by Leslie Pike
“Right as usual, Grandma.”
“All the chickens are here. Come on in.”
Arm in arm we walk across the mahogany-floored porch with the sky-blue ceiling and into the house. The sound of Swift voices and laughter fill the rooms. Up ahead, through the foyer and into the great room I see the familiar gathering.
“There he is!” says my smiling father, pouring his Jack Daniels. Scarlett, his beautiful, homely overweight cat lies at his feet. She gives me a look that says she’s weighing the idea of getting up to greet me, but it’s just too much effort. Like her namesake, she’s most comfortable having people come to her.
“Hey, y’all,” I say.
As Grandma goes one way and I head for the bowl of pecans, there’s a chorus of greetings from my mother and father, sister and brother. The Colonel lets me know he’s approved of my presence.
The last voice to weigh in is my grandfather, looking dapper in his bright-blue bow tie.
“How’s the injury? Are you healing properly, Atticus?”
I go to where he sits in his club chair and bend down for a kiss on the cheek. “It’s comin’ along. One of the kids at the signing today ran into it so it’s not feeling great right now.”
Brick turns his barstool to face me. “And that’s why you should have sat at the table. Wait! Where did I hear that? Who suggested that three times?”
I laugh at my brother’s questions. “Yeah, yeah, you told me so.”
“Can we talk about anything but baseball for once?” Bristol pleads.
No one takes offense at her comment. My poor sister is the lone wolf of the family. For her entire thirty-two years the sport has been the focus of the family. First my father, then Brick and I. She’s sick to death of the subject and pleads with us regularly to pick another topic of discussion. It hasn’t helped that my mother may be the greatest fan here.
“We can talk about football. Did you hear who the Falcons are letting go?” my grandfather says.
“I’ve got a better one!” Brick says chuckling.
“Good! What is it, darlin’?” my mother says.
“Atticus got shot down today by a woman.”
The faces reflect the surprise my family feels. They’re waiting for a fucking punchline.
“Believe me, I’m as shocked as you,” I say laughing at myself.
“Maybe she didn’t get a proper look,” my father says without a trace of humor.
Brick stands and comes to my side, patting my good shoulder. “No, that’s not it. She just wasn’t interested.”
“Impossible,” my mother says.
“How do you know?” I ask Brick. “Did she say that?”
“Didn’t have to. She wasn’t wearing that stupid look women get around you. And she didn’t ask any questions. Like, does your brother have a girlfriend?” He uses both index fingers and sound effects to pretend he’s shooting me dead. “Pow! Pow!”
“Or, what kind of dessert does your brother like? I’m a great cook!” Bristol says shivering with disgust.
“Or, your son is so nice, Mrs. Swift. You did a great job of raising him,” my mother says, imitating a bimbo’s sickening sweet voice, attempting to kiss her ass.
Watching my father laugh at his wife’s sense of humor is educational, a master course in romance. I think he’s one of the most content people I know. He’s still under the same spell he was when they were young. Forty-two years hasn’t seemed to dull what they have for each other.
I want that. None of the cleat chasers have made me feel anything close.
“Did I tell you you look like a sweet peach in that dress, Lucinda?”
She loves his attention. “Boone, you’re gonna spoil me.”
He takes her in his arms for a spin around the kitchen, dancing to music only they can hear. Then she twirls away and gets back to her dinner preparation.
“Anyway Atticus, you need to whittle down the contestants. Pick some women who challenge you instead of kissing your ass and laughing at your jokes,” Bristol says.
“Maybe,” I say pouring myself a drink. “But I like women who kiss my ass,” I chuckle. “And it’s not just me. What about Brick? The ladies like him just as much.”
“Your brother keeps a much lower profile. He doesn’t advertise like you do,” my father says.
“Advertise?” I pretend shock.
“Don’t deny it, Atticus. You strut your stuff like a peacock,” says Brick. “Not that I’m complaining. You’ve raised the team’s profile and doubled our followers on Instagram because of this.” He grabs my cheeks and squeezes them between his thumb and index finger. “And it all contributes to endorsements. But it didn’t work this time, brother. Sorry.”
