The Son Also Rises

"Why are you two standing there naked?" asked Betty.

"We were wondering why you had a knife," I asked.

"Are you okay, mom?" asked Greta.

"Was I dreaming again?" asked Betty.

"Yes, mom," said Greta.

Before anyone could say another word, I politely excused myself. The pain had returned with a vengeance and I wanted to rest again. It was too soon for another round of pain medication, so I decided to go back to bed. Resting actually alleviated much of the pain, since the pain increased with movement.

"I think I need to go back to bed," I said finally, "I am glad you are okay, Betty."

"Where are you going, Mike?" asked Betty.

"Mike is going to back to bed," said Greta interjected.

There was no use talking to Betty anyway, because Greta had strategically placed herself between her mother and me. As expected, Greta had her hands out and was pushing me down the hall.

"No," protested Betty, "I want him to stay with me."

"Absolutely not," said my stepmom.

"I want him to keep me company," said Betty.

"You two are not having sex in my house," said Greta.

Mother and daughter started talking and I promptly shuffled back to bed. I was glad Betty was okay, but I really did not want to the target of my stepmother's wrath. I took one look at my stepmother's slim figure and sighed. My stepmother was every teenage boy's wet dream and her mother was every man's secret fantasy. As fate would have it, I was stuck indoors with two beautiful women and one useless penis. Maybe it would have better if I had died from my injuries on the football field. At least, I would have been hailed as a hero at my funeral.

Since my bedroom was next to Betty's bedroom, I could still hear their conversations. I laid myself down on the bed and stared at the ceiling as mother and daughter argued in the next room.

"What is the harm in having Mike sleep in my room?" asked Betty.

"I am not that stupid, mom," said Greta, "You two want to have sex."

"You are just jealous," said Betty.

"I am not jealous," said Greta.

"Don't lie to me," said Betty, "You want him in your bed, too."

"That is not true," said Greta.

"What is the harm anyway?" asked Betty.

"He is your grandson," said Greta.

"After you get divorced," said Betty, "He is no longer your son."

"What are you trying to say?" asked Greta.

"I think you want to keep him all to yourself," said Betty, "I think you want him to jump in your bed after the divorce is final."

"He is half your age," said Greta, "Do you really think he will stay with you?"

"Look, I have been clean and sober for the last five years," said Betty, "I deserve a boyfriend."

"He will just break your heart," said Greta.

"I think you are just sexually frustrated," said Betty.

"Is that because I have not slept with half of the old men in this city?" asked Greta.

"Are you calling your mother a whore?" asked Betty.

"I am not the one who worked as a call girl," said Greta.

"That was a long time ago," said Betty.

"Those guys are still looking for you," said Greta, "I am not sure anyone can keep you safe."

"Mike can keep me safe," said Betty.

"Mike can't even piss in the toilet by himself," said Greta.

"He has a nice penis," said Betty.

"It is the size of a baseball bat," said Greta.

"I don't care," said Betty, "I like it."

"That penis is too big for any woman," said Greta, "You can just forget it."

"It would sure be fun trying to squeeze it all in," said Betty.

"It will never happen," said Greta.

"Why do you say that?" asked Betty, "Do you think you can squeeze it all in?"

"Mom," said Greta, "I don't want you having sex with Mike."

"So have you thought about trying to squeeze it in?" asked Betty.

"I don't know," said Greta.

"Can he really get someone pregnant?" asked Betty.

"Mom," said Greta, "I don't want any sisters or brothers."

"Why don't you forget about the divorce?" asked Betty.

"What are you talking about?" asked Greta.

"Your husband and your son both have the same name," said Betty.

"What are you trying to say?" asked Greta.

"Does the marriage certificate say Michael Skinner, senior?" asked Betty.

"It just says Michael Skinner," said Greta.

"Since no one was there," said Betty, "You can just tell people that you married Michael Skinner, junior."

"What would my husband say?" asked Greta.

"Your husband is never here," said Betty.

There was a pause.

"That reminds me of something," said Greta.

"What is that?" asked Greta.

"I don't have the marriage certificate," said Greta.

"Where is it?" asked Betty, "It is hard to get a divorce if you can't prove that you were ever married."

"You are absolutely correct," said Greta.

"Why don't you find that first thing tomorrow?" asked Betty.

"That is a good idea," said Greta.

"Try to get some sleep, darling," said Betty.

