“A woman should have more than a figure.”
“I’m sorry I’m late.” Allison flew through the front door of their apartment, dry cleaning in one hand and a pink, square box in the other. A small, white purse dangled off her shoulder by a long metal strap. “I decided at the last minute to get my hair cut and colored. What do you think, babe?”
Cal observed Ally from his perch on the arm of the sofa, phone at his ear, watching as Allison tossed her hair — or what was left of it. Then he covered the mouthpiece, looked across the room toward the kitchen, and said, “What do you think, Mom?”
“Oh, God.” After giving Cal the stink eye, she turned her attention to his mother. “Mrs. Prescott, I didn’t realize you were already here.”
Cal’s mother merely smirked. Cal smiled as well, the moment like a private joke between them.
After draping the plastic bags across one of the dining chairs and placing the bakery box and purse on the table, Allison made her way toward Cal’s mother. They’d never met. Cal had told her about Constance, though.
And she didn’t disappoint.
Sixty-something, nontraditionally attractive, wearing a lavender 1960s-looking polyester suit complete with white satin gloves, she stood stoically and aloof near the island in the kitchen — no, Constance Prescott never disappointed. Unless she meant to.
“Did you come from the beach?” His mother’s words slid from her mouth smoothly, the way Cal’s often did.
“No.” Allison fingered the material of her slinky, red dress, the one with shoestring straps climbing both sides of her body from waist to bra line. “This is my fun dress. Cal likes it.”
“I’m sure he does.” Constance glared at him, and even though he was still busy with the cordless, he noticed, absorbing energy and body language — as usual.
“Well, then”—Allison extended her palm—“shall we shake hands?”
The poised woman removed one of her gloves, pulling each finger out slowly, then she stretched out her arm.
“I’m glad to meet you.”
“Yes.”
“How was your flight?”
“What are we having for dinner?” Constance replied instead, and Cal had to bite back a smile as he made his way to the kitchen. His phone call had ended.
“It’s only”—Allison checked her watch—“five forty. Where should we go, Cal?”
“We talked about that new place up on—”
“I don’t want to go out anywhere in this city.”
“We’re in the city now, Mom.”
“I thought your”—she made a gesture—“girlfriend would prepare something.”
“Ally doesn’t cook.” Cal stood across from both women at the island. “I told you we would be going out.”
“You never cook?” Constance gifted Allison her cool blue gaze again.
“No,” Ally replied with a bit of laughter. “I don’t enjoy it. We can order in if you prefer.”
“No,” Cal countered, already starting to tire of the evening before it had truly begun. “We’re going out.” He took a glass from the cabinet.
“Would you like some wine, Mrs. Prescott?” Allison asked as she opened the refrigerator.
“No, thank you.” Constance put her glove back on.
Cal poured a finger of whiskey, slammed the shot, then stared up at the ceiling.
“This is the pussy wine.” Allison grabbed the bottle from the fridge and peered at the label, leaving the appliance door hanging wide open. “Is this all we have?”
Cal swiped the bottle from her hand while fighting a grin. What he really wanted, was to flip her around and smack her ass until she screamed.
Allison smiled and nodded at his mother. “Are you sure you don’t want some wine?”
“No, thank you.” Constance folded her arms across her chest.
Allison took out a glass. Cal removed the cork.
“So, do you like my hair?” Allison pressed her breasts to his bicep. Her touch felt good. A relief. Temporary but needed. “You never said.”
Cal eyed what he poured, ignoring Allison’s new short, jet-black hair. “I’m not used to it yet, Ally.”
“I was a blonde.” Allison turned and placed her palm on his mother’s bicep.
Constance glared down at Allison’s red fingernails. Cal had to stifle a laugh again.
“Were you ever a blonde?” she asked Constance as she removed her palm. “Cal’s hair lightens up a lot in the sun.” Putting her hands into it, Ally tugged at his strands. “God, I love his hair.”
“Mom’s hair has always been auburn. It used to be a little lighter than it is now.”
“I can answer for myself, Calvin. I am in the room.” Constance went toward the living area, took a seat in a chair, and unbuttoned her blazer.
“I’m going to go upstairs and get changed, Calvin.” Ally winked and grinned. “Come up,” she mouthed, slipping off her pumps near the landing.
“No.” Laughing a little, he shook his head.
