Me and Mom Fall for Spencer

by Diane Munier

  I take in a big breath. “You sure I wasn’t adopted?” I ask, hoping she is ready to tell me. Finally.

  She laughs, of course. “No such luck, kiddo. I was there when that big beautiful head of yours ripped its way out of….”

  “Mom,” I say sharply. “Go downstairs.”

  “What are you going to do up here by yourself?”

  “Watch ‘our’ show on my laptop.”

  “You’re not going to wait for me?”

  I take a big breath. “I’ll…just watch one.”

  She smiles and pats my arm. “Put your pants on honey. You’ll forget all about it.”

  “Mom…you’re not…interested in this guy….” I flap my hand toward Frieda’s house. “I mean…awkward…right?” I try to laugh a little, but it’s kind of a choke and I cough.

  “You think he’s too young?”

  “I don’t know him. Don’t want to. He’s just, he’s too close.”

  “Honey you know I like to have a good time. I’m not…but if something were to develop…naturally… well I’m always willing to….”

  “You could always say no, Mom. You and Christine act like you have no power.” God knows I’ve tried to be a good example to them, show them life could really happen without constantly having to have a man…between your ears. “Did he like…flirt?”

  “He’s just a nice person, Sarah. A nice guy. Cute as…those eyes they’re like….”

  I am squirming now, my legs crossed like a camel’s. “Yuck.”

  “I know. TMI?”

  “Um…whatever.”

  She squeezes my arm like we are besties, then she leaves me alone. I plop onto my bed and fling my arm over my eyes.

  His face when he looked at me registered shock. He’d let his eyes travel, and they’d grown huge. He was probably disgusted. And now my mom and Horny are going to try to turn him into the cold cut on their…bun…za. Oh God.

  Not only has he taken over my kingdom, he’s humiliated me into the prison of my room, and he is invited to game night. I have three days to let him know he is uninvited. And just in case he’s confused he needs to know my mother is strictly off-limits too.

  I haven’t lived here my whole life to be run off now. We didn’t move when Frieda was killed. We don’t run. I may be stuck in my room right now…temporarily humiliated and traumatized…but I shall overcome, and when I do I shall strike back with the force of a tiger. Or a really mean Siamese.

  Me and Mom Fall for Spencer

  Chapter Three

  They are down there laughing for the rest of the evening, squealing and giggling. I swear how can these two be teachers with their dirty, dirty talk. I can’t even go down there for my chocolate cupcake Mom brought me from the deli the other day. I need my decaf, too, but I’m stuck up here cause I’m not giving Horny the satisfaction of smirking at me because I’m sure Mom has told her by now about the underwear scandal…tragedy.

  I am thinking too much about him. Him. Him. I don’t think another man, boy has even seen me in my underwear except for Dr. Rob. I have not been the kind to show my stuff like that. I’ve never sexted. I think Mom has.

  God I need a group to admit this stuff too. “I’m Sarah. My mom’s…morally compromised. Oh hell she’s a slut.”

  It’s psychologically damaging to think about Mom getting cozy with so many guys. And don’t give me that two hands shit. ‘I can count the guys I’ve been with on two hands.’ But how many times over?

  The next morning, I am at my laptop, propped there in my bed against my gel pillows, and I like two because I sleep on a slight incline because it helps my digestion, when I hear something start up, like the roar of an engine. What the hell! I’m trying to see out my window and I just glance him, Spencer Gundry, sawing things along the fence line, his shoulders…wide, arms…strong…. My cell rings.

  It’s like I’m being attacked from two vantage points. I hurry to my bed and dig amongst the white sheets and find my phone. It’s my boss. Great. What does he want?

  “What?” I say in greeting.

  Laughter. God, if you think about it, making ridiculous sounds like a freaking animal, laughter is just embarrassing.

  “Hello Sarah,” Aaron says in a tone you might use on a moron.

  “Yo,” I say. I am still in my underwear which is one of the reasons I love working from home.