"Good night, mom," said Greta.

I heard a door open and close. The house was quiet again. I laid there on top of my bed in the gloom of the night. The pain in my arms had subsided once I laid still. I thought about Betty in the next room and Greta in the master bedroom. I loved them both, but I resigned myself to just being their loyal grandson and son, respectfully. With that thought, I drifted off to sleep.

The next day, Betty was the first person I saw. When she appeared, I suddenly felt happy. I was not sure why. Clearly, Betty was middle-aged. Still, I remembered our kiss. It was not the awkward kiss of some high school debutante. This was the kiss of a woman who had experience. Many thoughts crossed my mind. Was she willing to get a divorce for me? How many men did she satisfy during her former career? What would sex be like with an experience woman? My mind had so many questions.

To Betty's surprise, I opened the door for her. She bounced into the room in a white t-shirt and jeans. I could see that she wore no bra underneath her t-shirt. In fact, I could see her hardened nipples pushing against the cotton fabric.

"Mike," asked Betty, "Why are you out of bed?"

I grabbed her by the hand and pulled her inside the room.

"Are you feeling okay?" asked Betty.

"I don't know," I said.

At that, Betty stepped forward and fell into my embrace. Our lips met and I inhaled her sweet aroma. My nostrils were intrigued by her natural scent. Betty did not wear any perfume. Usually, women her age wore expensive scents. Even working-class women used scented soaps to mask any bodily odors. No, Betty was different. Her own musky scent filled my lungs and produced a primitive sense of excitement in me.

However, the moment of joy was short-lived. Betty pushed away from me. Her hands were on my chest. She looked like she was going to cry.

"We have to talk," said Betty.

Betty sat me down on my bed and stood above me with her arms crossed. I waited for her to speak. The woman paced back and forth in front of me. I tried to not look at her body, because I knew what would happen. I looked at her face and tried to concentrate on her words. I tried to think of non-sexual topics to keep my mangled penis from getting excited again. Still, I inhaled her musky scent. It was the smell of moisture and hair in a secret place.

"You do know that I have a husband," said Betty.

I looked down at her hands. She wore no rings and promptly pointed to her fingers.

"I don't have a ring," said Betty.

"Why don't you have a ring?" I asked.

"I got married when I was very young," said Betty, "I never got a ring."

"Doesn't he want everyone to know that you are his wife?" I asked.

"He had no money at that time," said Betty.

"I'm so sorry," I said.

"Don't worry about it," said Betty, "You didn't know."

"Is that Greta's father?" I asked.

Betty shook her head. She watched my facial expressions and saw the look of surprise on my face. I waited for the explanation with baited breath.

"My husband was always working," said Betty, "He needed the money."

"I don't understand," I said.

"My husband said that he knew of this rich guy who offered me a great deal of money," said Betty.

"What did he want?" I asked.

Betty looked at the floor. She didn't want to see me eye to eye. From the expression of shame on her face, I immediately knew what had happened.

"Oh no," I said.

"It was a lot of money," said Betty, "My husband bought his first house with the money."

I waited for the rest of the story. Breathlessly, Betty spilled the beans on the rest of the sordid story.

"I got pregnant with Greta and my husband left me," said Betty, "He also took my son.

"I am so sorry," I said.

"I left Greta with my mother and I went to work for the rich guy," said Betty.

"Where is your husband now?" I asked, "Did you ever find your son?"

Betty shrugged her shoulders. She was not sure.

"That was twenty years ago," said Betty.

"Did you ever divorce him?" I asked.

"No," said Betty.

"I wonder what this guy looks like," I said.

"He looks a lot like you," said Betty.

"Me?" I asked.

At that, Betty came over and sat on my lap. She once more embraced me and we kissed. It was a passionate kiss. I felt guilty. Was Betty kissing me only because I looked like her husband? I loved kissing Betty, but I didn't want to take advantage of a woman's long lost love relationship. Still, I enjoyed kissing Betty and I gladly cradled her in my arms as we kissed.

"I know you are in love with my daughter," said Betty.

I sighed.

"It's okay," said Betty.

"I don't want you to think that I am just kissing you and thinking about your daughter," I said.

"I don't want you to think that I am just kissing you and thinking about my husband," said Betty.

"Where do we go from here?" I asked.

"Did you really want to have a relationship with me?" asked Betty.

My eyes grew big. How much did Betty hear of my conversation with Greta?

