Small Favors And Dirty Laundry

Gary Sutcliff's mom always hated me. Well, maybe hate is too strong a word. She never cared for me. I'm not sure why exactly, but I have ideas. Perhaps it started from the time Gary and I had a tiff and, seeking revenge, I hurled a stone through his bedroom window. It didn't help either that, following another tiff, I sledge-hammered the Sutcliff's flagstone walkway. That's enough for an adult not to care for a kid, even though he's friends with her own kid. Still, you'd think that Rene Sutcliff, Gary's mom, would chalk those incidents up to pre-teen antics and get over it, just as I grew out of doing dumb, destructive things.

But she didn't. While Dr. Vincent Sutcliff appeared indifferent, Mrs. Sutcliff let me know that I wasn't exactly on her A-list. As teens, Gary and I would continue to spend time over each other's houses. Even by then, Rene still greeted me with cold stares, usually accompanied by the silent treatment. She spoke to me only after I tried speaking with her, and then only to answer me in the most terse, condescending manner. She did this up until I turned eighteen and began attending junior college. Gary, who had always been a much better student than me (and let me know it), got accepted at an out-of-state college, Princeton, no less.

One day during spring semester while food shopping at Giant, I came upon Mrs. Sutcliff outside the store, struggling with her packages. After making it to her white Lexus on the parking lot, one of the packages slipped from her arms and onto the asphalt. I jogged over to help.

Squatting on the ground, she looked up, her green eyes wide with surprise. "Uh, thanks, Adam," she said. "Yes, I could use some help. Guess I should have used a shopping cart."

"How's Gary doing?" I asked after getting her bags in. We hadn't been in touch since he left for Princeton. Not only did he ignore my emails, he refused to hang out with me after returning home from winter break. He was "too busy," he said.

"You mean you're too good for me," I had shot back, "Princeton man and all that." He gave me a "whatever," and we hadn't spoken since.

I then realized that he had assumed his mom's haughty, condescending attitude toward me. "Gary's doing great," she gushed. "He's acing his exams just as he did in high school. Plus, he made the dean's list last semester. And how are you doing at that, ahem, junior college you attend? Baynesville Community is it?"

"Yes, Baynesville," I said, struggling to keep my cool. "I'm doing okay, getting by."

She folded her arms against her chest and shook her head the way adults do to shame children. "Just getting by...Well, I guess some things never change. You know, I never understood..." She stepped back as if to say never mind.

After waiting a few seconds for her to finish, I said, "You never understood what, Mrs. Sutcliff?"

"Well, frankly, I never understood why you and Gary stayed friends for as long as you did. I mean, you're both sports fanatics, so you have that in common. But when it comes to matters of the intellect, you must feel terribly outgunned."

In truth, I always did feel "outgunned" next to Gary. He was an academic standout at Cardiff Hall, a prestigious prep school he attended through twelfth grade, while I struggled through public school, earning Cs and Ds and spending one summer in summer school to make up a flunked algebra course. So I couldn't argue with her. On the contrary, I admitted as much, and then said, "Which I guess has always been your problem with me, isn't it? I don't measure up. Like mother, like son."

Startled by my self-deprecating candor, she changed her tone. "Look, Adam, in some ways, you turned out to be a decent kid. I hear you're involved in raising awareness to the dangers of drinking and driving after your nephew was killed by a drunk driver." I nodded. "And we all know that some people are born with greater native intelligence than others. We can't choose our DNA."

"Right."

"So I can't hold it against you that you're not Gary's equal when it comes to...well, let's call it academic achievement."

"So why do you?"

"I don't."

"Yes you do."

She sighed. "Adam, I'll admit that your mediocre academic resume' leaves something to be desired. Crappy grades are not something that doctor Sutcliff and I would tolerate with Gary. And if the best Gary could do for college was Baynesville Community...well, perish the thought. Thank goodness we don't have to deal with that. But not measuring up, as you put it, isn't the only reason I'm less than enamored with you. In fact, it's kind of minor compared to what you did a couple weeks ago."

"So it has nothing to do with the broken window and sledgehammer," I said, trying to humor her.

She didn't crack a smile. "No Adam, nothing to do with your past destructive impulses, although I can see you still haven't grown up in some ways."

I stood and stared, truly stumped. "Haven't grown up?"

