Golden Opportunity

Simon let out a deep breath. Not knowing what to say was becoming a habit.

"And if you do decide to stop by, say about eight o'clock," Helen concluded, "whatever we, lets say what ever we talk about, would be between just you and me. No one else has to know. Not even your uncle. Do you understand?"

She paused to let her words sink in and then repeated, "Do you understand?"

"Yes," Simon managed to say.

"Good, now run along," Helen smiled with a voice as soft as if she was again a nine year old's Den Mother. "And when you see your uncle again, tell him that I understand and won't be bothering him any more."

With that, she turned again and this time disappeared back into the community center. Leaving behind a totally discombobulated Simon.

"Fuck!" was all he could managed to say as he stood there all alone.

-=-=-=-

The brief conversation with Helen Petrowski remained very much on Simon's mind the rest of the day, continuing through the night and the morning beyond. He went over it word by word so many times that he was beginning to be afraid that he wasn't remembering it as it happened. Had she really been coming on to him, or had that just been his imagination?

Waking up in the middle of the night, Simon had found himself going through the boxes in his closet that were filled with mementos of his younger years. Finally he found what he was looking for, a group photo of his Cub Scouting days. There, standing at the far right of the second row was Mrs. Petrowski.

Looking at the photo in the light of his desk lamp, Simon realized he was oh so wrong in thinking she was old back then. True, she was over that thirty year old line that most people under it seemed to draw between young and ready for the grave. Yet even in her mid-fifties, Helen looked better than his mother did now in her mid-forties. Something that hardly would've occurred to a nine year old.

Crawling back under the sheets, Simon was surprised, and not a little uncomfortable to discover he now had a hard-on. Not so embarrassed, however, not to take care of it in the tried and true method most teenagers handled such situations.

Since it was Saturday morning, no alarm clock woke Simon and his first awareness of the new day was just about ten minutes before it turned to afternoon when his mother walked into his room with a small pile of clean laundry. To his horror, he became aware of her presence only seconds before he remembered the three crumpled up tissues lying on the floor next to his bed.

"Your Uncle Ryan stopped by about an hour ago," Susan Clarke said, not noticing, or at least pretending not to notice the sticky tissues scattered across the hard wood floor. "He said he didn't want to wake you but wanted to thank you again for talking care of that problem for him. What was that all about."

"Oh yeah," Simon said as he sat up, brushed his hair back and rubbed the sleep from his eyes. "That was nothing really," he offered as he collected his thoughts and tried not to think about the evidence of his night's activity by his left foot, "guy stuff."

When he had brought back the shopping cart last night, Simon had confessed what had seemed at the time, creative way he had gotten Helen off his uncles back. To his relief, Uncle Ryan had laughed and said he wished he'd thought of that. The conversation between the older woman and him after that had gone unreported. Afterwards, he wondered if it had, would his uncle had said "go for it" to him as well?

"Guy stuff, huh," his mother said as she put the laundry down and turned to leave. "Well in the future, I'd ask you to kindly hit the basket with your guy stuff."

"Shit," Simon muttered under his breath as he scooped up the tissues and tossed them into the wastebasket he'd earlier missed by inches.

After showering and dressing, putting on a pair of blue shorts, a white and gold t-shirt and black sneakers, Simon grabbed a quick bite to eat and then headed out to run the errands he'd promised his mother he'd run, taking her dresses to the dry cleaners, stopping by the drug store and stopping by Flanagan and Son's to pick up their weekly meat order.

"Here you go, Simon," Alan Flanagan said as he passed the box of carefully cut and wrapped meats over the counter, "tell your mom I added some nice veal cutlets this week that I got a special on, I'm sure she's going to like them."

"Will do, Mr. Flanagan," Simon said to the seventy-five year old who had worked in the butcher shop since his father had opened it back in 1924.

"By the way, I saw you at the center yesterday, talking to Mrs. Petrowski," he mentioned as he rang up the sale and again reached over the counter with the change.

"You did?" Simon asked, worried for a second that he might've overheard as well as saw.