  The saw’s whine goes up a notch and I stick my finger in my free ear and continue to rubber neck it from my window. Spencer Gundry is removing the only defensive line we have against Frieda’s house. More violation. He pisses me off more than any man has had the guts to do and we’ve barely spoken. Who the hell does he think he is….

  “Sarah?”

  “What do you want?” I ask Aaron cause there are always these gaps when you talk with him like he’s setting up his words like they’re tin soldiers or something.

  “Um…it’s your boss,” he says. Stater of the obvious. I never respect that. Him.

  “Yay,” I say back. I’m looking for my shorts, not the cut-offs but those ones Mom was going to throw away and I snatched them off the pile. They’re a little big, but I could be buried in them, like spend forever in them they’re so soft.

  Aaron takes a breath and launches into his attempt to be boss-like. I’m saying, done, done, a hundred times as I give up on the shorts and decide on a skirt instead, one I can step right into. It’s white with little blue flowers. I think I made this…I know I did, of course, like ten years ago. It matches my blue undershirt…that I’m wearing. I lift my arm to check the hair, yeah I’m good…if I keep my arms down.

  Aaron is going on, not with the flow because of the needed breaks like his brain has that delay. I can’t help that I process at the speed of light. I have a war on my hands down in the yard. All of a sudden I hear Aaron say, “Or I can bring them out Friday evening on my way….”

  “No,” I say.

  “What?”

  “No,” I repeat, dragging out the ‘o’ to make it a longer word cause he’s obviously needing more than n and o can give on their own.

  He’s saying something about why he could drop off the papers on his way…yadda, yadda, and I’m holding the hair on top of my head, in that mirror again, and I grab a shirt off the floor and quickly dust the glass as Spencer’s saw drops a note and thank God I can think for a minute. Then I go back to the hair and how I could put it up in that hap-hazard way that’s right down my alley.

  Aaron is just grasping my rejection. About freaking time.

  “I’m not coming in, Aaron. No way I’m getting in that traffic on the bridge.”

  He is the boss, he says, and I need to work with him, yakity-yak.

  “No,” I say again because he offers to bring the binders…again, like I haven’t already answered this once.

  He says he’s bringing them, dropping them off and he hangs up on me.

  Infuriating. I hurry to the window cause the saw has suddenly stopped. I’m not going to let this guy, this interloper scare me off. He looked in my door and I should feel strange? No. No way. He should bear all the shame…all the freaking shame. And now he’s clearing my hedge of protection? I find my flip-flops and stick my feet in. Damn that chipped polish.

  I stop in the bathroom to brush my teeth because…obvious.

  Down the stairs. He’s at the fence, near my garden. Just taken off his shirt in fact, arms still tangled in it as he looks my garden over, but when I push out the screen and let it slap closed, his eyes are on me soon enough. I walk with purpose, it ain’t a runway buddy, and my flips are flopping with these angry, efficient snaps every time I take a step his…naked way. He lifts his arms and slides his shirt back on, and he picks up his saw and I’m very near the weak-ass vegetation that’s on my side of the fence, across from where he stands, and it’s not so thick now that he’s leveled his half.

  “Good morning,” he says. “I hope I didn’t wake you.”

  My hand goes to my face. Am I puffy? Who the freak cares
. “What are you doing?” Oh crap, I’m Aaron. We hate the things in others we hate in ourselves. It’s true. I couldn’t have asked a dumber question.

  Gundry holds up the saw.

  “We’ve met,” I say cleverly.

  “Sorry. And about yesterday…I didn’t mean….”

  I hold up my hand, “Don’t talk about it.”

  He stops. It’s an, ‘oh shit,’ look, kind of…I better watch him is all. He’s like…manipulative. His face…very expressive and he’s not afraid to use it. It’s just a face but it could be as deadly as that chainsaw if one wasn’t prepared for its…roar. And now he’s throwing it around, the big eyes, not the saw, thank God…but the lips…well it all works together and ropes you in…if you’re weak. I’ll bet he’s been close to his mother. She did this, encouraged it, told him he’s cute.

  “Say…would it be alright if I hopped the fence and cleaned out your side?”

  Hopped and cleaned out my…it’s just disarming, that’s all. I’m not used to this much conversation…with a human…besides mom I don’t…encourage this…boldness.

