They bonded over those expectant months. When Katy finally gave birth, she had a little boy. He was named after his father. Clifford Junior. Katy called him C.J. from the start. But it did not turn out to be the happy, blessed event everyone was expecting.
Before long it became obvious that something was not right with the little boy, and after umpteen tests and referrals and doctors and prayers and fits of angst and depression and optimism and hopelessness, they learned that their precious little boy had muscular dystrophy. And it wasn't the run-of-the-mill, everyday muscular dystrophy, which was bad enough, but it was the ugly, ruthless, evil, black sheep cousin of M.D., the one that guaranteed a short life. Duchenne syndrome, they called it. C.J. was a very sick little boy.
----
After the phone call from his mother, Dillon went to work that day and went through the motions for eight hours. He was a salesman for a company that sold lawn, garden and farm equipment, but he didn't sell anything that day. Not even close. His heart and mind were far away. About the only thing he accomplished was to arrange to take a couple days off so he could go back home, or what was once his home, and attend the funeral.
He got back to his apartment that night, ate a grilled cheese sandwich and a bowl of soup for dinner, and did a load of laundry. He was happy his roommate wasn't around because he wasn't in the mood to chit-chat. He had just started to pack a bag for the trip when his mother called and told him the funeral plans. There would be viewings on each of the next two nights, Wednesday and Thursday, and the funeral would be Friday morning. He decided he would work Wednesday, and drive there on Thursday for the viewing. If all went well he could attend the funeral on Friday, and have the weekend to visit with his folks and maybe a friend or two.
----
The first few years of C.J.'s life were a steady parade of doctor's offices, tests, grim news and hopes for a miracle. It put a great strain on Katy and Cliff of course, and their marriage began to suffer. Katy was a strong mom, but her sadness was a weight that became harder and harder to disguise. Cliff had a terrible time coping with having a terminally-ill child, as if his sperm were the cause of it and somehow made him less of a man. He appeared embarrassed and ashamed, and never bonded with his son. He traveled more and more, and drank more and more, distancing himself, trying to lessen the pain and desperation. As C.J. was growing up, his dad was not much of a factor. His parents eventually separated, got back together, separated again. Wash, Rinse, Repeat.
Dillon continued doing the chores Katy asked him to do, often with C.J. sitting in his wheelchair on the back deck, watching him. He'd always make a point to sit with C.J. for a while, and they would talk about things. A lot of things. Especially sports.
Dillon was amazed with C.J.'s knowledge of sports, especially baseball and football. Although he'd never play the games, even at the age of six or seven C.J. knew the rules and all the players and their numbers and their stats and where they'd gone to college, and he asked smart questions. He knew the histories of the sports, facts and events from way before his time, stuff of which Dillon had no clue. Mother Nature had given C.J. a badly-damaged body, but she had also given him a brilliant and curious mind.
By the time Dillon was a senior in high school, he was a star on the baseball team. Katy would bring C.J. to all the home games and would park his wheelchair in the special spot the team had reserved for him, where he'd root for his team. The players would come over to him and say hi, and considered him the team mascot and their number one fan.
Over the years Dillon had spent hundreds and hundreds of hours doing chores for Katy, and spending time talking with her and C.J. As a result, he came to realize two very important things.
One, C.J. was not just an unfortunate, disabled kid who happened to live next door. No, he was much more than that. He was smart, he was witty, and despite everything he'd been through, he was a happy child. He was a friend. A close friend. Like the little brother he'd never had.
And two, he no longer just viewed Katy as the amazing mom next door who didn't talk down to him and paid him to do jobs that needed to be done around the house. He saw her differently now. She was a friend, yes, but she was a woman. A strong, attractive woman. Some innocent flirting happened from time to time. So what if she's fifteen years older, he thought. No harm done.
He found himself admiring her pretty face, trim body, firm breasts, and tight ass. And he always noticed her fingernails. They were always manicured and neatly polished, and regardless of what color she'd chosen for her other seven fingers and her two thumbs, her right pinky was always the same: Bright, fluorescent purple. It stood out like a beacon, and Dillon didn't know what it meant, but he liked it.
He didn't act on his desires, of course. Why would a thirty-something, semi-married woman with a sick child be interested in an eighteen year old boy? He tried to put her out of his mind. He went off to college and studied and got involved in a number of activities. He partied and slept with various girls. But when he came home for holidays or summer vacations, he would always spend time next door with Katy and C.J.
When Dillon came home for the summer after his sophomore year of college, he was twenty years old. He went next door to visit, and learned that the doctor had placed C.J. in a treatment facility for a few days for another battery of tests. That's when his affair with Katy began.
----
It was a five hour drive. Dillon didn't remember most of it, which kind of scared him. He had no recollection of miles and miles of highway that had disappeared into his rear view mirror. His mind was focused on what lay ahead. How was Katy holding up? Would Cliff make a scene? How would people react when he showed up? Would he be welcomed, or sneered at? Would his parents be embarrassed, or would they support him?
He'd timed things perfectly. The viewing was scheduled for six- until eight p.m., and he pulled into the funeral home parking lot at 6:30. He drove to the farthest end and parked his car. He sat, rested, waited. He reached to his right and picked up the small bottle of nail polish from the passenger seat. Neon Purple. He shook it, uncapped it, and carefully applied it to the fingernail on his right pinky. He blew on it until it dried. Then he took a deep breath, straightened his tie, opened the door, got out, retrieved his sport coat from the hook above the backseat window, and walked to the building.
----
Dillon got home on a Thursday afternoon in late May after completing his sophomore year of college. In a week or two he'd receive his grades and officially be a junior. He would be home for three months, and would start his summer job in a few days. After dinner with his parents, he noticed that Katy's car still was not parked in her driveway next door. It hadn't been there earlier when he'd gotten home, which was not unusual, but Katy always made a point to have C.J.'s dinner ready at the same time every night, and now it was well past that time. He looked out the window periodically, checking for Katy's car. At a little after nine o'clock he noticed that her car was now in her driveway. It was getting a bit late for a social call, but when he saw the light go on in the den, he figured what the hell, he'd go over and say hi.
When Katy opened the door, he could tell right away that something was wrong. Her blond hair was bunched into a cabbage ball atop her head, her blouse was wrinkled, her lean face looked stressed along with her tired eyes.
"Hi, Dillon," she said, when she opened the door. Her faced shriveled into a sad prune. "He's in the hospital."
She burst into tears. Dillon didn't know what to say, but instinctively took her into his arms and hugged her. That was a first, but he held her tightly, felt the curves of her body hard against his. She hugged him back, put her head against his shoulder, and cried harder. He let her cry.
When her tears subsided they went into the den. They sat on the couch, side by side. Katy explained that C.J. had had an attack of some sort and couldn't breathe. She called 911. He was back in the hospital. More tests, more scans, more doctors. She was a nervous wreck and scared shitless. Dillon tried to calm her as best he could, tried to assure her. Cliff was not around, as usual.
He noticed he was holding her hand. He looked at her slender fingers, her polished nails. All of her nails were painted black, except one: Her right pinky was purple. He'd always been curious about this habit of hers, this purple pinky. He'd noticed it many times, and no matter whether the rest of her nails were polished or not, her right pinky always was, and always stood out in bright purple.
"What's with the purple pinky?" he asked, wrapping his fingers around hers. "I've always wondered, but never asked."
"It's for C.J." Katy said. "I think about him all day, everyday."
He squeezed her hand and pinky. She squeezed back.
"You know his favorite football team?" she said.