"Yes, Adam, haven't grown up," she said, wagging her finger at me. "Mature people don't peek in their neighbors' windows at night. In addition to being not terribly bright, you're a voyeur, a Peeping Tom. Deny it and I'll call you a liar to your face."

I began to sweat because she had just confirmed what I had feared, that she had indeed seen me on one of my recent nocturnal excursions. I had run like hell when she came to the window. I knew she had seen me, though wasn't sure if she could identify me. "I'm sorry" is all I could think to say. "It won't happen again."

"What did you see that was so interesting?" she said, her look of contempt now mixed with one of bemused curiosity.

Was she kidding? If she had truly seen me that night, she would know what I had found interesting. She had to be bating me. While thinking what to say next, my mind flashed back to the scene.

The Sutcliffs lived in a modern split-level with lots of glass. Ducking behind a backyard rosebush, I had a clear view into their living room, where I saw Rene and Dr. Vincent Sutcliff on the sofa, engaging in what appeared to be sexual foreplay—at least on Rene's part. Dr. Sutcliff was trying to watch TV, all but ignoring his wife's obvious efforts to divert his attention toward her. My cock strained hard against my underwear watching her stand in front of her husband, lifting her dress and exposing her gorgeous legs adorned with garters and black stockings. What's more, she wasn't wearing panties! I couldn't believe his insouciance, giving her a token feel, but not much else. Perhaps he was burnt-out, I had thought. After all, he was a guy nearing sixty, some fifteen years older than his wife. But I wasn't inclined to tell Mrs. Sutcliff.

"Well, what was so interesting?" she repeated, annoyed at my silence. "Do tell."

"Nothing really," I said, looking down, focusing my eyes on her legs, smooth and tanned and exposed just past her knees. In image, Rene Sutcliff fit my idea of the perfect MILF. As noted, she had great legs, legs that reminded me of the women George Petty once drew for Esquire Magazine, incredibly shapely with thick dimpled knees. Her skin glowed smooth and soft, not bad for a woman in her mid-forties. And the few wrinkles around her eyes and creased across her forehead actually enhanced her erotic appeal. I wasn't the only young guy in the neighborhood who craned their necks to see her alight from her car, watching her dress or skirt ride up, sometimes to her panties. Gary was too embarrassed to say anything when he saw us looking. Even in casual dress, she kept her shoulder-length, wavy brown hair set as if she had just come from her beautician.

"I'm up here, Adam," Rene said, catching me looking, a gratified smile plastered across a face that you might have seen on a nineteen-forties cover girl, given her retro hair style, perfect teeth, high cheek bones and wide, expressive mouth, dressed in red lipstick. Then she got serious. "So, are you going to tell me what possessed you to violate our privacy and then scram when I came to the window? Those rose bushes don't make for good cover, especially with the security lights turned on. Guess you found that out, huh?"

"Like I said, it will never happen again," I repeated.

"I'm sure it won't, Adam, because if it does, I'll notify your folks. Understand?"I nodded and began to walk away, when she said, "Not so fast. You didn't answer my question. What did you see from your little rosebush hideaway?"

I was afraid to ask why she was pursuing this and too embarrassed to tell her what I saw. "Not much, just you and Doctor Sutcliff watching TV."

"Huh huh," she said, her tone loaded with sarcasm. "Then why did you keep looking? Watching two people watching TV seems rather boring to me. Is that how you get your kicks?"

I wiped the sweat from my brow and looked away. "No."

"No. So what then were you looking at?"

"Nothing."

"You saw more than just us watching TV, didn't you?" she said, not bothering to hide her impatience. "You can tell me, I'm not going to slap you, although I probably should."

Finally, I had had enough and broke down. "I saw what looked to be your efforts to entice doctor Sutcliff into doing something other than watch TV."

She threw her head back and laughed. Clearly, she enjoyed watching me squirm. "And did you learn anything?"

My annoyance at her "interrogation" began to temper my inhibition. "Only what I already knew," I said, fully prepared for my next line.

"And what's that?"

"You have great legs."

It surprised me when she didn't get mad. Instead, she laughed again. "So I've been told," she said, looking down and raising her pleated yellow skirt a few inches. "Anything else?"

"Anything else?"

"Yes, did you learn anything else?"