  “This is my yard. My sanctuary. I don’t ask you to understand. Just…respect. I come out here in the morning…check my tomatoes…,” I wave toward my garden and let my hand flop against my side.

  They look great, by the way,” he interjects and I swear his eyes glance over my breasts, not an obvious ogle, but a sly drop incorporated with a quick look at my garden, a clearing of the throat. “You do this yourself?”

  There’re no elves, Gundry, in the real gardening world. But I am not here to discuss my process. Or to make small talk, which I loathe and refuse to be proficient at on principle. I look over my shoulder at the garden to break from studying his face. He’s quite the looker, and so what? He lucked out is all. It has nothing to do with his character. He was bestowed a certain symmetry, pure luck, and why should the world fall at his feet because of it? Cure cancer buddy, then we’ll talk.

  So I turn back to him. He smiles. It’s a cheery smile. He’s apparently a morning person. Bully for him.

  “I work from home…so….”

  “Your mom mentioned that. Sounds like a good gig. Hey look, about last night….”

  My hand goes up again. Oh, he is a regrouper. Not the submissive soul I’d hoped. He just comes back later…with that voice. And my mother…that Judas? “No.”

  He pulls his chin in a little. His jaw, on display now, one small nick from the razor, but flawless other than that. Mom is so going to try and get their parts together. And Horny will be beating the drum.

  “I never meant to…I’m sorry to have made you uncomfortable,” he says, like I haven’t told him no. Not good. He slides down a couple of notches…not down on me…cause that’s not the picture I want right now and I know all the dirty talk from Mom and H., but down in my estimation is what I mean.

  “I like the privacy this strip of vegetation affords…well I did like it until you butchered it,” I say, realizing my voice is a little too loud, so I adjust and say more softly, “and I imagine you have lots more to do than remove our hedge. You can’t have unpacked already.”

  “That’s the thing, I don’t have water. That’s ah…why I came over yesterday evening…to ask if I can use your hose…until….” He scratches the back of his head. The hair…it’s a natural riot, and with the strong face, features so…well the hair gets a pass. And his arm, the exposed underside of it, he is interesting, not a complete meatball at all…I just mean….

  My hand is up again. Word traffic cop. I haven’t even told my hand to lift. I wonder now if I have any control over myself socially…or if my body has taken over and I don’t even have to be here….

  “Oh sorry,” he says, and the arm drops and there’s…amusement? Am I a joke or something?

  “Don’t make changes,” I say. “It’s enough you’re here. Just don’t…bring a brass band, you know?”

  Now he’s not smiling. “What does that mean?”

  Oh. My kind of question except I don’t like it leveled at me.

  “Just leave things alone. You want to live here, fine. Just stay over there…you know?”

  “Wow,” he says low, staring at me, those eyes, what is with those eyes?

  “I’m…” What am I? Sorry? Mean?

  “No, I get it. You’re right. It’s…I didn’t mean to…maybe later. I’ll do yours later.”

  What? My mother?

  I just can’t stay here…look at those eyes anymore.

  I flip-flop my way back into the house. Once again I get inside and lean against the door. I’m huffing and puffing about like when I’d hurried the day before, but I hadn’t hurried this time. What the heck is it with this guy? He’s got me…I don’t know. I can’t believe this.

  I grab the colander. This is the time I pick my tomatoes. I always pick my tomatoes first thing. I’m not going to not pick them just because this guy is attacking my life…fence.

  I go back outside. My cat Muffins has miraculously appeared. “You’re home,” I say, but my eyes are darting. Gundry stands. He’d been squatting, fiddling with his saw, but he stands now.

  I look away and go back to my garden. I hate this, being in his movie when…this is my place, my private place, not my privates. Damn must everything now be an innuendo? What am I…Christine?

  “Hey Sarah, do you mind if I finish this…on my side? I mean, well the noise….”

  “I do mind,” I say with feeling, like one of the patriots might have addressed the first congress over the tyranny of England. It’s that kind of feeling. Crazy.

  “Oh. Whoa.” He says this.

