Tom Mendicino - Probation

My aunt has been watching for us at the kitchen window and comes outside to greet us, her arms open to embrace my mother. They have known each other for more than half a century, their entire lives, and no words are necessary between them. My aunt tries to hide her shock and concern. She knows my mother has been sick, but is unprepared for the fragile creature she has become.

There’s no affection in the hug she bestows on me. She’s never been fond of me. My aunt is a tough old bird, broad and squat, butch despite the bleached French twist she’s worn since the sixties. Almost seventy, she still walks like a shot-putter. Her one concession to the cool weather is not going barefoot and her little toes peek out of the frayed edges of her old, unlaced Keds. She loves boys, had three of them, and spent her life happily refereeing their roughhousing. My reticence as a child irritated her. She had no patience for any boy who feared bruises and pain.

I feel ten years old again.

I’m really nothing but a bystander, a spectator, to this weekend. I’ve finished my role, driving my mother, and have no other part to play. I have nothing to contribute to any conversations. My mother and aunt will take pleasure in each other’s company, both thankful the other is alive, the last survivors of their generation. My cousin and his family will go about their routines as if we aren’t here. I’ll find a quiet place to read, maybe slip into the living room and stare at the television. There are no Catholic churches in this corner of the world and I can’t even look forward to driving my mother to Mass to break the monotony. It will be an eternity until Sunday night when I will pack my mother into the car and head back down the hills, leaving this place behind.

Bobby’s wife is cheerful enough. She doesn’t mind the extra mouths to feed and enjoys the company. She knows we’ll keep out of the way and out from under her feet. Damn, she says, staring at an Easter Bunny cake with coconut frosting fur and jelly-bean eyes. She forgot to buy licorice whips for its whiskers. The cake seems odd, a little out of place. JR is a teenager, too old for Peter Rabbit. She frets that Bobby will be sure to notice if the whiskers are missing. She needs to make a quick run to the drugstore. I offer to go for her. It’s the least I can do. After all, there’s sweet satisfaction in learning that the Fearless Vampire Killer might break down in tears if his Easter Bunny’s missing his whiskers.

Up in Watauga County you can’t simply jump in the car and drive five minutes to the local superstore. This mission could take me the entire afternoon. The local convenience store only sells candy bars; the drugstore in the nearest town sold the last bag of licorice whips an hour ago. Too bad. I suppose I’ll have to drive all the way into Boone, to the Wal-Mart strip center or maybe to that little mall a few miles on the other side of the town. I’ll hang around, nothing better to do.

The mall is grim. Bottom-of-the-line chain stores, bad lighting, high vacancy rate. The man lingering at the entertainment shelf of Waldenbooks wouldn’t be my first or even second choice in a lineup of possibilities. He’s slightly effeminate, puffy, and wearing a shabby Members Only jacket. He flips through a picture book, The Films of Joan Crawford, his eyes darting quickly between the page and me until we establish there is an understanding, an attraction, a chemistry. I decide he’s not so bad after all. He’s got a pleasant smile and a dimpled chin, and his gold wedding band is a powerful aphrodisiac. He clears his throat and slips Joan back on the shelf.

I tell myself I’m not really going to do this. But I know that I am. No one will ever know. I’ll be careful. I won’t do it unless I’m absolutely certain it’s safe. I’m not really going to do it. It’s just a fantasy and I’m bored. I already have an erection. The fact that I’m nervous, very nervous, makes it more exciting. I’m on autopilot as I follow him. He walks slowly, looking back over his shoulder, not trusting he won’t lose me in a nearly empty mall deserted by everyone except a few elderly power walkers. He nods at the door marked Men and disappears inside. I steel myself for the inevitable: Just do it! There’s not another soul in sight. Do the deed, zip up, no harm, no foul.

“Hi, Andy.”

I’m speechless, confronted by my cousin Bobby’s son as he emerges from the restroom.

“Be out in a minute, really got to go,” I manage to say, flustered by this completely unexpected encounter.

He steps aside and I rush by. I’m so shaken I can barely locate my zipper. I fumble inside my shorts and try to find my dick. It’s shriveled into my body cavity. It’s not as if I had to piss anyway and I’m conscious of every passing second. I run my hands under the faucet, barely wetting them. My confused would-be paramour is peeping over the stall. I’m in and out in two minutes flat. No reason for anyone to be suspicious.

JR is standing at the door to Women, waiting for his girlfriend.

“Weird,” he says, “running into you here.”

He seems a bit embarrassed. Maybe he suspects something. I tell myself I’m being paranoid.

“Your mother sent me on a mission,” I say.

“Oh yeah?”

“Licorice whips.”

His eyebrows form a question mark.

“For the bunny cake.”

I’m spared further explanation by the appearance of his girlfriend. Amanda, I think he says her name is, Mandy.

“You had lunch yet? We’re going to grab something to eat.”

Mandy doesn’t look too pleased by his invitation. I tell him I’ve eaten and that I’ll catch up with him back at the house.

“Well, have coffee then. You can have a cup of coffee.”

She squeezes his arm, signaling him to not encourage me. She doesn’t attempt subtlety, doesn’t care I can see. Fuck the little slut. I say yes to spite her.

Mandy orders fries and a Diet Coke. She won’t take off her cheap leather jacket even though the mall is overheated. Her magenta nail polish is chipped. She affects the Gothic look, her hair dyed black, parted in the middle and breaking at her shoulder, trying to project sensitivity through fashion. I feel hopelessly middle aged in my pastel polo shirt.

Bobby’s son has changed since the last time I saw him. He’s always had a face that hinted at masculine beauty. Now, at the verge of manhood, it’s fulfilled its promise. He could pass for a heartthrob on one of those television teenage soap operas. Watauga County 90210. He has deep blue eyes and a perfect nose. His thick, shiny hair is a testimonial to the miracle qualities of his conditioner. He looks exactly like Bobby at his age except he didn’t inherit the cruel streak that cast in cold stone those same perfect features in his father.

I congratulate him on his big news. He’s headed for Chapel Hill come fall. It’s a couple hundred miles away and on the other side of the moon. He’s already shed the clothes of Watauga County. Gone are the dirty sneakers and down jackets, replaced by black T-shirts and boots, the look of MTV. A thrift-shop overcoat is slung over his chair. But none of these accoutrements, intended to make him look dark and ominous, can dampen his sunny disposition. He’s a terrible mismatch with this scrawny vulture who’s licking the ketchup off a greasy limp fry.

We talk about college. He tries to appear world weary, but can’t hide his eager giddiness at escaping this pit. He says he’s sure that no one on campus will be cool, but it’s just a show of bravado. He’s already worried he’s going to come off as a country bumpkin. We talk about pop music. He’s amazed at how familiar I, a dinosaur, am with his favorites from the college radio station. I ask Mandy where she’s going to college. She responds with a look of sheer hatred. I’ve picked at a scab.