"Yes," I said.

"Do you really want to have a relationship with a married woman?" asked Betty.

"Do we know where he is?" I asked.

Betty shook her head and shrugged her shoulders.

"I don't have a clue," said Betty.

"I really feel bad about doing this," I said.

"Would you do anything for me?" asked Betty.

"Of course," I said, "I would do anything for you."

"Anything?" asked Betty.

"Anything," I said.

"Do you promise to do anything I want you to do?" asked Betty.

"I think I am putting my life in your hands," I said, "I will probably end up with a bullet in my skull from some jealous husband."

Betty smiled. I guess she enjoyed garnering the attentions of more than one man.

"I'll make it worth your while," whispered Betty as we kissed again and again.

When we finished kissing, Betty went downstairs to fetch my medications. She came back with a bottle and a glass of water. Lovingly, she placed the right number of pills in my mouth and brought the glass to my lips. After choking down some painkillers, I fell back onto the bed. I wondered if Betty had mistakenly given me the wrong dosage, because I immediately closed my eyes for a long nap.

When I awoke, my stepmom was looking down at me. She was hysterical.

"What are you two doing?" asked my stepmom.

My head was still in a fog, but I realized my arms were around Betty. To my surprise, Betty had been sleeping, too. To everyone's surprise, Betty was wearing only a bra and panties.

"I can't believe you two were having sex in my house," said my stepmom.

"Mom, I was asleep," I said weakly.

When she realized what was going on, Betty hurriedly got dressed just before my stepmom escorted her out of my room. I could hear my stepmom exclaiming her frustration as she chased Betty to the adjoining room.

"Am I the only one not having sex in this house?" said my stepmom.

"You didn't even invite me to your wedding," said Betty, "You are so embarrassed by your own mother."

"I am not the one having sex with complete strangers for money," said Greta.

"I am still your mother," said Betty, "You still have to respect me."

"I am not the one sleeping with my son," said Greta.

"You want to sleep with Mike, too," said Betty.

"That is not true," said Greta.

"You talk in your sleep," said Betty, "You talk about your son all the time."

Greta let out surprised gasp. She was not expecting to hear that from Betty.

"That is not fair," said Greta.

"You dream about having sex with your son every night of the week," said Betty.

"Are you going to sleep with my husband, too?" asked Greta.

"Maybe I will," said Betty.

"You probably already slept with him, too," said Greta.

The door slammed to the master bedroom and the door slammed to Betty's room. Only then did the entire house got quiet. I had never felt so lonely in my life.

That night, my stepmom didn't leave the master bedroom. My father's house had many rooms, but I did not want to be in any one of them. I felt so alone. There was only a slim chance that Betty would ever return to my room, even though I don't remember anything happening. Still, there was no way to know and my stepmom was furious.

The next day, I noticed that my stepmom leaving the house as I was clumsily trying to dress myself. I heard the noise of a car being started in the driveway. Looking out the window, I wondered why my stepmother decided to drive an old Buick sedan that was twenty years past its prime. A few weeks ago, my father had given my stepmother a brand-new Mercedes sedan. Obviously, it was my father's way of placating his new bride. In my mind, the old Buick seemed to be an odd choice in transportation.

Quietly, I went down the steps. Once I was downstairs, I peeked out of the windows. The old Buick had stopped halfway to the front gate. Frustrated, my stepmom turned off the engine, stepped out of the car, and ran back into the house.

Filled with curiosity, I crossed the yard and opened one of the rear passenger doors. Quietly, I shut the door and slid behind the front seat. Despite the pain in my hands and arms, I kept my mouth shut. I took some deep breaths as the pain subsided and reminded myself to not use my hands and arms too much. It did not take long before my stepmom returned. Greta opened the door and tossed something into the passenger seat. Slamming the door, Greta mumbled a curse as she buckled up.

"I can't believe I am giving that idiot any of my hard-earned money," grumbled my stepmom.

Changing gears, Greta's old Buick jerked forward. I waited a while before looking out of the windows to see where we were heading. The number of potholes seemed to increase. Needless to say, we were driving through some of the roughest places in town. Needless to say, I was bounced everywhere in the car. From time to time, I saw abandoned warehouses and crumbling tenement buildings out of the windows. Why in the world was my stepmom driving straight into the danger zone?