  “I mean…,” the hand…mine…its flapping now. I tell it to stop, to pick a tomato or something. So I put my back to Gundry and bend over to grab a tomato that’s fallen…and can’t get up…and I feel a breeze, and I reach behind me, the skirt, it’s blowing in the wind…like the answers, and I stand quickly and look back at him…because the same underwear…surely not…he didn’t…and he’s looking right at me, and he pulls the cord on the saw…and it roars to life.

  Me and Mom Fall for Spencer

  Chapter Four

  The following day I see Spencer out front of Frieda’s sitting on her stoop picking on a guitar. He hasn’t seen me so I pretend I haven’t seen him. I hold the box with the plate of rice and meat and the smaller plate of salad. I take slow steps across the street, my destination the small house directly across from Frieda’s. Or Spencer’s as we must call it now.

  Spencer is playing some chords, and he’s started to sing, and he’s gotten louder and I hear my name in there, in the song, but I don’t turn. I’m carrying food and I’m not coordinated enough to look behind me as I walk forward. That’s my story.

  I reach old Cyro’s porch and put the box on the old metal TV tray beside the door and knock on the old metal screen door. I hear the TV and the afternoon news. I see him in there in the recliner.

  “Okay,” he says and I can tell he’s been sleeping.

  I don’t say anything, he knows the drill, and I have to turn now and walk all that way in front of Spencer and try to ignore him when he’s playing music and singing about me.

  I can hear more of the words now, as he keeps turning up the volume. He’s looking right at me while he plays. He looks cute playing that thing. “She’s a girl, she’s a girl, she’s a tomato growing girl,” he’s finishing, then he waves, and I wave and keep going toward my house. No one’s ever composed a song about me before. Not a nice one anyway.

  “Hey Sarah, wait up,” he says, and he sets his guitar aside and catches up. By then I am looking over our mail. Not that I care a fruit fly about it. I slap the door closed on the mailbox and wait for him to say something.

  “Sarah?”

  I look up. Spencer is wearing a T-shirt, looks new and Fruit-of-the-Loom-y. He has on beige shorts, loose, to the knee and old tennis shoes.

  “I saw you walking past my house last night with a flashlight.”

&
nbsp; “I was on the sidewalk,” I say defensively. He can’t know how I’m looking back, trying to get used to the eyes of Frieda’s house being lit again, being alive.

  He laughs. “You don’t have a dog.”

  “He died,” I say softly. I still can’t talk about it without choking up.

  “Oh. Sorry. I mean…it’s the neighborhood watch thing, right? Your mom said you started it after….”

  “No I didn’t.” God I’m so defensive again but when in hell did Mom give him my life story? “Well I didn’t. Cyro started it,” I use the mail to gesture toward Cyro’s house. “I walked it with him…since…ten years old.”

  “Wow.”

  There is this silence and I forget not to stare at him. I’m so much like Mom. Damn.

  “So you feed him?” he asks.

  “Take him lunch,” I say quickly. Like I’m ready to fight about it. Actually, it’s enough for two meals. He doesn’t eat as much as he used to.

  Then this blurts out, and I’m always as surprised as everyone else to hear myself, “Do you have a job?”

  Spencer laughs and pulls a face like I caught him stealing or something. “No.” He laughs again. “I did have. But…I left it. To move here. Fresh start.”

  I have work to do. I eat my lunch then I work until two when I break to do the laundry and feed my cat and walk around my garden a bit, then take a basket of tomatoes and things over to Leeanne’s for the Wednesday market. She bakes pies and I send produce and she mans the table at the Farmer’s Market. By two-forty-five I’m back at my laptop. With my decaf.

  So why did he need a fresh start? Mom would ask. Christine would so ask.

  So when I see him later that day, I say, “I have some rice…just peppers and chicken. On the back porch? Or out here on the front, yeah. Just…you can sit on the steps and I’ll bring it out.”

  He laughs again. “That sounds amazing but you’re putting me in mind of hoboes and women feeding them.”

  “Sounds like an old black and white,” I say, and it’s almost…well better than most of the things I ever say.