Mrs. Fletcher(73)

*

Brendan’s room was a jock shrine. Trophies from a lifetime of athletic excellence—Little League baseball (All-Star!), Pop Warner football (County Champs!), middle school swimming (2nd Place, Backstroke!), Haddington Youth Lacrosse (Most Valuable Player!)—were crowded on top of the dresser, right below a framed photo collage that must have been assembled by Brendan’s ridiculously hot cheerleader girlfriend, Becca DiIulio, since it included two different images of Becca looking fine in a bikini (one orange, one pink), the latter of which was actually autographed in silver marker, as if she were a fucking movie star: Luv ya, Becca xxxooo! There were three pics of Brendan with sunglasses and no shirt. He was the kind of dick who made muscleman poses for the camera and wasn’t being ironic about it. Just to rub it in, he had a roll of LifeStyles condoms stashed in his sock drawer—Julian couldn’t help taking a peek—eighteen in all, because you never knew when the whole cheerleading squad might show up and beg to be fucked, one right after the other.

Eighteen condoms. A little whimper of defeat leaked from Julian’s throat. He hadn’t bought eighteen condoms in his entire life. For a minute, he thought about searching for a sharp object—a safety pin or some nail scissors—and poking a few strategic holes in Brendan’s lifestyle, but he quickly detected the flaw in this plan: all it would do was populate the world with more little Brendans, which would not be doing the world a favor.

It would be doubly weird if Brendan had a kid, because that would make Eve a grandma, and Eve didn’t look like anyone’s grandma. Julian had been lusting after her all night—she was wearing a snug gray pullover, just a hint of cleavage, and a fuzzy light blue skirt that he badly wanted to touch. She and Amanda were so into each other on the dance floor that Julian had expected them to start making out, though they never actually did, which was too bad.

After he finished his depressing inspection of the room, Julian turned off the light and climbed into bed. Eve had assured him that the sheets were clean, but even so, it was kind of disturbing—this was Brendan Fletcher’s mattress and Brendan Fletcher’s pillow, the soft place where Brendan Fletcher rested his empty head and dreamed his vapid dreams. Julian wasn’t sure whether to feel disgusted or triumphant. It had to count as a small victory just to be here, to have penetrated so deeply into enemy territory.

Did it qualify as revenge to jerk off in Brendan’s bed while fantasizing about his mother? At the very least, it was fun to imagine Brendan’s reaction to the news.

Hey Brendan, your mom is sucking my dick.

Hey Brendan, your mom’s got amazing boobs.

Hey Brendan, your mom’s a really nice person.

No, wait . . .

Hey Brendan, your mom likes it doggie style.

Hey Brendan, I’m going down on your mom.

That was the one he settled on. He was going down on Eve, and she was totally into it, doing the whole porn star moaning thing, like the whole world needed to know how good he was making her feel. He imagined that she was shaved down there, though he had no idea.

Hey Brendan, your mom tastes like strawberries.

There was a soft knock at the door.

Oh shit.

He let go of his dick just as the door creaked open.

“Hey Julian,” Amanda whispered. “You asleep?”

*

Eve woke with a vague sense of unease. She held her breath and listened. There was something unfamiliar—even slightly alarming—about the silence that surrounded her.

Calm down . . .

She had these night frights every now and then—the panicky suspicion that an intruder had broken into the house—and they were always false alarms.

It’s probably nothing . . .

And then it came back to her, a tiny explosion of relief.

She had company.

Thank God.

Maybe Amanda needed a glass of water. Maybe Julian was sick. They’d all had too much to drink, never a recipe for a good night’s sleep, though Eve herself had managed to doze off without too much trouble.

It was nice to have guests in the house. Comforting, and also validating—this was exactly what she’d hoped for after Brendan left for college, during those first melancholy and disorienting days in the empty nest. She’d made a vow to create a new life for herself, to meet some interesting people, to make some new friends and have a little fun. And the miracle was, she’d actually done all these things, and it hadn’t even taken that much time or effort. She’d signed up for one class. She’d accepted an invitation. She’d thrown a party. She’d opened her heart, and the world had responded.

How often does that happen?

Not very often, she knew, which was why she hadn’t pushed her luck with Amanda, though she’d very badly wanted to. New friends were rare and valuable, worth a lot more than a fleeting sexual adventure that would only cause pain and confusion down the road. She could tell that Amanda was disappointed—she’d looked so bereft, standing in the guest room doorway—but Eve knew she’d made the right decision—the adult decision—the one that would be best for both of them in the long run. Someday they’d have to talk about it, when they weren’t drunk and sleeping under the same roof. She was sure that Amanda would understand.

There was that noise again. It wasn’t loud, but it was followed a second later by a groan of distress that sounded like it had come from Brendan’s room. Eve threw off the covers. It was a familiar feeling, padding down the hallway in the darkness. Standing outside her son’s door, straining her ears for the sound of slow, steady breathing that would let her know that everything was okay. But that wasn’t what she heard.