“Suit yourself.” Ally pranced up the staircase in the red shoelace dress, barefoot, sure to sway the hips and ass Cal wanted to use for leverage.
He could use some leverage right about now.
He wondered how many shots of whiskey he could manage before he might appear drunk.
A moment later, Cal joined his mother, taking a seat on the small couch, a fresh glass of Crown in his hand. Constance sat across from him, posture perfect, palms clasped.
“Since when do you drink hard liquor?”
Cal peered at the liquid, the light coming from the window illuminated its honey color. “Her father got me started on it.” He glanced at the stairs. "He enjoys conversation, drinking, cigars. I like the drink.”
“And the smoke?”
“No, Mom. You know that’s not my thing.”
“I wouldn’t know what you like anymore.” She commanded his attention using only her gaze. Their eyes shared shape and intention but not color. He’d learned more from her than he cared to admit.
“What do you see in her?” His mother never wasted breath. She didn’t bat an eyelash. “A woman should have more than a figure.”
Cal stared off into the distance, then he swallowed some of the alcohol. Tilting his head down, he waited for the slow finish — from both the whiskey and her forthcoming lesson.
“And she makes sure to show you that.” Constance stacked her hands atop each other, speaking each word like a president might on Inauguration Day. “There’s nothing left to the imagination.”
Cal’s lips curved up. Constance’s curved down.
“Women can dress sexy—”
“It can’t be the money either. I taught you better than that.”
She’d taught him better than that? Cal held in a belly laugh. What kind of horseshit was she spewing now? The dollar had been almighty in Constance’s house even when pinched and scrounged and saved. It had always been worth looking after, for her and by her, anytime — all the time. She’d made sure Cal understood its importance.
“The money ... it will never bring you happiness.”
“What will?” he snapped, losing the fun of their contrived conversation. “Do you have the market cornered on happiness?”
“You can see straight through her, and I don’t just mean the dress. She is transparent. Someone like her could never be a good wife.”
“What do you know about that? About being a wife?”
“Don’t speak to me that way.”
“Don’t speak to me that way. I’m twenty-five years old.”
“Young enough to make ignominious choices. When will you stop making decisions that are not becoming of you?”
“They’re my choices.” He looked away from her Parthenon face. “Not yours.”
“So, you care for her, then? Is that why you’re being so defensive with me?”
“I’m defensive with you because you’re riding me.”
“What kind of expression is that? Riding you? That’s vulgar. You both talk profanely.”
“I can talk and do as I fucking please.”
She shifted her head and focused her gaze on the blank television screen. Cal finished his Crown.
“Why don’t you have a drink?” he finally said after several minutes of uncomfortable silence. “I bought you that wine.”
“That wine?”
“She’s a snob, Mom.”
“What am I?” Ally stepped into the kitchen. Constance and Cal both looked in her direction.
“A snob.” Cal grinned.
“You like my dress?” Ally winked. “Much better, I’m sure.”
The dress wasn’t necessarily better, but it was stunning and long, strapless and beige, had a V-neck. It fit snugly against her slim body, its hem falling inches from the floor. Cal’s eyes followed the slit in the material from ankle to thigh, wanting to taste the skin it exposed, imagining lifting her onto the countertop, pushing up the skirt, then feasting on the treasure beneath.
“Come help me with this, Cal.” Allison held a necklace against her collarbone.
“You look amazing,” he whispered the moment he reached her.
His mother remained ensconced in the chair, gloved hands in her lap, spine stiff and straight.
Cal finished clasping the string of gold, then he tugged on Ally’s hair. “I’m not sure about the color.”
“Now I match,” she quietly cooed, putting his hand over her crotch. The island hid what he touched. “I match.”
After squeezing her ass cheek, Cal smiled and took a wineglass out for his mother.
“Pour me some more of that—”
“Zinfandel?” Cal raised his brows.
“Yes, please.” Allison grinned as she made her way to the living room. “How long will you be staying, Mrs. Prescott?” She took a seat. “Should I call you that?”
“Yes. I prefer you call me Mrs. Prescott.” Constance crossed her ankles, somehow sitting taller than before. “Will you be staying here with us, Allison?”
“I live here.”
“She knows that.” Cal joined them, handing them each a glass. “Mother.”
