My parents stopped fighting when I turned sixteen. It's not like they started getting along; they just stopped fighting. They were polite and civil, like business acquaintances who mildly disliked each other but understood decorum would help get them through the day. Over the next two years I would, through observation, their occasional comments, and remarks of friends and family members, piece together most of what happened; I would not learn all the details until the events described in this story.
On the evening before my sixteenth birthday Mom and Dad were set to look at a car they were considering buying for me. Dad was going to bring a mechanic friend. Dad did not show. He said he was detained at the office.
Dad was a vice-president of Citizen's Bank. His boss was Beverly D'Angelo. Ms. D'Angelo, you always called her Ms. D'Angelo, was formidable. She was fifteen years Dad's senior, looked and dressed like a battleship, and, as far as I could discern, had no sense of humor. She was the bank's owner, chairperson, and president. She'd built Citizen's from scratch and its eight branches prospered in Cobb County, Georgia, despite competition from an array of national banks.
Mom was mad because she believed, correctly, that detained at the office meant that Dad was cheating on her. Dad and Ms. D'Angleo were...? I'm not sure if I know the correct word. His mistress doesn't come close. Her master certainly doesn't capture it; Dad was definitely not in charge. Gigolo is too trivial. Paramour might be best. They were...? Again the word eludes me. Lovers ain't right; intimates ain't right either. They had sex - she was apparently voracious in the sack - but she was in charge and outside the bedroom they showed almost no affection for each other. Propriety was the rule. They always seemed to be, even years after she sold the bank and they married, boss and subordinate.
Mom had come home crying, but by the time Dad arrived, steeled for Mom's onslaught, she had rebooted. She showered, her hair was in place, her make-up, always minimal, perfect. I was asleep when Mom, her presentation imperturbable, made Dad an offer. They would keep the marriage together until I went to college. They would live parallel lives in the same house. He could be detained at the office as much as he wanted, but he would do nothing, like he had that night, to publicly embarrass her; she would do the same for him.
Dad said he would think about it. The next day, having consulted with Ms. D'Angelo, he agreed.
Remarkably, it worked. Mom and Dad were polite, but didn't bother with each other's business. Dad seemed to age, becoming more staid by the month, which is how I suspect Ms. D'Angleo liked it.
The effect on Mom was even more telling. Making plans for life as single woman, she took a job in the Cobb County Parks Department. She quickly became a department favorite and when the position of Assistant to the Director of Public Relations opened, she was promoted. She became a fixture in our community, appearing before civic organizations and schools touting the Parks Department and its services, winning over people with her enthusiasm, sense of humor, and husky sexy voice.
She also came to live her job. She returned to the gym, worked herself back into shape, went for a run each morning. Her weekends were filled with the activity she promoted: horse back riding, kayaking, canoeing, hiking.
My friends started commenting about the new Mom. She was, I knew, to a large extent the old Mom who had rediscovered the joy of the things she has surrendered when she became the proper wife of man of stodgy semi-importance. But there was a new Mom there also; her confidence grew, she was outgoing, friendly, perky. She discarded the regalia of a banker's wife, cut her blonde hair short and practical, favored jeans, shirts and shorts.
Dad kept his word; he did nothing to embarrass Mom, but he spent most of his time at the office and often accompanied Ms. D'Angelo out of town. When he did Mom was, at first, sad and wistful. I'd hang with her, try to cheer her up. Over time that changed. Her ceaseless activity in the community brought her an array of new friends; she became a skilled cook in a number of Asian cuisines; she planted a vegetable garden; she taught at the Wright Environmental Education Center.
More then anything else, however, she went outdoors. At first it was when Dad went away for a weekend that she'd head for north Georgia to rock climb, or canoe, or kayak, or hike. Soon it was most every weekend.
And in the process of Mom rediscovering the outdoors, I discovered it. I had always been most comfortable in front of a computer. The first few times Mom went out-of-town she asked me to come along, saying she needed the company and, I suspect, not trusting me home alone. At first I protested, I was a teenager after all, I protested everything, but after I stopped whining and paid attention I found Mom was right, the outdoors was great. Over the next few years I became Mom's regular companion as we explored the countryside. I also found a bit of the activist in me and she and I became active in the Atlanta Audubon Society and Environment Georgia.
During my senior year I set my sights on the University of Vermont with the hope, on graduation, of getting into the Vermont Law School and its environmental law program. I felt some guilt about leaving Mom, but my guilt was assuaged by Mom's enthusiastic support of the idea. When I received my letter of acceptance Mom gleefully jumped into my arms.
I graduated high school, worked that summer for the Parks Department, a job Mom procured for me, and spent more time than ever with her. It was on one of these trips, camping at the Crooked River Park, thinking of how much I'd miss these excursions with her, that I made the suggestion that would change my life.
"Mom, you haven't had a real vacation in years. Why don't we drive up to Vermont together? We could take a week, ten days, and stop at some of the places we've talked about visiting."