When my stepmom finally stopped the car, I pulled myself up and looked out of the window. We were in the middle of an open field surrounded by more crumbling buildings.

Opening the door, my stepmom stepped out of the car. I could hear her talking to someone. The conversation got heated and I heard a hand slap my stepmom on the face. Without thinking, I stepped out of the backseat of the old Buick. My stepmom had a hand over her cheek as she looked away. I found myself surrounded by several men. They were all barrel-chested and extremely annoyed at my presence. To their shock, I towered over all of them, irritating them even more.

"Mom, are you okay?" I asked.

The greasy-haired guy next to my stepmom eyed me curiously.

"I told you no witnesses," said the greasy-haired guy.

"Tom, he has nothing to do with all of this," said my stepmom, "Get back in the car, son."

"Who are you?" asked the greasy-haired guy, "Greta, we had a deal and you promised me that you would be alone."

"Who are you?" I asked.

Slowly, Tom wandered over to me and looked into my face. I noticed the butt end of a pistol peeking out from the front of his pants. Still, I stood my ground. I could feel the pain in my arms each time I moved. Usually, I would be running down the street in fear. Maybe it was the pain that was interfering with my survival instincts. Maybe I had finally reached my limits when it came to tolerating the pain. Whatever the reason, I placed myself between Greta and Tom.

"That's none of your business," said Tom, "Her mother owes me money."

I looked at my stepmom. My stepmom blushed. She did not know what to say.

"Are you the one who wanted to kidnap Betty?" I asked

"You bet your ass," said Tom, "Her mother worked for me."

Once more, I looked at my stepmom. There was fear in her eyes. She was overwhelmed at the unfortunate turn of events. Then, I turned my attention back to Tom. He was as tall as Greta and had similar facial features.

"Are you two related?" I asked.

At that, the men surrounding us chuckled. Tom smiled. He smacked his chewing gun and waved his finger at me.

"Look here," said Tom sarcastically, "We have a smart cookie here."

"We don't look alike at all," said Greta.

"Go ahead, Greta," said Tom, "Tell your boy that your mother was a whore."

"Is that true?" I asked.

"Tell him the truth, Greta," said Tom.

"We can talk about this later," whispered my stepmom.

"Tell your mother I want the rest of the money in thirty days," said Tom, "Or I will send my boys to come and find her."

Tom's friends started nodding their heads. My stepmom swallowed hard.

"Is your mother in trouble?" I asked.

"You bet your ass," said Tom, "Your mother will fork over the cash or she will work for me until she dies."

My stepmom's face was as white as a sheet. She was truly frightened. She quietly tugged on my arm. Clearly, my stepmom wanted to be someplace else.

"We can always make Greta work for us," said Tom, "I know a few rich guys who would love to get a hold of that high-class ass."

Tom's bad breath hit my nostrils and I wanted to throw up. I felt a rage inside me that I had not sensed since before that fateful football game. I had been repressing all the anger that I was reserving for my father. Normally, I would have walked away from a situation like this. In my mind, Tom was probably a common crook. I wondered if anyone would miss Tom and his friends if they suddenly disappeared off the face of the earth. I was not thinking about being outnumbered six to one. The pain in my arms and hands was interfering with any rational thought.

Without warning, I felt a strange thirst for blood. Someone had to pay for all the pain I had experienced lately, and Tom seemed to be the perfect candidate for the slaughter.

"I don't like the way you're talking to my mom," I growled.

"What the hell are you going to do about it?" taunted Tom.

Immediately, my stepmom stepped in between myself and the greasy-haired guy. My stepmom sensed that events were spiraling out of control. She saw the rage in my eyes.

"Easy, Tom," said my stepmom, "I really didn't know he was here."

"Wait a minute," said Tom pointing to m, "I know who you are."

"You don't know who I am," I said.

"I know who you are," said Tom, "You're the kid that had his nuts smashed at that college football game."

To her disappointment, my stepmom immediately saw even more anger in my eyes. She pushed hard against my chest. Tom's friends took a closer look at my face and they all started to howl with laughter.

"Tom, just take the money and go," said my stepmom.

"Who says you owe this guy money?" I asked.

"I do," said Tom, "Her mom used to work for me as a hooker."

"Tom," said my stepmom, "Why did you have to say that?"

Tom counted out the money as my stepmom tried to get me back into the car.

"How is it hanging?" asked Tom, "I heard they had to sew your tiny pecker back."