Only that she had a husband who apparently was no longer interested in sex. But I wasn't going to reveal that no matter how hard she "interrogated" me.

"Nothing else," I said. "Remember, you caught me looking, and I wasn't there for very long."

Slowly, she nodded and looked over my shoulder, appearing to fish for something else to say. Then she said, "Adam, something tells me you're not too experienced when it comes to the opposite sex. Am I right?"

She was right if she meant intercourse. I HAD banged a host of triples with different girls in the car and on more sofas than I could count. Rather than tell her that, I simply shrugged.

"Just as I thought," she said, her face showing mild concern. "Well, I guess that's another thing you and my son have in common. You're both socially awkward. For all his brilliance, Gary's still shy around girls. You have more experience with girls than he has, I'll bet."

I shrugged again. "Could be."

She glanced at her watch. "Well, I'll let you go." Putting a hand on my shoulder, she said, "For what it's worth, I'm surprised some girl hasn't lassoed you by now. For all your faults, you're a good looking kid, kind of remind me of someone I dated before meeting my husband. Look at you, a blue-eyed, well-built six-footer, with a helmet of straight blondish hair—I'm glad to see you haven't shaved your head like so many young men today. You shouldn't have to peek into windows to get a cheap thrill, is my point."

I watched as she swung into her car, getting an eyeful of her legs as she did. "Look, if you ever..." she started to say before driving off. Then: "Oh, never mind. Bye Adam, thanks for helping me with the packages."

That strange encounter left me profoundly confused. She puts me down one moment, then praises me the next. And what was it that she started to say? Was she hinting at a proposition? That seemed preposterous given her past treatment of me, not to mention the perfect, problem-free, Leave It To Beaver life that was my image of the Sutcliffs. Her husband was a reputable oral surgeon. She had a son at Princeton and an older daughter at Wellesley. They belonged to Silver Birch, an exclusive country club in the region. No family is perfect, I knew, but they seemed to come close, at least on the surface. Of all the times I'd been over their house, I don't recall feeling any tension between Rene and Vincent; they appeared genuinely fond of one another. This was in sharp contrast to my own parents whose conflicting values triggered weekly shouting matches and a daily dose of dirty looks. But maybe the Sutcliff's marriage wasn't so perfect. Apparently, they had problems like everyone else, problems that lurked behind their patina of bliss if what I saw from that rosebush was any indication.

For the next couple weeks, I saw Mrs. Sutcliff only in passing, not unusual given that we lived just two houses apart. We waved, that's it. So imagine my surprise when she called our house number one weekday around noon when I was home from school and invited me to Silver Birch to play tennis. "My regular tennis partner is out sick," she said, "so I thought you might wish to join me."

My mom, who initially took the call and was all too aware of what Mrs. Sutcliff thought of me, couldn't believe it. "Rene Sutcliff invited you to play tennis with her?! Is she feeling okay?"

My parents and the Sutcliff's were hardly friends. Mom thought they looked down their noses at us Naylors because we couldn't afford to belong to an exclusive country club or drive fancy cars. My dad didn't have M.D. next to his name—he sold insurance for a living—and his son went to a community college, while their son and daughter thrived at top-tier schools. In short, we didn't rate.

Yet here was Rene Sutcliff, her hair beautifully coiffed as usual, held in place by a wide blue headband, driving me in her Lexus to play tennis at a club that wouldn't admit my family in their rest rooms, much less as members. Her club's pool wasn't yet open—it was before Memorial Day—but spring had sprung and the weather was perfect for fast-paced, outdoor sports like tennis, warm but not terribly hot. I played on occasion at Meadow Lane, a tennis and swim club, though calling it a swim club sounded pretentious. In fact, it was a semi-public place where you paid by the month or season and where social status was hardly an issue. It was a modest affair compared with Silver Birch, with its eighteen-hole golf course, elegant dining hall and elitist membership.

Rene wore her peach-colored tennis outfit on the drive there, skirt and sleeveless top, her shapely, luscious thighs fully exposed for my viewing pleasure. Whether that was her usual practice or for my benefit, I couldn't know, but I wasn't complaining. "It saves me the trouble to change when I get there," she said by way of explanation. I wore my old green sweat pants from high school, distinctive from the school's black label on the left plants leg, a glorified t-shirt and cross trainers, carrying my white tennis outfit in a black gym bag. Rene had tucked her street clothes into a Louis Vuitton bag (only the best for her) that hung from a hook in the rear. We both brought our rackets and balls.

