by Inman Majors
As for young Brett, swimming would be the beginning and the end of any encounter he might be hoping for. She was forty, after all, not some teenager at the dentist’s house, but it was messing with her stereo during “Immigrant Song” that had absolutely, no question, proved his Waterloo in the make-out department. Having no taste in music was one thing; being rude was quite another.
He was currently smiling in a pleased way at something on his phone, and Penelope considered why a guy like him needed a dating service. Missy was right. There were a ton of cute, age-appropriate girls at the party they’d just left.
Then a thought struck her. Was this virile boy possibly gay? He and his bro Brandon had not been sparing in their chest-bumps during cornhole. Could the shark in his dream be the desire he refused to face?
Yes, of course it could. It was all beginning to make sense. She and Missy had been invited to the cookout so Brett and Brandon could be seen with single women at a social gathering. This would explain their reluctance to date—or already be married to and breeding feverishly with—the bevy of cute girls from the contemporary service. And now the rumors would fly about them leaving with two middle-aged women to go swimming. At night. Talk about salacious. They’d be the scandal of the young adult group. But a heterosexual scandal, and one where nothing actually happened. Dale Mercer and his fall from grace all over again! But without the fall!
She and Missy were beards.
This notion made her smile for reasons she couldn’t fully fathom, though it likely had to do with getting credit for a fall from grace without having the blue rubbed completely off her jeans.
Brett said, “What?”
“Oh, nothing. You’re probably right about that shark.”
Brett nodded in a satisfied way, then told her more about his job at Verizon. He’d already told her plenty, but cell phones and their apps were his calling. She’d heard about his college, and his high school soccer days in Lynchburg, and also a fair amount regarding his mother and father. Almost all this information had come as a response to Penelope’s queries. On the other hand, he’d yet to ask her anything about herself. Not about her job or whether she was from Hillsboro or whether she had kids. Penelope found this weird, but maybe he was still too young to know that conversation required questions and answers from both parties. Thinking of two-way discourse made her think of Fitzwilliam Darcy and whether he’d responded to her message or ever would. Maybe the poem had been a dumb idea. Oh well. She probably wasn’t ready to date anyway.
In the car ahead, Brandon was turning into a nice neighborhood. Meanwhile Brett firmly recommended an app that counted your cardio exertion throughout the day. Now Brandon drove tentatively down a cul-de-sac, stopping, then starting again, as if the copilot had forgotten where she lived. Suddenly he slammed on the brakes, and Penelope had to lock up quickly as well. Brett was unperturbed, even with his head being yanked forward, and was no worse for wear after adjusting his cap to its proper backwardness. The cardio app, he confided, was solely responsible for his current body fat percentage of seven.
Now Missy was out of Brandon’s car and tromping across the yard toward Penelope, motioning for her to roll down the window.
“Well,” she said, sticking her head in and smiling, “here it is.”
“Your house?”
“No. I live in Wooded Acres. This is you-know-who’s house.”
“Who? What?”
Missy backed out of the window to an angle where Penelope could see her but Brett couldn’t. She then opened her mouth, stuck her tongue in her cheek, and made a rapid motion with her hand. Penelope had always found this gesture more graphic than necessary and was confused by it to boot.
“I don’t get it,” Penelope said.
“BJ Queen,” Missy whispered.
Penelope gave her friend a quizzical look.
“Ms. Dunleavy’s house,” Missy said. “It’s time to get to the bottom of this James situation once and for all.”
So saying, she stomped toward the front door, leaving Penelope frozen in her seat. The only light in the house was a faint bluish glow from the TV in the den. Realizing things were on the verge of getting out of hand, Penelope popped out of the car, gently shutting the door behind her, and jogged toward Missy as quietly as she could. A dog had started to bark next door and Brett hung his head out the window and said, “Hey, what’s going on?”
Penelope shushed him over her shoulder as a porchlight came on at the home of the barking dog. Penelope grabbed Missy by the arm and drew her to a stop.