“Besides that, she’s not into baseball,” I say.
Bristol lifts her arms in the air and starts to dance around the kitchen. “Hallelujah! Marry the girl!! I’m serious. I want you to marry her,” she says reaching up and messing my hair. Then she laughs and moves back, out of my reach.
“You’re gonna be sorry you did that, Sister. Payback’s a bitch you know.”
“I’m petrified.”
“You will be when I walk into your waiting room and get the kids all wound up.”
Her face falls. “Bastard!”
My mother picks up her glass dinner bell and rings it.
“Let’s finish this discussion over supper. Everyone into the dining room.”
When the bell sounds the Swifts obey.
As we start moving out of the kitchen, I take ahold of Brick’s arm. “Hey, did you tell Charlotte about the picnic?”
“Yeah. But she wasn’t sure they’d be coming.”
“Well, did you tell her about all the games for the kids?”
He looks at my face and gets serious. “You’re actually interested in her? A single mother? Is it just a challenge? Because if it is, stop now. She’s really a good person, Atticus, and from the little I know she’s had a rough life.”
“Give me her number. I want to call her.”
“Did you hear anything I just said?”
“I did.”
He just looks at me, weighing my words.
“Come on. I’ll be good. I just want to get to know her. And the kid too.”
“Hmmm,” he says eyes narrowing.
I assume my favorite position for a private phone conversation. Stretched out on my bed, in my boxer briefs, ceiling fan slowly turning. I’ve got the pillows propped up behind me just right to support me. On the bedside table is my water, three pieces of Brick’s fudge and the cell. Behind those items stands my lube. It’s staring, challenging me to squeeze one off before I make the call. Thank God I didn’t break the right clavicle. No, it’s already eight thirty. She might be an early-to-bed girl. Ummm. Bed. Girl. Stop! Make the fucking call.
One ring. Two. Three. What the hell? Four. And then it goes to voice mail.
Surprisingly there’s no friendly greeting or sexy voice asking me to leave my message and number. It’s the automated recording that came with the phone. At the sound of the tone, leave your message. Beep.
“Charlotte. It’s Atticus Swift. We met today at the clubhouse. I’d like to talk with you about the picnic tomorrow. It would be great to see you and Mallory there. Umm, so if you get home before midnight, give me a call. I’m a night owl. Okay. Hope you call. Bye.”
That sounded goofy. What the hell is happening here? Grandma Birdie would say I’m taken with the girl. Usually I’m a damn smooth talker. That approach doesn’t seem right for her. She’s smarter than that and my usual spiel suddenly sounded immature.
Out of my peripheral vision the lube stands waiting, calling my name. Might as well spend my time productively. I lose the briefs and grab the tube. Squeezing a generous blob in my right hand, I lie back and get to the job at hand. Literally.
My eyes close. I’ll start with my regulars, that blonde Victoria’s Secret model. No. Kerry from high school. Never got in her panties, but what I imagine her body t
o look like passes through. No. Tanya. No. Charlotte. Her face pops into my mind and holds. That mouth. Oh yeah. It parts just a bit and I watch as her tongue runs around her lips. Inviting me to have a taste. My strokes are slow. Slick and unhurried. But my dick’s already hard with the thought of her.
Now she’s standing in front of the bed, in the outfit she wore today. Her hands move to the bottom of the jersey and cross at the hem. She lifts it slowly over her head. No bra. Wait. Lacy red bra barely covering her nipples. No. Lacy white bra against ivory skin. Yeah. Faster now. I take her straps down and the bra falls. No, disappears. Nipples, mounds of soft flesh. Pink aureoles. Oh fuck. I’m sucking them and she’s moaning. My hand reaches for her pussy. She’s naked and shaved smooth. Faster and faster my hand flies on my dick. Oh God. I part her and reach inside. She’s so wet. I’m fucking her on the bed. Hard. Harder. She meets my thrusts.
