I woke up the morning of the fifth day of my affair with my mother facing a bit of a dilemma. It was Saturday morning and that meant my father would be home. He'd be around until he hooked up with a few of his drinking buddies and headed off for his usual weekend of whoring and bar-hopping. Unfortunately, I had the day off, too. I was looking forward to my father's departure so Mother and I could spend some quality time alone, but knew it wouldn't take place until at least mid-afternoon if it was a typical Saturday for him. That meant I had more than a few hours to kill before Mother and I could do anything. At least that's what I thought. I slipped on some undershorts, jeans, and a T-shirt, then stepped into the pair of loafers I often wear around the house and headed for the kitchen.
Mother was, as usual, in the kitchen making breakfast, when I got up. She was wearing yet another of her loose fitting faded dresses and was standing at the stove. She looked over her shoulder at me and smiled. "Your daddy's dead to the world," she told me. "Probably will be for a while yet. He sounded and smelled like he was drinkin' afore he came home last night."
I walked over to her, put my arms around her waist, pulled her back against me, and kissed her on the neck. She wiggled her bottom against me and murmured softly. "We're gonna haveta be careful today, with your daddy around and all," she said.
"I know," I said. "Hopefully he won't hang around too long."
Mother was making sausages and pancakes, a typical Saturday morning breakfast. She put the sausages in a bowl and had the pancakes in a pan in the oven to stay warm. I picked up the bowl of sausage and carried it to the table. She used a hot pad to bring the pan holding the pancakes to the table and we sat down to eat. "You got anythin' you gotta do today?" she asked me.
"I've been thinking about partitioning off a corner of the barn for a workshop," I told her.
Mother looked puzzled. "A workshop?" she asked. "What do you need a workshop for?"
"When I was at college, I learned a little bit about wood carving," I said. "I'm not sure I'm all that good at it, but it relaxes me."
"Don't that beat all," she responded, grinning and shaking her head.
"Don't what beat all?" I asked.
"My grandpappy was considered to be some shakes of a woodcarver back in the hills where we lived," she said. "If you like it, must be in your blood, huh?"
"Could be," I said. "Seems to me I got a whole lot more traits from your side of the family than from my father's side."
"Seems that way, don't it?" Mother replied, smiling. "I kinda like that it's that way."
I grinned at her and said, "Me, too." I would never want to be anything like my father.
We finished our breakfast and I was washing the dishes when my father shuffled into the kitchen, announcing his arrival with a loud burp. He had on a pair of boxer shorts and a sleeveless undershirt and nothing else. The shirt was hard put to cover potbelly and that left a hairy section of abdomen exposed. His thinning and graying brown hair looked as if he'd combed it with a blender, his eyes were bloodshot, and he desperately needed a shave. Looking at him, it pained me that Mother had to be alone in the same room with him, even if she didn't have to share a bed with him. He walked unsteadily to the table and dropped into a chair. "Need some breakfast," he growled at my mother. She who walked to the stove, took out the sausage and pancakes she'd left warming in the oven, and put them on the table. Then she went back to the counter, poured him a cup of coffee, and put that on the table in front of him, too.
I'd stopped washing dishes when he came into the room and was watching him. He peered at me through bloodshot eyes and shook his head. "Damn, boy, whatchoo doin' goddamn women's work for?" he grumbled. He jerked his head in Mother's direction. "No reason she can't do that."
Anger surged through me. What an incredible jerk he was! "Maybe I think it's nice to help with the work around the house once in a while," I said. "Unlike some people." I made no attempt to conceal both my anger and my contempt for him. My father has never been particularly perceptive, but he picked up on how I felt. I could see his face redden.
"Man ain't supposed to haveta do that shit," he retorted. "It's why we got them..." He jerked his head in Mother's direction again. "Women're supposeta take care a the house and have kids, that's what they're for." He looked at mother, snorted, and shook his head. "'Course some women are only good for half of what they're supposeta be good for."
I saw red. It took every bit of self-control I could muster to not run across the kitchen, grab him, and beat him within an inch of his life. He was lucky I'd already washed the cast iron skillet and Mother had put it away. I glanced at Mother and saw that her face was red.
"From the smell of you," I said, "you came home drunk last night."
He glowered at me. "Yeah, so?" he retorted.
"You drive like that?"
"What if I did?"
"You ever do it again and I see you, you're going to jail," I said.
What was happening between my father and me had nothing to do with whether he broke the law by driving drunk or not. It was a power struggle, the young buck challenging the old one for primacy, for the right to the doe. That was my motivation and I think that thick as he was, my father did understand that his position as head of the household was being challenged. He didn't like that, not one bit.
"You fucking little prick," my father yelled. "You think you can arrest me, you little cock-sucker?"
I smiled at him. It wasn't a smile of pleasure; it was a smile of assurance. "There isn't even a question," I said. I dried my hands on the dishtowel and walked over to the table. When I got close to him, the foul smell of sweat, second hand cigarette smoke, and stale booze filled my nostrils. He looked up at me, his wide eyes showing more than a little fear. I think at that point he believed I was going to do him harm. "Another thing," I said, making my voice cold and hard. "If you ever use that kind of language in this house, in front of my mother again, or if you ever talk about her as disrespectfully as you did this morning, you will be sorry you did until the day you die. Do you understand me?"
My father continued to stare up at me, his bleary eyes wide and full of fear. He's had pale skin as long as I can remember - working in the mines will do that to you - but he paled even more. I was using intimidation tactics I'd learned in the police academy and they were working very well. My father looked about cowed as anyone I'd ever seen.