“Are you ready for Freddy?” Missy said.
“No, I’m not. Now get back in the car before someone calls the cops.”
“You mean your cop boyfriend? Now that would be a scene, wouldn’t it?”
It took Penelope a moment to remember the joke with the bartender from Applebee’s.
“What if your husband is in there right now getting a hummer?” Missy said, smiling and nodding at the door. “God, I’d love to see the look on his face when we come busting in.”
“James isn’t in there. And we’re not busting in anywhere. If there’s anything to find out, I’ll find out at the teacher conference. Now get in the car before you get us in trouble.”
“All right, all right. Don’t get your panties in a wad. I’m leaving.”
Penelope sighed and let go of Missy’s arm.
At which point her new friend sprinted to the front door, rang the bell, then raced back to Brandon’s waiting car.
“Book ass!” Missy yelled.
And Penelope did.
18
She was in a hot tub with Missy while the hot Christians frolicked boisterously in the pool. It had taken a while to calm down after fleeing Ms. Dunleavy’s, but she felt okay now.
“Hey,” said Penelope. “I told Brett that I didn’t know whose house that was you rang and ran. I don’t want to get into the whole James-and–Ms. Dunleavy thing with these guys.”
“Too late,” Missy said. “I already gave Bluffton the scoop on the way over here.”
“No you didn’t.”
“Don’t worry about it. My little hottie promised not to mention your ex—or his taste for backseat BJs—to your little hottie until they get home. It’s all cool.”
“You didn’t actually talk about oral sex to that boy, did you?”
“Of course not,” Missy said, fanning herself dramatically in the bubbly hot water. “I respect his biblical upbringing. So I simply referred to it as parking lot sodomy.”
“That’s not what it is.”
“It’s both, my friend. Look it up.”
“Those are two quite different things.”
“Tell me about it, sister.”
“There should be two different words then.”
“I couldn’t agree more. Maybe sodomy and bobomy or something.”
Saying this, she’d bobbed her head downward in a rhythmic motion, smiling as she did so. “And verily, Ms. Dunleavy committed bobomy on one whom she had not yet lain with in marriage and was thusly stoned.”
Penelope realized she was having a semantic discussion about sexual acts that likely weren’t happening, at least not in the school parking lot, and let the matter drop. She also staunched an impulse to offer her Brett-and-Brandon-as-suppressed-lovers theory, and its corollary that they were beards. No need for that. Not when her friend had such high hopes for an erotic romp with a hunky boy.
Now she was sweating like a pig and feeling chafed under the suit Missy had loaned her, which was two sizes too small. She’d entered the water wearing her Nirvana shirt to be modest, but was now lamenting the drive home in wet garb. In the pool, the fellows were having a grand time, wrestling and roughhousing in a manner Penelope found potentially telling. They were laughing and talking, but Penelope couldn’t hear what they had to say over the music that cranked from the outdoor speakers. Missy had chosen The Clash to cleanse her bruised ears after “Love Song for Jesus” and was definitely getting her m
oney’s worth from the volume knob.
“Aren’t you worried about the neighbors?” Penelope asked.
“They’re old and deaf on this side,” Missy said. “And out of town, I think, on the other. Don’t worry about it. My neighbors love me.”
Penelope thought this a dubious claim, but didn’t say so. The bros were now jostling each other about who would next use the diving board, their upper torsos glistening in the light from the pool as they pushed and pulled each other toward the water. Looking at their ultra-smooth chests, Penelope recalled the phrase her mother used when giving her a bath as a child—clean as a whistle—but immediately regretted this thought. The phrase had taken on a grave new meaning with her mother. Regardless, these boys were serious about their grooming. They were slick as seals.
She considered again what Sandy and Rachel would say if they could see her now. They were always so disapproving of her wilder friends, her non-them friends. But didn’t they realize that she was their wild friend, supplying them, she was sure, with all kinds of vicarious thrills—and likely the occasional moment of catharsis too—that came with the inexplicable things that seemed to happen to her? Didn’t they realize that? It was a double standard.
