Mary Jenkins - A mother_s forbidden passion

Except perhaps, for Bette, the Bette he had known and coveted in his quiet way more than five years ago.

The thoughts which were revolving in young Tony Clark's mind were those of doubt and youthfully irrational hatred which had had five years to grow and become firmly implanted – and yet, ambivalently, there was also a remembrance of the love he'd once felt for his mother, the adoration of her beauty and her gentleness which had never been totally destroyed by the hatred. Now, with the passage of five years' time, Tony recalled many of the good things of his relationship with his mother – things which he had automatically blocked out of his mind as he heaped the full blame for the destruction of his home – and then for his father's death – on her shoulders.

He wished he knew how he felt, deep down. Did he love her? Or did he hate her? Did he want to see her again in spite of the vow he had made never to do so? It must be that way, he must want to see her, or else why would he have given in to his uncle's prodding insistence that they allow her to come for a visit? She was a damned slut, running out on him and Dad the way she had – or was she? Maybe Uncle Ken was right, maybe she just made a very human and stupid mistake and was repenting now for what she'd done and fully deserving of his forgiveness. A person could only be punished so much for his sins, wasn't that right? Maybe his mother had suffered enough.

Tony twisted uncomfortably on the couch, finally got to his feet and went to the window and looked out. The street, visible through the front yard shrubbery, was deserted. He turned away, facing his uncle.

Ken looked at him kindly and smiled. "Nervous, Tony?" he asked.

Tony started to deny it then shrugged and sighed. "Yeah, I guess I am, Uncle Ken."

"It will be all right, you'll see."

"I don't know," Tony said. "I hope so."

"Just remember that she's your mother and that in spite of everything, she loves you. She told me that more than once on the telephone, Tony."

"She sure has a funny way of proving her love," Tony said bitterly.

"Look son, she knows what she's done, and she wants to come home. She needs our help. We can't shut her out now. She's at an emotional crisis point in her life, and if we reject her, there's no telling what might happen."

"She rejected us, didn't she?"

"That was a long time ago. She knows better now."

"Does she really?"

"I think so, Tony; I really think so."

The handsome youth worried his lower lip, turning back to the window. There was movement on the street now, a car – a taxicab – was drawing up in front of the house. Tony felt a knot form in his throat, and he choked it down. "She she's here," he whispered.

Ken looked out of the window then put a reassuring hand on his nephew's shoulder, his own anxiousness thinly concealed on his face. "Let's go out and meet her, shall we?"

"Okay."

Ken opened the door and the two of them stepped out onto the flagstone porch area in front. They saw the blonde woman emerge from the taxi, saw the vehicle drive away, and then she was coming through the front gate carrying a single suitcase in her hand, her steps slow and hesitant. As she approached, Ken felt his heart thudding in his chest at the initial sight of Bette after five years' time; she was thinner than he remembered her, her face drawn, her shoulders stooped with inner torment and weariness. But she was still beautiful, the years had been kind to her firm ripe body, and her long legs were beautiful beneath the blue dress she wore. Ken's throat was dry, and there was a curious fluttering sensation in the pit of his stomach.

Tony seemed to be frozen immobile by the figure of his mother. The handsome teenage youth was torn between a sudden impulsive urge to turn and rush back into the house – and an equally strong impulse to step forward, greet his mother, take her into his arms as he used to do as a child. There was so much pain in her face, in the way she walked; it wasn't at all as he had expected her to look. Somehow he had had the mental fantasy that she would be fat and overblown, that the years of easy living in Chicago would have added weight and blowsiness to her lovely body and face. Still, she was just a shadow of her former self, of the happy, smiling, gentle woman he had known and loved, and the sight of her brought emotion welling deep within him. Suddenly, with crystal clarity, he knew that he couldn't, wouldn't reject his mother – that she had been hurt enough, that she did need help and understanding.

Bette saw the two men standing on the porch ahead, and her step faltered, slowed even more. Then she regained her stride, her eyes wide and shining, and moved toward them. As she drew closer she recognized Ken's handsome quietly smiling face; he had not changed much, he was still a strong silent man, a man she felt somehow close to – a good, kind man. And then her eyes shifted, and she was startled momentarily, her step again faltering. Tony? she thought. Tony? Is that really you? You you were such an awkward little boy when I I left, and now you're grown up, a man, a tall and handsome man. You look like David, like David and Ken. Oh Tony, Tony.

When Bette reached the porch, she stopped, looking up at the two men there, and she could feel tears forming in her eyes. The three of them stood uncomfortably in the silence of the summer afternoon, looking at one another, only their eyes touching or moving. Bette wanted to smile or speak, but the muscles in her face and throat seemed frozen. Tony was staring at her with an expression of confusion and discomfort – but without malice, without hatred. Bette's mind rejoiced, and Ken was smiling quietly, his eyes bright.

At long last, Ken stepped forward and took the suitcase gently out of Bette's fingers. Then softly he said, "Hello Bette, it's good to have you back."

It was as if those words were a switch reactivating machines that had abruptly come to a standstill. Bette stepped forward, and as she did, Tony also moved toward her. Then, with a rush, Bette had flung herself into the arms of Ken and Tony, crying openly and unashamedly, holding to both of them as if she never wanted to let them go, saying, "Tony, Tony, Tony," over and over again. And they held her, both of them, and over her soft blonde hair, Ken met Tony's eyes, saw the compassion in them, the glimmer of returning love, and he knew that everything was going to be all right.

Bette whispered softly then, lifting her head and looking at each of them in turn, "I'm glad I came, I'm glad I came home."

Once Bette's things had been put away in the spare bedroom, and she had freshened up after her long journey, the three of them sat on the patio, where it was cooler, and drank iced lemonade, which Ken made in two large pitchers. There had not been much said since the tearful reunion on the porch, for a shy awkwardness still existed between the three; but there was no more tension, and each knew that it was only a matter of time before they could be easy and natural with one another.

Bette found herself looking again and again at the handsome face of her son, and she felt a deep ache of pride and love and hope each time. The finest moment in the past year – no, in the past five years – had been the feel of his body pressed against hers there on the porch, for she knew that she had not lost him after all – that there was still a chance for togetherness, for renewal of the once powerful affection they had once had for each other.

Bette sipped at her lemonade, truly at peace for the first time in long, torturous months, and let her gaze wander over the rear yard of Ken's home. She had been here before, of course, but it had been such a long time ago that she had forgotten just how pleasant and comfortable it was. In addition to the large kidney – shaped pool, the patio, and a good-sized dressing cabana on the far side, there was a large expanse of cushiony green lawn, a landscaped rock garden, even a small fountain which seemed to draw birds of several different varieties, their chattering and fluttering filling the quiet afternoon air. The porch behind them was large, with windows facing out on the pool that were covered by rattan curtains, and off on their left was an impressive stone-and-mortar barbecue which Ken had built himself and of which he was inordinately proud.