by Dennis James
(7/27/05)
I think all those Estrogen supplements really fucked me up.
I thought they were Dexedrine or Dextrin or some kind of diet pill -- I stole five from Mom's purse and washed them down with a swig from the bottle of Jim Beam she hides behind the toilet in her bedroom.
Now I'm sweating uncontrollably, and whenever I look up from my needlepoint, I think the white walls in our sparsely furnished pea-green split level are closing in on me. I'm dizzy. My hands are sore. My nine-dollar manicure is ruined. I've spent the past two hours delicately crafting seventy-five of these decorative door hangers -- the ones that proudly proclaim "Bless This House" in perfectly symmetrical puke-green capital letters. I promised Father Frank after catechism class last week that I'd donate them to underprivileged families at St. Sebastian's annual town-wide charity drive. He thinks that atheists, single mothers, gay couples, and those who choose not to be so generous when passing the collection plate on Sundays will benefit from the message of good faith spelled out so adorably by my sharply focused needlecraft skills.
My mother makes tea while we wait for her latest boyfriend to bring us take-out from Sodom's diner on Pepper Street. She makes it her special way -- the way she used to make it for my father when the two of them lived in that pink and yellow trailer behind Stop and Shop in Newtown, the first place they lived as husband and wife; one month after learning that she was pregnant with me, one month after falling in love and getting hitched in Rancon, Missouri, during the city's 1982 country music festival.
She removes the puke-green Farberware mugs from the cabinet above the sink, fills them halfway with non-dairy creamer, spoons three giant tablespoons of sugar into each one, and pours the tea while fumbling with the plastic lock on the liquor cabinet. Mom always gives her tea a "little kick" as she so delicately calls it -- with a heavy handed pour from the perennially half-empty bottle of Captain Morgan's Special Reserve Spiced Rum. "For my nerves," she always says when I can't take my eyes off her as she takes loud, lengthy slurps from the cup.
Mom chain smokes Virginia Slims Ultra Slim 120s in the kitchen, but always keeps the windows closed for fear that her sensitive allergies would be irritated by even the smallest amount of fresh suburban air. The smoke never escapes this room, I swear -- it swirls and swirls towards the ceiling, making the air so heavy.
The doorbell rings -- it chimes the chorus to Dolly Parton's "I Will Always Love You."
"Ooh!" my Mother exclaims, jumping for the door. "There's Napoleon!"
Napoleon is Mom's latest boyfriend. He's a line cook at Sodom's, and comes to our house every Saturday night at 11:30 after finishing his shift.
Napoleon wraps his sinewy brown arms around my Mother and brings her back into the kitchen -- he has strong arms like Daddy's -- I always notice the way he wraps them around her as if he plans to never let go.
Napoleon lays out our food in shiny silver to-go tins on the kitchen table. It's always the same -- cheeseburgers and fries for everyone. Mom is sitting on his lap as he playfully kisses her neck, and I notice him glance over at me as I wipe some of the excess cheese from my Kaiser roll, gather it on my index finger, and slide it between my lips. "It's hot," I whisper.
"Something on your mind, Penny?" he asks.
I realize I've been staring at him as he gropes my Mother's left breast with one hand and shoves the remainder of his burger into his mouth with the other. Maybe it's the estrogen pumping furiously through my veins, but I imagine what it would feel like for him to motion to me to sit on his lap as he slides his sweaty hands underneath my canary yellow cable knit sweater, grappling at me with predictably ungraceful aplomb.
I shut my eyes and recoil at the predictably pathetic "oh, yeah baby" that would no doubt escape from his lips as he fumbles to unzip his Wranglers and begins to stroke his crooked little cock.
"Penny, are you alright?" he repeats.
Yes, Napoleon. I'll be alright as soon as you knock our plates to the floor and take me -- right here on the gray table, and ride me like the omnipotent powers of the universe have been channeled into your all-powerful cock.
"She's fine." My mother raises an eyebrow in my direction, eager to turn Napoleon's attention back to herself.
"I'm fine."
But I'm not -- I watch the two of them; I keep crossing and uncrossing my legs as I imagine him tracing a line down my chest with his left hand, pushing my panties to my ankles, parting my labia with his thumb and his forefinger, burying his head between my breasts and slobbering all over me...
"You know, you can tell me if something's troubling you," Napoleon says.
The only thing troubling me is the thought of releasing a loud, impulsive, porn-star-style shriek when you strap me down with your black leather belt and paw at my young pink flesh like a starving raccoon...
"You can tell us," my Mother interrupts, leaning forward. "Is it that time of the month?" She begins fishing through her purse. "I got a tampon here somewhere--"
"No--" I cry out, almost too quickly. "It's just -- well, it's just...a little warm in here."
"You look a little flushed, dear," Mother remarks with mock concern. "Maybe you should take off that sweater."
As I let my cardigan slip off my shoulders, I close my eyes and see Napoleon unbutton his stained white two-ply poplin work shirt and pull it off. I hesitate for a moment, playing the scene out in my head. Off comes my bra, and before I know it, Napoleon's black-and-white checkered kitchen pants are laying in a crumpled heap on the coppery brown linoleum covering the kitchen floor. There he sits in all his puny glory -- propped up against the edge of the chair, pinching his dinner-plate nipples, proudly showing off his massive uncircumcised penis as it stands at attention, leaning towards me with eyes closed and his big, slimy tongue hanging out of his mouth. "C'mere," he spits through clenched yellow teeth.
Oh, God -- what's wrong with me?
"Here," Mom says to me, obviously annoyed, tossing her own half-finished needlepoint project -- another decorative sign in obnoxious crimson cross-stitched letters and a mini stitch hook kit. "Keep yourself busy while Napoleon and I have our tea and cheeseburgers upstairs."
"What about dinner?" I call after the two of them as they leap up and chase each other up the stairs.
After they've been in her bedroom with the door locked and all I can hear are these strange noises like elephants at the circus, I get on my hands and knees like there's a fire and pretend that the hallway is filled with black smoke. I crawl to the bedroom door, lean my hand against it and breathe in the smell of my mother's stale cigarettes and Napoleon's sweat -- the smell always stirs my desire for another greasy diner delight -- a cheeseburger on toasted rye bread, with Swiss cheese and freshly sautéed onions that spill out onto my hands when I lean forward to take the first bite; a plate of French fries so hot to the touch that I'm forced to let them cool on my plate. I close my eyes and shut them so tightly that the all the outside noises disappear. But the smells are still there -- temptation, desire that flickers inside my head. I burn the image of the needlepoint sign into my brain. It swells and grows bigger and more brilliant with each moment. I can see myself wiping the juices from the hamburger from my chin; feel the crunch of the rye toast between my teeth -- an exhilarated rush that spreads throughout my body as my breathing flutters and a moment later melts into soft, warm, candlelit comfort.
All I can do is say one thing over and over again. "Bless this house," I whisper at first like I'm sharing a secret with my closest friend in a crowded room. "Sweet Jesus Almighty, bless this house, bless this house, bless this house..."