Regardless, it was time to get the show on the road, help Missy out long enough to make a move with Brandon, then head home. She was exhausted.
“Hey,” Penelope said. “You guys should join us. It feels great in here.”
After giving Brandon one last heave over his shoulder and receiving one more arm bar under the crotch and then a flip into the water in return, Brett hopped out of the pool and made his way toward them, his wrestling partner close behind.
Penelope and Missy were sitting opposite each other with the hairless hot Christians in between. Missy was drinking a vodka tonic from a Big Gulp cup while Penelope nursed a beer just to be a sport and not make her friend look like the lone booze-hound. The Jacuzzi was large enough that no one was squished up against one another, and the result was they were spread out like points on a compass. At least initially. Every few seconds Penelope noted Missy drifting toward Brandon like one of the HHR’s fishing bobbers on a windy day. Brandon either didn’t notice or didn’t mind as he yakked away about the heat of the tub and how much he was sweating. Brett agreed with the sweating comment and every so often removed his cap to cool his scalp and lovingly run his hand through his close-cropped hair. What he needed was more ventilation. The cap was acting like the lid of a teapot, keeping the steam in. But back it would go, neatly backwards. He really liked that cap.
“So,” said Brett, sitting on the edge of the tub to cool off, “Missy tells us you’re recently divorced, Penelope.”
Penelope narrowed her eyes at Missy, who then passed the look on to Brandon. She wasn’t yet sitting in his lap, but if the breeze kept up, the little bobber might get there yet.
“Hey,” said Brandon to his bro, “I told you not to say anything.”
“Oh, who cares?” said Brett. “It’s not a big deal.”
“It’s okay,” said Penelope. “I don’t mind.”
“And now your husband is hooking up with your son’s teacher? Wow. That’s crazy.”
As Brett talked, he scooted in her direction, the cocksure smile from his Divote page making its first appearance of the evening. Across the hot tub, Missy and her young hunk were just about shoulder to shoulder and Penelope began to reconsider her forbidden-love theory. By all appearances, they were acting like regular Joes on the make, and pretty experienced Joes at that. Brett’s knee brushed her own, and then his foot slid down hers.
Feeling trapped, Penelope said: “I don’t know that he’s hooking up with my son’s teacher. I think he’s dating a teacher. I feel pretty sure about that. Everything else is just speculation.”
“We think there’s some bobomy going on at the very least,” said Missy, smiling her mischievous smile.
The guys exchanged puzzled looks as Penelope declared: “No we don’t. You do, but I don’t.”
“What’s bobomy?” asked Brandon, teasingly splashing Missy in the process.
“Wouldn’t you like to know?” said Missy, hopping onto him and trying to dunk him under the water.
After he’d struggled free of her grasp, she said, “You started it. And paybacks are hell.”
At this point, Brett placed his hand on Penelope’s thigh and said, “Don’t you mean paybacks are heaven?”
19
Brandon laughed so much at his brah’s paybacks are heaven line that he had to dive under the water so as not to make a spectacle of himself. Penelope could feel her already hot face getting hotter and removed Brett’s hand with a very firm yank. It was clear now that he didn’t want her for a beard. He wanted her for the tan lines and come-hither finger on the HHR’s waterbed. Unbelievable. The Christian playboy was mining for MILF gold.
Damn the HHR and his nostalgic porn collection so easily stolen. Damn the random weirdo who’d posted it on the Internet. If these choirboys had seen it, who else had? Was the red hair fooling no one but herself?
“What?” said Missy. “I don’t get it.”
“Me either,” said Penelope, moving away from Brett’s roaming hands and feet.
Brett gave her a skeptical look and shared a raised eyebrow with his bro across the bubbly divide. They’d obviously spent a fair amount of time comparing her Divote photo with the nudie shot on Paybacks. Damn the Internet. Damn these lubricious Sherlock Holmeses.