“I’ll be here for three days. Didn’t he tell you our plans?” Constance adjusted the lapels of her blazer and smiled, probably reveling at the idea that Cal seemed to keep things from Allison, simple things, maybe even complex things.
Cal and Allison rarely shared feelings. Only moods.
“Cal promised to take off work and spend each day with me.” She brushed nothing from her skirt with care.
“He’s a good son.” Ally eyed Cal. “God, I’m dying for a smoke. What time do you want to leave, babe?”
“Mom?”
“Apparently I’m at your beck and call.”
“Finish your wine, then we’ll head out.”
After taking a cigarette and lighter from her purse, Allison stepped onto the patio overlooking the park and closed the door.
“You’ll be sharing a bedroom with her?” Constance flicked a glance outside.
“You know I’ve lived with her for over a year.”
“I thought when I visited, she would make other arrangements.”
“That’s ridiculous. I sleep with women.”
“You’re seeing others?”
“No, that’s not what I meant.”
“I thought while I was here, you would—”
“What? You thought that I would be chaste?”
Constance brought the glass to her lips, swallowing a good portion of the pussy wine.
“I don’t have a problem with sex ... or my sexuality. I don’t need to hide who I am or what I do in front of you.”
“Don’t talk to me like this.” She pulled her skirt toward her knees.
“You brought it up.”
“Not like this.”
“Well, Allison is sleeping here, in my bed, where we will—”
“Calvin! That’s enough.” A slight tremor crossed her entire frame, but she quickly buttoned it up along with all things labeled taboo.
The silence afforded Cal a moment to regard his mother’s so-called perfection: gray she covered with auburn, lines near her eyes and across her forehead, the steady hand she wielded when seeking domination.
“You like it that she smokes?” Constance cleared her throat and pushed hair away from her temple.
Both mother and son turned their attention to Allison. Slender and tall, Ally appeared as carefree as a wild stallion. A light wind blew what remained of her mane. Now she would match. Cal smirked. She wasn’t a natural blonde either...
“We have to talk about something else while you’re here. I don’t have to keep explaining this relationship to you.”
“I will ask you what I ought to know.” She touched her hair again, the gesture increasing in frequency since the swift downing of the wine. Per usual, she ought to know everything. She enjoyed jabbing Cal in the spleen. “Do you like it that she smokes?”
“I don’t make her decisions. I don’t tell her how to live.”
“No, but you choose to spend your time with her.” The words trickled out of her mouth slowly and methodically. “A lot of your time. This is not a casual acquaintance we’re talking about. It will affect you. You would marry someone who smokes?”
“I’m not getting married anytime soon.”
“Don’t keep disregarding my questions. You don’t like the habit. Don’t you have any standards?”
Jesus Christ. They had already chosen Standards for $1000.
“People smoke,” he retorted, feeling his green eyes blaze. “Grandpa smoked a pipe. You need to stop with the judgment. Stop judging Allison.”
“Your grandfather was an outstanding man.”
“I know.” And Cal missed him every fucking day.
“When you do decide to take a woman — for a true partner in life…”
“Mom—”
“Even if it’s not in marriage, is this what you want for yourself? Or is this only fun?” His mother uttered the word fun as though it were no fun. “Is this what all the young people do nowadays? Flirt and live together in sin only for fun?”
“I’m having fun.”
“Are you? Because I don’t remember you ever looking so unhappy.”
“I always look unhappy.”
“No, it’s this city.” She set the wineglass down and gestured. “It’s—”
“It’s not the fucking city.” Standing, he pinched his nose. “It’s not the smoking, the clothes, the wine, or the girl... It’s nothing! Stop it, okay? You just got here. We have three days of this”—his hands flew from his sides—“this … this bullshit!”
A wicked grin lit her eyes but it never reached her lips. “I can leave.”
Those well-chosen words hung in the air like an icicle, her mouth like the opening of a large chest freezer. After running his fingers through his hair, he lowered to his haunches and placed his hands on the arms of her chair.
“No, Mom,” he uttered, his heart welling with both dejection and longing. “I want you to stay.”
Constance’s gloved hands remained pressed against her thighs as she peered into Cal’s eyes — her only child, her son. The same odd smile present, shimmering only in her stare, her blue eyes shining with love, a strange kind of love, a kind only she could impart, coming from a place she couldn’t access.
Then it spread across her thin lips, splintering like a perfect crack over a frozen lake.