"I just happened to turn and see you on my way in," the older man said, closing the cash draw. "That Helen Petrowski is still something else," he mused out loud. "I remember back when we were all young and ..."

A noise from the back room reminded Mr. Flanagan that Mrs. Flanagan had gone back a few minutes before to bring out some more wrapping paper and he abruptly changed his comment.

"Of course that was before I met Mrs. Flanagan of course," he grinned.

"Have a good day, Mr. Flanagan," Simon smiled as he exited the store, just as Mrs. Flanagan reappeared.

On the walk home, Simon couldn't help but wonder what it was that Mr. Flanagan had been about to say.

The hours between getting home and dinner were occupied in talking care of his own chores. His mother had always been pretty strict about that. She had always allowed him a lot of leeway, but only as long as he pulled his own weight. Especially after his Dad had died.

"Are you planning to go to the dance?" his mother asked as together they cleared the dishes.

"Josh and the guys are going, but I don't think I'm really in the mood," he replied. "Maybe I'll just go to the movies and see 'Rocky' again."

"How many times have you seen that movie now?" his mother quipped as she put the dishes in the sink to soak.

"Twice," Simon laughed, "but it's a great movie."

"If you say so," she smiled back. "but don't be disappointed if a year from now no one even remembers Rocky whatever his name was."

"Balboa," Simon said.

"Well have a good time then," Mrs. Clarke said, "and try not to stay out too late."

"I'll be home by midnight," Simon promised.

As he headed down the stairs and out into the street, Simon really wasn't sure where he was going. The old street clock across the street showed it was ten to eight. The movie, according to the timetable in the Daily News, started at eight-thirty.

Both the bus stop to take to the theatre, and Helen's brownstone, which she'd given him the address for, were in the same direction and Simon began walking down Ninth Street towards Fifth Avenue. It wasn't until he reached the library on Sixth Ave that he paused and realized that he had to make a decision.

The smart one to make, he realized was to keep going down Ninth to the bust stop and again watch Rocky match fists with Apollo Creed. The crossing light turned green and he took one step into the street, then again paused. He looked down Sixth Ave towards Seventh Street where Helen lived. This had to be the craziest situation of his life.

"Oh fuck it," he muttered under his breath as he quickly crossed the street before the light could change again and raced down the block to catch the bus.

-=-=-=-

Putting the last of the dinner dishes into the dishwasher, Helen glanced up at the clock, taking note that it was twenty-five after eight. Part of her let out a loud sigh of relief.

"What had she been thinking," she asked herself as she closed the door and hit the delayed start button, "coming on to that boy like that? He must've thought I'd turned out to be some crazy old lady?"

It would be too easy to blame the three glasses of wine she had during lunch with the girls, saying that was the reason she had been so loose with her tongue. No, she had to admit she'd found the interplay exciting. That was the reason she'd gone so far.

In her entire life, no one could ever accuse Helen Petrowski of being a prude. And since her husband's death, she had hardly been celibate. But that had all been with men nearer her own age. The thought that she might have an encounter with a man, a teenager really, one who was only two years older than her oldest grandchild was at best a secret fantasy. The sort of thing you might consider late one night when you were alone in bed. So why was it that she'd let it see the light of day when talking to Simon yesterday?

The answer, if she chose to look for it, was near enough. It was because men her own age were just that - her own age. Helen well knew that she was an exception among her peers, at least as far as her sex life went. Most had put such things behind them for various reasons. Many of them had barely been interested in it during their prime years. Coming of age before the age of sexual enlightenment, a number of the girls she grew up with never got beyond the grin and bear it attitude they had been taught to expect from sex by their mothers.

Even back in her late teens, during the depression, Helen had been know as a 'fun girl'. The only reason that hadn't progressed to a reputation as a 'bad girl' was that she was quite careful as to who she partied with. Young men who couldn't keep there mouth shut never got the chance to sample her charms.

She'd married young, before the war, to a man ten years her senior and learned that the marriage bed needn't be the boring place that most of her married friends told her it was. That she brought some measure of experience and a willingness to try anything was something her new husband valued rather than condemned. A heart attack took him from her much too soon, not long after the birth of their son. After which, as per convention, most people expected her to settle down into the role of widowed mother.