Before the interrogation could continue, the reflection of swirling blue lights came across the pool area. Penelope knew those lights and thought WTH? But that wasn’t strong enough medicine. If ever there was a true WTF moment, this was it. Seriously. What in the F?
Missy knew those lights as well, for she shook her head angrily and said, “I don’t believe it. Not again.”
Penelope had never been the I-told-you-so type, but this was about the blaring music, she felt sure. If she got arrested on top of everything else, Sandy and Rachel would have a field day. They’d been licking their chops for a nugget like this, and the advice would come fast and furious. And the crafting suggestions! They’d have her on a potter’s wheel morning, noon, and night.
“I think that might be the cops,” Brett said, wide-eyed.
“No shit,” said Penelope.
Brett’s smirk was gone now and she wondered if this was his first encounter with the fuzz. Despite her own concerns about heading downtown, she found that she enjoyed watching the smug little hypocrite squirm.
Missy was out of the tub and heading toward the backyard gate, which a flashlight beam was approaching, accompanied by the squelchy feedback of a shoulder radio and a disembodied voice talking about a wreck on Jefferson Street. Penelope stood dripping near the pool. If need be, she’d run, just like the time at Reggie Mason’s. Flight had always been the HHR’s preferred method of dealing with the police, and Penelope considered this a sound philosophy.
Brett and Brandon, meanwhile, sat like statues, their matching caps and baby-smooth chests making them seem very young and very scared in the blue lights that flickered round the pool and in the trees overhead.
The cop was huge and had angry eyes. That he wore a mustache went without saying. Penelope knew a few guys on the force from high school, but she’d never seen this guy before. From what she surmised, he was not the type to let noise ordinances go unenforced.
Penelope thought a guise of remorse and contrition was the only way to go in a situation such as this, but Missy had other ideas. Her plan, evidently, was to meet the firm hand of the law with a firmer one of her own. She started by walking briskly toward the stereo, the flashlight shadowing her as she went. When she got there, she very dramatically flipped off the cop, using both middle fingers. It had been a while since Penelope had seen someone employ the double bird, and she’d forgotten how effective it was in conveying contempt. Then, just as dramatically, Missy turned the volume as high as it would go.
“Can you hear
it now, Gary?” she yelled. “Is this loud enough for you?”
The cop ignored her but rapped the flashlight once very hard on the fence, before rounding on the two young altar studs.
“You boys get out of that tub,” he shouted. “Now. And don’t bother putting your clothes back on.”
“They’re not naked, you imbecile, you jackass, you big buffoon,” Missy yelled.
The HHR would have frowned on this tactic for dealing with the men in blue, and so did Penelope. The flashlight was now shining in her face and she wondered if her bathing suit was on straight. But the big man found her uninteresting and flashed it back on Brett and Brandon, who were now dripping in their Bermuda shorts and looking more than a little vulnerable and exposed.
“What’s the problem, officer?” Brett said, making a tentative step toward the policeman.
“Nobody told you to move, Junior. Just hold on to your little pecker for a minute. I’ll deal with you when the time comes.”
Penelope smiled at this line, and at Brett’s face. He looked like a surfer who’d just been dumped from a tasty wave he thought he’d mastered. And were those sharks in the water?
“You think that’s funny?” said the cop, wheeling on Penelope and shining his light in her face.
“Yes, actually,” said Penelope.
“You think this is some joke? Is that what you’re telling me?”
“I thought that one line was funny. That’s what I’m telling you.”
“You’re George’s stepdaughter, aren’t you?”
“Yes.”
“I play poker with him every now and then. He’s a good old guy.”
“He is.”
“All right, you can go. And Missy, just head in the house and I’ll talk to you in a minute. I want a word with these little smart-asses here. What’s the problem, officer? What’s the problem, officer?”
