Bobby Redding - Mommy_s sick friends

Claude's father.

Irene had an image of the man, which her memory could command forth any time she wished. She wished often. It gave her a certain pleasure to see the man in her mind's eye, and in that way guess what her son might look like if…

If he had not been saved by her for something better, something else. He would be her creation, nurtured on her pleasures. She would be both father and mother, and she would enjoy both roles. What would that hard-muscled lover of one night – David; too soft a name for him. Really – what would he have thought of their son? He would wretch in agony, seeing the distorted issue of their union. She delighted in the disgust he would feel. But of course he did not know, and he never would. Claude was her son, and the tanned and too suave advertising copywriter was merely the agent of fate. She would have given herself to almost any man that night. The child had been her idea, her idea alone. She would raise him herself. He would be her creation.

She would not remember David's face, except that she saw its reflection every time she looked at Claude. And it was more out of love for Claude than anything else that she relished the memory of that night with his father. Strange, she thought, how often he came to mind…

That evening she had stared at herself in the mirror before leaving her apartment, searching for any tell-tale clues. She had not been out with a boy since she was a senior in high school, and she feared that she somehow might give herself, and her secret, away.

But no, she told herself calmly, she looked fine, even desirable. Boys had always liked her then, and even now men made passes at her frequently, though she was usually careful to avoid situations in which they could. Her hair looked good this way, the honeyed flax pouring over her shoulders. The black crepe dress fit her well; she had lost twelve pounds in two months, and now she was satisfied that she had a perfect body, though she wished her breasts weren't quite so impressive. She congratulated herself on the crowning touch – the absence of a brassiere – and wondered why someone who resented men so much could take such pleasure in arousing them. Sadism, maybe, she told herself, recalling a bit of Freud from night school; but she had never knowingly inflicted pain on any woman – or any man, for that matter.

The dress was short – two inches above the knee. Her thighs were firm now, and when she walked, only her breasts would move. Her ass was too small for a woman's really, but she liked the way she looked in jeans.

The bar was in the San Fernando Valley, a well-known singles' hangout. It was a Friday, and the narrow aisles that led from the counter to the tables were filled with flesh, male and female. The men seemed to be posing; elbows on the surface of the bar and drinks in hand, their other arms dangling at their sides, cigarettes between forefinger and index. A surprising number of the men appeared to be successful.

She was self-conscious, and so she especially noticed the eyes that stirred to focus on her when she entered. A slim middle-aged man, gray-flannel suit and Brooks Brothers shirt, retreated on his heels when his out thrust hand with burning cigarette almost brushed against her. Irene plunged through the mass of humanity and felt the heat of the bodies. She lost the scent of her perfume in the odor of sweating men and women.

There was an empty stool at the bar. She sat down, and less than a minute passed before she felt the pressure of a hand on the roundness of her shoulder. "Hello," started a young man, sandy-haired and thin, with an angular face and imperfect teeth. "Can I buy you a drink?"

She pressed her lips together, and the slightest hint of a tongue tip pushed through the folds and wet the middle of the upper lip. "Yes," she smiled, "bourbon and water." She spoke softly, and he asked her to repeat her request. He summoned a bartender and shouted the order; the attendant disappeared for a moment, then returned with a glass. The sandy-haired young man extended his American Express card, and a bill was written up, which he signed.

"Much more convenient," he explained to Irene as he replaced the credit card in his wallet, then put the wallet inside the inner pocket of his plaid sport jacket. Irene sipped on the bourbon and water. "Good?" he asked, his brows knitting, "Strong."

"Good," he smiled, resuming his Scotch and soda. "My name's Jack. What's yours?"

"Irene," she replied, turning on a soft smile she did not feel. She wondered what he did. Was he intelligent? Probably not. It did not matter, not really. He was good-looking, with strong features and a lean body. His chin was like Cary Grant's, smoothly clefted. His hairline had not receded, and he was at the age when it would already have started. If the child did turn out to be a boy, she told herself, there was no reason he should be cursed with early baldness. His hands were bony, a blue network of vein inside the thin pink of the surface skin. She liked his eyes; in some lights they were blue, sometimes the movement of his head made them seem green. Finally she asked him which they were.

"Blue," he said and offered her a cigarette. She shook her head; she did not smoke, and people who did annoyed her, but she said nothing. He lit the end of the cigarette and inhaled. She studied his face. He was wearing light pants. They were tight. He had no hips to speak of. He would do, she told herself, and again the tongue slid through the lips to wet them.

She relaxed him and let him make his pitch. She knew that it was a prelude on his part to what he was really interested in, but some perversity forced her to be passive, almost resisting his exercise of charm. She was making him work for his fuck, she thought. He bought her another bourbon and water and had the bartender bring him another Scotch, straight this time.

"What's your sign?"

The question surprised her; it seemed abrupt and obligatory, something said to create conversation and not asked out of genuine curiosity. "Gemini. You?"

"Virgo."

"Oh." She did not know what to say.

"I didn't think you were a Gemini. I would have guessed Cancer."

"Either you're not a very good judge of character, or else it doesn't mean anything." She was not a great believer in astrology. He laughed and stand at the minor opposite the counter; finding her mildly sullen face reflected back at him.

He turned his head quickly. "Listen, would you rather I left you alone? It's really all right, it you would."

She felt a glimmer of compassion for him, though she had already classified him an idiot. She already felt the effects of the two drinks, for she hardly ever indulged in alcohol. There was no use really in continuing the ruse, and besides, she was impatient with it. Jack whatever-his-name-was would do as well as any other man.

"No, I'm sorry," she said, and now her voice was soft, just loud enough for him to hear as he strained. "I guess I am being a bitch. Why don't you take me home? Maybe if we can talk, I'll calm down." Only as the heavy words poured from her mouth did she realize that she was indeed tense, that she was afraid of this man she was about to use.

He forged a path for her through the tides of festive young men and women. In the parking lot he handed his ticket and a half-dollar piece to the attendant. A late-model Plymouth was driven out, and he turned to her. "Did you drive?"

"Yes," she answered. "But you can drive me back here, after." She paused and widened her eyes as she added, "I'm a bit drunk, you see." Her escort smiled, then walked around the car and held the door open for her.

"My place all right?" he asked. She nodded silently. He turned on the car radio, found a station programmed for "easy listening" music, and relaxed behind the wheel. He seemed alert and not at all drunk, not even high. She was silent until he drove up in front of a modern apartment building. There was a glass door and a terrace beyond that, around a well-lit pool. He wrapped his arm around Irene and led her up the stairs.