But Helen had never been one for convention and was not about to see her life over at twenty-seven. During the war, she did her part to entertain the boys in uniform, many of whom carried the memory of her company to their deaths on distant shores. When the war was over, she'd met Daniel Petrowski who fell in love with both her and the son she was raising alone. Three more children added to their family in the years after, the youngest of which was now in her mid-twenties.

Like her first husband, Mr. Petrowski enjoyed her adventuresome attitude in the bedroom. One that extended to the kitchen, the living room, and even the bathroom. The physical aspect of their marriage continued right up to the day he'd died. That he'd passed in flagrant delicato was not something that haunted Helen, preferring to just remember he'd died with a smile on his face.

A smile that reflected now on Helen's face as she remembered all of the wonderful days they'd shared together. Memories that brought a tingle between her legs as she remembered the nights as well. Reminiscences that were abruptly interrupted by the loud ringing of the doorbell.

"Now who could that be?" Helen asked herself as she lowered the television she had just turned on.

Looking through the small peephole her oldest had insisted on putting in the door, Helen was stunned to see Simon standing on her front doorstep. Her first thought, born of panic, was to simply act like she wasn't home. Then she realized that standing right at the door, he had to have heard the sound of the television set before she lowered it. She couldn't just let him stand out there, could she?

Simon had indeed heard the sounds of the opening theme for 'Chico and the Man' as he rang the doorbell and the sudden silence and long pause with no answer to the bell made him wonder if he'd made a foolish mistake. He'd actually gone two stops on the bus before getting off and walking all the way back here. He wasn't totally sure he was doing the right thing, but was certain if he didn't at least show up he'd be wondering what might've happened the rest of his life.

"I'm going to count to ten and then go," Simon promised himself, already deciding he had his answer.

He'd gotten all the way to eight when the porch light suddenly came on and he heard the lock being undone.

"Simon, this is a surprise," Helen said after opening the door. "What brings you to my door?"

"You invited me," Simon said, wondering what was going on. "Don't you remember?"

"I did?" Helen asked in return, trying to give the impression that she really didn't recall the invitation, and by implication, the conversation that had gone with it.

"Maybe I was mistaken," Simon replied, thinking that this had been a bad idea after all.

"No, Simon, wait a minute," Helen said as he started to turn back down the two steps to the walk, "I do remember something like that, please come in."

As Simon did just that, Helen mentally asked herself what the hell she was doing. The solution to her problem had been handed to her on a silver platter and she was only complicating matters.

"Would you like a soda or something to drink?" Helen asked, giving the young man the impression that he was going to be there long enough to drink it.

"Soda would be fine," he replied.

As she led him through the hall into the kitchen, Simon took note of the white blouse and black skirt she was wearing. Nice enough, but not exactly what he would've expected if she really was planning to seduce him. Then again, what did he expect her to be wearing, a robe with nothing beneath?

"Let's see," Helen said as she opened the refrigerator to see what she had, "there's Coke, Pepsi, Mountain Dew or if you'd like, I have Reingold if you'd care for a beer instead?"

Simon thought about it a second and decided what the hell, he'd have the beer. Even though he was still a few months away from being legally able to drink, Simon, like just about every kid in the neighborhood paid little attention to that law. In fact, he'd been buying beer for his uncle at the corner grocery since he was twelve. Every once in a while, his uncle would share a can with him, deciding he knew better what was in his nephew's best interest than some faceless bureaucrat. Like his own father had done, Ryan introduced Simon to drinking responsibly.

Opening two bottles, Helen poured the contents into two tall glasses and set one down at the center place at the kitchen table. Holding her own still in her hand, she sat down in the empty chair in front of the open window. Ryan followed and sat in the chair next to her. A warm breeze from the backyard made the drink more appreciated.

Helen waited a few moments while Simon tasted his beer, taking the time to think what she wanted to say. She then bought herself a further respite by waiting to sample her own until he was done.

"Good beer," she said as she put down her glass, having emptied almost a quarter of the glass. "Just the sort of thing you need on a warm night."