She waited for me outside the locker room, and then led the way to one of the courts where we started to volley. "Take it easy on me now," she said, figuring, I suppose, that my size meant being able to deliver blazing serves. In truth, I was only a fair player, lacking the toque required for the kind of velocity achieved by much smaller players. She moved very well for a middle-age woman, both laterally and to and from the net. After our volley, she had me running all over the court, beating me two games straight until I got my bearings and turned the tide. But not by much. I prevailed, five games to four before we called it quits. Then she offered to buy me a beer. In our state, I was just over the drinking age.

After showering, we repaired to the bar in the dining hall, me in my t-shirt and sweats, she in blue shorts and a colorful short-sleeve blouse, an outfit I'd seen her wear at home. The two-inch heels she wore made her bare legs look even more amazing. She introduced me to Henry, the bartender, dressed in the club's standard issue red vest, white shirt, black pants and black bow tie. He was thin and short and old, "an institution at this place" who had been there for decades, Rene told me. "Adam's a neighbor of mine," she said, "and if I was a few years younger, I'd have wiped the court with him." We all laughed, but I sensed she really thought that. I didn't tell her that she won those games in part because I had a tough time diverting my focus from her sexy body, watching her legs flex and her boobs bounce and the sweet sweat roll off her skin, remarkably smooth and taut.

We took our drinks over to a small square table by one of the tall, rectangular windows. I looked around, feeling out of my league in all this swank, this vast room with its fine white linen, marble-topped bar, crystal chandeliers, wood-paneled walls and carpet, thick and embroidered in a brown and white swirl pattern. "Impressed?" she said, delivered with a knowing smirk.

"Nice," I said, "almost as nice as Meadow Lane."

She threw her hand over her mouth and guffawed, almost spitting out a swallow of her Heineken. "That was a good one, Adam."

"Glad you liked it. I think that's the first time I ever made you laugh."

"Probably so," she said. "Gary always told me you had a good sense of humor."

"I'm so funny he decided not to be friends anymore."

Her smile vanished; she looked a bit hurt.

I took a swallow and said, "Sorry I said that. It's not your problem. We all choose our own friends."

She shook her head and took my hand. "No, that's okay, I can understand how you must feel. For what it's worth, I told him he was being ridiculous to drop a friendship that began when you two were in kindergarten."

"He told me we had grown apart, that 'Princeton is light years ahead of Baynesyville,' that we now 'inhabit very different worlds.' Well, I can't argue with that." I raised my bottle. "Cheers."

"Well, enough about Gary. Like you said, we choose our own friends." She looked pensive as she faced down, twirling her green bottle, watching it spin. Then she looked up and said, "Adam, aren't you a bit curious why I invited you here?"

I played naïve. "Something about your tennis partner being out sick. At least that's what you told me."

A devilish smile creased her lips, now painted with white lip-gloss. "Actually, that's part truth, part white lie. Ruth was out sick a few weeks ago. But not today. No, I invited you here for several reasons." She paused.

"Go on."

"Okay, well, for one, as a peace offering. I feel badly for being so judgmental, for not treating you with more respect, for judging your worth on what school you attend and what your dad does for a living. And two..." She paused and blushed like a shy little girl. "Sorry, this isn't easy to say. And two, I find you very attractive—your looks, obviously, and now your glib sense of humor, a part of you I never saw or refused to see."

I nodded, trying to ignore the butterflies fluttering like mad inside me. Where was she going with this?

She continued. "I think you saw enough that night behind the rosebushes to surmise that sex, at least with me, isn't among doctor Sutcliff's priorities these days."

Her candor quelled any qualm I had left to reveal what I saw. "He seemed more interested in watching TV."

"Yes, and its left me very frustrated, if not angry. I know he still loves me, and I love him, but the physical part of our marriage is all but kaput."

"He's much older."

"Right, and that might be part of it." She took another swallow and shook her head. "I guess you're kind of shocked hearing me talk this way, huh? Gary's mom, complaining about her sex life. Or lack thereof."

I was, a little, but pretended not to be. "Well, no, I mean we all need people we can talk to about our problems. But why me and not your friend Ruth?"