Denise Bryant - Mother and Daughter

“Oh… I dunno,” she shrugged, propping up on an elbow to look at me as if she felt genuinely glad she was able to have this talk. “With Colby it's been every night nearly. Back home, it's once or twice a week.”

“Have you ever… touched the boy there?” I asked hesitantly, not quite sure why I was asking, ”… ever played with it?”

“Yes…” she answered, looking away, “I've jerked off several guys, Colby too. I know that's one way to stop them… and keep them interested too.”

“Have you ever… done anything else?”

“What do you mean? I've let them play with my breasts and kiss them. Oh, gosh, I've done that since I was eleven or twelve.”

“That's all?”

“Oh, Mother, you're a riot!” Kathy suddenly broke out into laughter. “Now, I dig what you're getting at. No, I've never played 69, but I've come pretty close to it. That's dirty, isn't it?”

“Yes,” I answered very quickly and positively.

“Haven't you ever done it?”

“Well… when I was married to your father…”

“No, I don't mean that,” she shook her head and demanded a truthful answer. “Mother, I know you've been having sex with Sam nearly every night. I've even seen your douche bag hanging over there in their bathroom, so don't tell me you haven't. I want to know… have you ever gone down on him?”

I stood up and turned away, walking over to put some ice in my glass and pour in some Scotch right on the rocks. This had gone way too far. This wasn't the way a mother and daughter talked to each other. There should be an image, and I had failed.

“Mother? Are you going to answer me?”

“Yes… yes, Kathy,” I replied, realizing I had no choice at this point. “I have gone down on Sam, and I have done it with other men. You must realize, darling, that I am a 34-year-old woman who has been married, and that's a lot different from being a 15-year-old virgin. My need is… different, more established… more adult.”

“Oh, I didn't mean that,” she said, appearing to be laughing at me again. “I'm not going to do that… yee-uk! That would be awful. I just wondered if it was normal, if adults like you or Father… you know-decent people-if they did that. That's all.”

A great flood of relief swept over me. I began to laugh with Kathy, and I mixed her a very light Scotch and water. We chatted a while about some new clothes I wanted to buy her for her fall wardrobe, and then when the sun came up and I began to yawn, we agreed it was time to go to bed.

I began to undress over by the closet as Kathy put on her baby-dolls. As I took off my bra and panties, I had the strangest feeling that I was being watched, only to glance in the mirror on the door and notice Kathy. She was sitting on the side of the bed with one leg tucked under her, and her hand right between her legs.

She was looking right at me as I stood there naked, her eyes seeming to dance all over my body. I tightened up inside and could not seem to catch my breath. My head was dizzy and goosepimples sprung out all over me. I think my hands were beginning to perspire because I recall rubbing the palms of my hands with my fingers in my restlessness.

“Mother?” her voice beckoned to me ever so softly, and I thought I detected a tremor of it, a kind of subdued breathlessness “Yes…?” I replied. “Turn around a minute so I can see you.”

“Kathy… why…?” I mumbled under my breath, almost losing control, wishing I could pass out before it was too late.

“Oh, gosh, Mother,” she said with a bubbly lift to her voice, her eyes taking me in with a warm smile, “I sure hope I have a body like you when I'm 34. You're super!”

The next year at home was much like the one before. I was back in the swing this time with no trouble at all. The men, the parties, the couples, the swingers and, of course, Cindy, were all glad to see me.

I completely forgot about that one traumatic moment with Kathy until I was with Cindy one night and she asked me so very pointedly about how I enjoyed the summer alone with my daughter. It seemed as if she were probing me for something dirty and evil. And I remembered so very vividly what she had told me about her own mother.

Strange, I thought to myself while alone sometimes, that the relationship with my own mother seemed to elude me so completely. She seemed almost a non-person to me, a dim memory from the past of something natural and routine, but with no emotional involvement. I did not, however, dwell on such subjects of potential morbidity for any great time. I was too busy having fun.

In fact, I was so busy having fun that I had apparently slipped up in some small respect in my careful attempts to keep my two lives completely separate. I learned this to my great surprise one Thursday evening in April after submitting my new budget for the drama department to the members of the school board.

Charley Riggs was 55 years old and a pillar of the community. He was a fat and jolly old man, and quite a flirt. I always played up to him at budget time, and I usually got what I wanted. He had tried to date me on the sly at least a dozen times, but always indirectly, with such ruses as offering me a ride somewhere, or dropping by the apartment to leave some papers for me to take to the administration office for him the next day. I had always played it very straight until that night in April.

I really did need a ride home then because my car was in the shop. And when he told me that he wanted to talk to me about something that might involve my career, I could tell that he wasn't just looking for an excuse to come inside. I fixed him a cup of coffee as we chatted about the drama projects for the year and he told me that his daughter was going to be in my class next term. And then he took on that serious look when we sat down, and I knew the purpose of his visit.

“I'm not going to mince any words, Mrs. Bryant.” He came right out with it, frowning as if the whole thing displeased him very much. “I was told something by Jim Bannon after last week's P.T.A. meeting that shocked me very much. He showed me a picture he took of you two. You've been moonlighting as a prostitute, haven't you?”

The small, beady eyes in his round and usually jovial face had lost their smile. They looked directly at me, dropping briefly to my exposure of cleavage provided by a scoop-neck blouse. Intuitively, I clutched at the neckline with my hand, as if that would somehow assure him of my modesty and virtue. But his eyes demanded an honest answer.

“Is… Jim Bannon the man who owns the hardware store on Leek Street?” I asked, swallowing my last word.

“Yes. And he has two boys in our school,” Mr. Riggs answered with a nod, clearing his throat as I crossed my legs and carefully pulled down at my skirt. “Jim recognized you at the P.T.A. meeting when the faculty was introduced, and… uh, he told me at the club the next day that he had… he and other men too… had been seeing you by appointment for thirty dollars.”

“It's true, of course,” I decided to be perfectly honest, wanting a stiff drink much more than the hot coffee. “Everyone has his… his secret life, Mr. Riggs. I have tried to be very, very careful. I have tried to keep the two lives completely segregated, separate. I dare say this is the only complaint you've heard against me in the time I've been at the school.”

“You're a wonderful teacher, Mrs. Bryant!” he insisted, gesturing with his hands. “Of course, there have been the usual jealous accusations from some of the female teachers because of your youth, your attractiveness, your sex appeal, your way with the students. But this is absolutely intolerable. I wish I could do something, Mrs. Bryant. I would love to be able to help you. You know… I find you quite an attractive woman too. What can I do though? If the word gets around that you're a prostitute…?”