Simon nodded his head in agreement.

"Of course it's important to always remember to drink responsibility," Helen went on, "and to remember that it really doesn't take much to lower you're inhibitions at times."

Simon said he agreed, noting that was one of the things his uncle had stressed to him as he got older.

"Smart man, your uncle," Helen said as she took another drink.

Simon again agreed as he took one as well.

"The reason I bring that up," Helen said as she put the glass on the tabletop, now more than half empty, "was that I had perhaps a little too much wine at lunch yesterday. Do you drink wine, Simon?"

"Not really," he replied.

"Well with some people, it can be a lot more potent than beer," Helen offered.

Simon didn't know if that was true or not, but wondered why she was bringing it up. A moment later she answered his curiosity.

"The reason I mention that was because of having drank a little too much, I may have said some things yesterday that I really shouldn't have."

What escaped Simon's notice for the moment was that Helen had said things she shouldn't have said, not things she hadn't meant.

"So you were just playing a game with me then?" Simon said, the hurt in his voice quite evident.

"No, definitely not a game," the older woman assured him, "I would never do that. I just said some things that were inappropriate, that's all."

This time, Simon picked up on the fact that she hadn't said her statements had been wrong, just inappropriate.

"But you did mean what you said, even if you shouldn't have said it, didn't you?" he asked, his tone stating he at least wanted a honest answer.

An answer that took a long time in coming as Helen chose to finish her beer before giving a response. Simon didn't complain, he was going to at least get the truth if nothing else.

"I guess I did," she finally answered. "I guess I just got a little carried away, that's all."

"So if I didn't freeze up when you asked me what I would do, you'd have done the same things with me that you offered to do with my uncle?"

Helen let out a loud sigh. That certainly was direct, she thought.

"Simon, everyone has fantasies from time to time, even old ladies like me," she said, trying to put the situation into a more relaxed mode. "Just like I'm sure you've sometimes wondered what it might be like with someone older, as many young men your age do, I've occasionally thought what it might be with a young man."

"I guess so," Simon said, his tone again changing to one of seeming acceptance.

"Have you ever had thoughts about an older woman, Simon?" Helen unexpectedly found herself asking.

"I guess so," he admitted.

"And who would that have been? Helen continued. "One of your teachers, perhaps or one of your friend's mothers?"

"One of my friend's mom," Simon confessed, his voice almost a whisper.

Curious as she was, Helen resisted the urge to ask who that had been. She knew just about everyone in the neighborhood and was sure she would recognize the name if he said it.

"And there's nothing wrong with that," Helen assured him. "Young men, and women have been thinking like that more years that you can imagine."

It probably wouldn't be a bright idea, Helen thought, to add that some of them did a lot more than think about it too. In her own case, the memory of her first lover, twenty years her senior, was still almost as fresh in her mind as it had been four and a half decades before. A remembrance that, even if unmentioned, now affected her thinking more than she realized.

"I guess I've pretty much behaved like a real idiot," Simon said as he drained the last of his beer.

"Not at all," Helen smiled warmly. "If anything, knowing you had a desire for an old lady like me is more flattering that you could imagine."

"I don't think you're that old," Simon said, meaning every word. His close relationship with his uncle, who was even older than Helen had taught him that most times, age really is just a state of mind.

"You do say the nicest things," the blonde smiled even brighter.

"I meant it."

"Simon, whatever am I going to do with you?" Helen laughed softly as she reached across the table and placed her hand on his.

A simple touch that had an almost electric reaction for both of them. Helen slowly pulled her hand back, surprised it had been so powerful.

"Is something wrong?" Simon asked as Helen sat there silent for a moment, then began to slowly shake her head.

"No, nothing's wrong," Helen said, "I just can't believe what I'm about to say."

"I don't understand."

"Simon, I've been lying to you," she began, "well maybe lying is too strong a word. I wasn't drunk yesterday afternoon, just a little lightheaded."

"Oh," was all he could reply.

"I felt the same things that you did, only now that push comes to shove, I didn't have the courage to follow through on my feelings."