Ring! My cell sounds and interrupts my awesome fantasy. Shit!!! Fuck!! I can’t stop myself; I’m past the point of no return. But I need to get the call. I start to come but control my voice and breathing as I answer.
“Hello?” I say jaw tensed, sounding as if there’s a knife to my throat.
My legs stretch and my toes curl. Cum squirts out the head of my dick and onto my new bedding. It’s a small load, cut short by the interruption. I’m shaking with the effort to control myself.
“Atticus? You okay?”
I thought I was selling it. “Hi, Charlotte. Oh yeah, I’m fine. Just doing a little weight work.” That’s not a complete lie, my dick’s no small thing.
“With your arm in a sling?”
“It’s a one-armed exercise,” I say. Well that’s true too.
“Oh. Your brother told us about the charity picnic. Thank you for the invite. Sounds nice. But I’m not sure Mallory would be comfortable in that setting.”
“Why not? There’s going to be lots of kids there.” My heartbeat tries to regain its normal beat.
“That’s the problem.”
“She seemed to have fun today,” I say grabbing some tissue and cleaning myself.
“After you left, we had a small problem. One of the boys made fun of her and we left with her crying. It happens. But it’s the kind of behavior that’s affected her deeply. You understand, I’m sure. But thank you for thinking of us. Maybe another time.”
“Let me talk to her.”
“What? No. I don’t think that’s a good idea. She’d be embarrassed I told you.”
“I’m not going to tell her you told me. Let me talk to her. Go get her.”
There’s a hesitation and then, “Alright, but be careful what you say. She’s very sensitive.”
“Don’t worry, Charlotte. I will.”
I hear her walking across a wooden floor and then knocking on a door. “Mallory, someone wants to talk with you.”
After a few seconds the door squeaks open and I hear the cell being passed from mother to daughter. “Hello?”
“Hi, Mallory! It’s Atticus. How you doin’?”
There’s some shuffling or movement happening between them. Charlotte is whispering something to Mallory, but I can’t make it out. So I just start talking.
“Hey, are you coming to the picnic tomorrow? You’ll be my guests, you know? It’s gonna be a blast. We’ll sit together and eat together and there’s games and a drone show and all kinds of fun things. All the players are gonna be there. You’re gonna get sick of me because we’ll spend the whole day together. Sound good?”
I take a breath and cross my fingers. Silence. I jump back in.
“Most of the kids might be shy because they’ve lost a mother or father, but I know they want to have fun and meet some new kids.”
Still silence. I’ve got one more card up my sleeve.
“It’ll be great for your mom too. I know how hard she works. I bet she needs a day to play. What do you think?”
“Yeah. I guess.”
I think that’s the best I’m gonna get. “Okay then! It’s a date. You, me, and your mom. Let me talk to her so we can decide what time we’ll take off.”
There’s no goodbye, but I get it. Poor kid. If I see anyone messing with her, they’ll regret it. I’m not afraid to make a bully cry. I hear Mallory’s door shut.
“Hi,” Charlotte says.
“So, we’re going to a picnic,” I say lightly. “What time do you want me to pick you up? Is twelve good?”
“How did you do that? She agreed to go?”
The surprise in her voice tells me they don’t get out much.
“Yep.”
“Yes. And thank you. You wouldn’t believe how difficult it is getting her to have some fun, be a teenager. This will be good for her. Thank you again.”
“How about you?” I say bringing the conversation back to her.
“What?”
“Do you need some fun too?” I hope.
“Maybe. I guess we both need a day to relax.”
That wasn’t what I meant. But I’ll take what I can get.
Baby steps.
2
Charlotte
I haven’t studied my face in a mirror in a long time. My fingers trace the contours and feel the texture of my skin. Tired eyes stare back, and it’s no mystery why. Sleep for me is more rarity than norm. But last night was restless in a new way. I must have woken up five times during the night, and that was after I finally turned the TV off around two o’clock. My mind was occupied with thoughts of him. Then of he and I. Fantasies of the catcher proved much too stimulating to lead to sleep.
