe if they had a girl, they could name her Tina.

The next evening John pushed open the kitchen door and dropped his backpack next to the table. Mom was putting a pan of brownies in the oven. She looked tired. She still had her work clothes on and was padding around in the kitchen in her stocking feet. He opened the refrigerator and stared inside. Three bottles of chocolate milk were lined up like little soldiers, waiting for him. He took one and swung the door shut.

"Thanks for the milk, Mom."

"You're welcome, John. How was everything today?"

He shrugged. "The same. What's this music?"

"'Southern Cross,' by Crosby, Stills, and Nash. I listened to them all the time when I was pregnant with you. This song's one of my favorites."

He drained the bottle and set it on the kitchen table. It had been years since he had danced with her in the kitchen, but she asked him, like she always did. "Want to dance with me?"

"Sure," he said. He stood up and Mom wrapped her arms tightly around him. She seemed to have shrunk since the last time they danced together. He wondered what he should say. She hummed along to the music, and he patted her gently on the back. "Looking good, Mom."

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