And that is how in August, four months after I turned eighteen, that Mom and I came to pack up my car and head north.
Our first stop was the New River in North Carolina. We had planned a two day canoe trip, camping overnight in the New River State Park. During the first afternoon we saw a thunderstorm heading our way and lost our bet that we could beat it to the campground. By the time we got to the shore and erected our tent, we were drenched. We crawled inside, turned our backs to each other, changed clothes.
Mom lay down, but she was shivering. I crawled up behind her and wrapped my arms around her, trying to warm her up.
Mom's not a big woman - five foot seven inches, 121 pounds - and I was able to envelop her in my grasp. I lay an arm across her chest. She shifted, a braless breast pressed against my forearm. I began to pull away, but Mom had laid her arm over mine and snuggled up against me.
"Thank you, that's better, it feels nice."
So we were quiet, trying to warm each other up, and Mom's breast was pressed against my arm. I began evaluating it. Nice size, not too large, B cup probably. I would have thought ladies her age all drooped, but Mom's were firm. Her nipples, I figured from the cold, were semi-erect.
And I began thinking about her life after I got to college. As a few of my friend's had commented, Mom was a good looking lady. With me out of the house and her marriage dissolving, she'd be dating again. Guys would be lining up for this 39 year old: outgoing, up-beat, positive, ready laugh, slim, flat stomach, green eyes, sexy voice. More than any of that, however, Mom radiated life. She was observant and questioning, her mind alert, curious, flexible, open, enthusiastic about anything new and, despite sometimes being scatter-brained, she learned easily. Dad loved for things to stay the same; Mom looked for variety and change.
Was I ready for a step-dad? I was not ready for a step-dad.
I woke the next morning to the sound of Mom building a fire. While the storm had broken over night, our stuff was still wet. Mom had hung our clothes on a tree branch to dry. I joined her and after breakfast, we packed up and headed down river.
* * * *
Our next stop was the Kanawha State Forest in West Virginia for the Black Bear Weekend, two days of mountain biking with the West Virginia Mountain Biking Association. The second night, around a campfire, everyone was tired and dirty and the beer was flowing freely. I was talking to a good looking red head when I noticed a couple of dudes, they looked college age, flirting with Mom. She was a sight: her jersey and shorts were covered with mud, her knees cut, specks of dirt on her face, pink nail polish chipped. Still she seemed to be enjoying the attention and flirted right back, laughing at their jokes, laying a hand on their chests. I found myself getting annoyed - these guys were hitting on Mom - excused myself, and wandered her way. There I wrapped an arm around her shoulder and she leaned into me, kissing my cheek. She introduced me as John. The guys hung around for a few more minutes, but wandered off when they figured they weren't going to score.
In the tent that night, as I had in North Carolina, I rolled over and held Mom.
"You're nice and warm," she said, "feels nice."
"Those guys out there, they were interested in you."
It took her a second to get my meaning and then she laughed, that husky throaty laugh of hers. "Oh c'mon son. I'm an old lady, I could be their mother."
"Mom, you're a good-looking woman. Guys are always checking you out."
Mom rolled on to her side and looked at me.
"So you think your Mom's a fox you gotta protect, do you?"
"Well, I meant attractive in a Mom kinda way."
She smiled. "Demoted from fox to Mom-kinda-way so quickly. My poor ego can barely sustain the blow."
Mom saw me trying to craft a response.
"Well son, before you put your foot back in your mouth, why don't you give me a leg rub. I am some sore."
And, as the fading noise of the party gave way to the sounds of the forest at night, that is what I did.
* * * *
Our next stop was Pennsylvania Amish country for two days of road cycling. Instead of camping we stayed at the Richmond House Bed and Breakfast in New Holland. Riding with a local bicycle club we put in eighty-five miles the first day. On our return Mom showered, emerging from the bathroom in a pink shirt, white pants, and sandals. There was a healthy glow to her skin.
We had dinner at a restaurant named, I kid you not, Lickity Split, shared an ice cream sundae, and headed back to the room. Mom returned to the bathroom to get ready for bed. There, through the door she had left half-open so we could continue our conversation, I saw her reflection in a bedroom mirror. She was naked, bending down to pick up a flannel shirt. My eyes were drawn to her ass. Mom had a great ass: skin smooth, symmetrical, rounded at the top and bottom, shapely, taut and firm, and set high on her body. What was Mom? I'd guess 34-26-34. She put on the shirt.
I changed and although the room had two beds, she asked if I wouldn't mind sleeping next to her. She said she liked the warmth of my body. I, of course, assented, taking her in my arms. She feel asleep first and I lay there, thinking about the dudes who had flirted with her last night. It had probably been years since Mom had sex. After I got to college would she try to make up for lost time? I'd seen the ways guys looked at her. I had a few prurient thoughts about the ass separated from my penis by only a flannel shirt.
* * * *