After imagining lustful scenes with Atticus, I moved on to the usual things that play on in my head night after night. Life as a single mother takes all my waking hours, even the ones I spend in the dark. To provide for her, to do what it takes to raise a responsible, independent, intelligent woman. I’m all she has, her example of womanhood, and her teacher. Being her mother has been the most meaningful part of my life, and I thank God for the blessing every tired night.
I only wish she’d realize what a wonder she is. Kind, smart and beautiful, all hiding behind the scars. Despite my best efforts, life hasn’t been easy for my girl. Her misery over the bullying breaks my heart. I’ve done everything I can think of to stop it.
In the back of my mind I’m always aware of the promise I made to her. On one particularly rough day, I said we could move if things didn’t improve. It was stupid, but I needed to buy some time. I saw a life raft and grabbed it, afraid if I didn’t she might do something I can’t even contemplate. Children are so vulnerable at this age.
Now when I should be reenergizing for tomorrow I’m obsessing. I go over and over our options, trying to find a way to her happy. Sometimes I hope she may be facing all the trials in her life early and the rest of her days will be carefree. That’s a mother’s dream. On top of everything else, puberty has arrived. It’s not the easiest thing being thirteen. And when you wear your insecurities so visibly it’s twice as hard.
Stressing over her insecurities makes me review mine as my thoughts turn away from Mallory. My reflection is telling me I’ve looked better. Maybe some eye drops and a little mascara will help. As I pump the wand, it strikes me I’ve kept this product far past the recommended toss-by date. I haven’t worn makeup in a long time and wouldn’t be surprised if I stick myself in the eye and get an instant infection. That would be lovely. I could answer the door looking like a victim from a disaster movie. The unnamed epidemic has spread to my eye. Now no one can get within fifty feet of me or they’ll catch it and die a horrible death.
It’s hard to remember the last time I genuinely felt pretty. I think it was when Mallory was little, and she told me I was the prettiest mommy at church. Ever since those early days there’s been few reasons to dress up or wear makeup. It’s been a conscious decision to not have a revolving door of boyfriends passing through my child’s life. And in avoiding men’s attention I’ve ignored their remarks that might have made me feel good about myself.
&n
bsp; But today feels like a special occasion. It’s secretly thrilling to be seen as something other than a mother.
Thirty-three’s coming on cat feet, as quietly as the last five birthdays. My sweet girl always has a cake for me and a present she’s made. But the day’s just a reminder I’m getting older and I’m alone. Even though it’s my choice, there are moments of clarity when I glimpse a quiet future. It’s a heartbreaking possibility that I’m letting every chance for love or romance pass me by.
I’m trying not to get too excited about being with Atticus, because this flirting from him leads nowhere. Not from my angle or his. I thought I did a great job of pretending I was ignoring his efforts yesterday. But he didn’t take no for an answer. There’s most likely any number of women who get flirted with every day by Atticus Swift. I’m a little fish in a big sea.
There’s no denying it’s good to feel like a woman again. Can I be faulted for wanting the small blessing? Even if it’s just for a day or two? So today I give myself permission to be in the moment and enjoy being carefree like every other young woman does. Whether it’s still accurate to call myself young at this age, I don’t know. I’d hate to think I missed it entirely.
I’ve avoided Googling his name because I already know what I need to. The rag magazines have him on their cover often enough. He’s the player to watch, on and off the field. Everything about him screams take my picture. I see him on cereal boxes and other endorsements.
That spectacular face, thick chocolate-colored hair with eyes to match, heavy shadow of a beard, all cherry on the sundae. And the sundae is to die for. He’s six feet of rock-hard lean muscles, with a high round ass that he’s noted for. And that’s just what I can see. Jesus, save me.
“Mom! It’s eleven forty-five!”
I’m snapped out of my nasty thoughts as I hear her hollering from the living room.
“Come here! Show me what you’re wearing!” I call.
Giving myself one last look in the mirror I suddenly hate everything I have on. The jeans are too tight and my pink top looks ordinary.
“You look so pretty, Mom.”
