Skin Deep

28

WINTER 1973

“Hey, Beauty Boy, I want you to come here a sec.”

He was in his room doing his math when she called him from the hall bathroom. He didn’t want to go in there because she was getting dressed. But he knew if he didn’t obey she’d get mad. And when she got mad, she got mean and didn’t speak to him, which he couldn’t take. So he got off his bed and crossed the hall, but stopped outside the bathroom. The door was open as it always was when she was doing makeup or fixing her hair.

He made a quick glance inside and pulled back. She was at the mirror in her underwear.

“For heaven’s sake, I’m not gonna bite you.”

“Mom, you’re not even dressed.”

“You’ve seen more at the seashore.”

Her bra and panties were made of some kind of black lacy see-through material—nothing he’d ever seen at Hampton Beach.

She ran a brush through her hair, a lustrous coppery mane. Without looking at him she said, “You know, there’s gonna come a day when you’ll pay money to see a woman in her underpants.”

He couldn’t imagine that, but said nothing and moved to the doorway.

Shalimar. It was the cologne she always wore, and the scent filled the room with a cloying sweetness. The bottle sat on the glass shelf with other bottles and jars: creams, foundations, lotions, makeup, lip gloss—all the stuff she put on her face when she was going out. Slops, his father called them.

She fluffed up her hair then put on lipstick. When she was satisfied she turned to him full-front and put her hands on her hips. Her lips were the color of bubble gum. “Well, what do you think?”

It was their ritual. Whenever she got dressed she would pose for him, waiting for him to say she looked pretty, that he liked her dress or blouse or her hairdo or new bathing suit. Nothing she’d ever do with his father, who was either in the air or too disinterested.

“You look pretty.” Her black dress was on a hanger attached to the shower stall.

“You didn’t even look, for pete’s sake.” When he didn’t raise his eyes, she snapped, “Hey! I’m talking to you, Buster. What’s the problem?”

“I have to do my homework.” He was getting uncomfortable and could feel the scratch of her eyes on him. And something else—a slightly askew stare, one eye fixed on him, the other focusing someplace else, making her appear as if she were only half in the moment.

She adjusted her stance and moved her hip so that the dark mound of her sex thrust out at him and her breasts rose to full attention. “Well?”

“I said you’re pretty.”

“Pretty? Is that the best you can do?”

“What do you want me to say?”

“What about beautiful?”

“You’re beautiful.”

She gave him a hard look. “You didn’t say it like you really mean it.”

He said nothing, just wanted to go back to his room. He could smell the alcohol on her breath. When she drank she got mean.

“Well?” She glowered at him with those wild off-center eyes.

“Yeah, I guess.”

“You guess? What kind of an answer it that?”

“Yeah, you’re beautiful.”

He didn’t even know what “beautiful” was supposed to look like. At twelve years old he didn’t think in those terms. But he guessed she was beautiful, otherwise she wouldn’t have been an artist’s model or in magazine ads or on TV. Over the last two years she had landed a few small roles on shows shot in Boston—like that episode of Banacek with George Peppard last year. She also performed in community theater and summer stock, all the time waiting for the big break.

Tonight she was getting dressed for a dinner party she and his father were attending. At the moment he was out buying wine. When she looked back at him again, her eyes were almost normal. “I just wish your father would tell me that.” She pronounced father like a swear.

He started to go back to his room.

“I haven’t excused you yet.”

Her eyes were big and centered.

“Damn! You’re going to be a knockout when you grow up, you know that? A damn knockout. Girls are going to be all over you. But you’ll always be my Beauty Boy.” She reached out and gave him a hug when he made a move to get away.

She dropped her grip. “Okay, okay,” she muttered, repressing whatever impulse had prompted her. She snatched something off the vanity. It was a black stocking. She shook her head. “You haven’t got a clue,” she said softly. “Not a flipping clue.”

He started to leave again, when she snapped at him. “Where’re you going?”

“My room.”

“No, you’re not. You get right back here.”

“Mom, I’ve got homework.”

She had tears in her eyes. “You’re not leaving.”

She looked as if she were about to sob. “What’s wrong?”

She hesitated for a moment to catch her breath then said, “I love your daddy. But you just don’t understand what it’s like some times,” she said. “A woman needs warmth and affection.” Then she caught herself again. “Heck, I sound like I’m right out of a Tennessee Williams play. It’s nothing, honey, really.” She grabbed some tissues from the box and dabbed her eyes. Her mascara had run, smudging them black. “Now look at me.”

With a tissue she began to redo her eyes. Her mood shifts unnerved him. When she finished, she was calm again. But she wouldn’t let him go back to his room. She sat on the toilet seat and held up one leg and slipped a stocking over one foot then stretched out her long white leg in front of him, slowly pulling up the material to her thigh. She then stood up and adjusted the lacy elastic top so it was smooth. “I should use a garter belt but they make me feel like a stripper is all.” Then she sat back down and pulled up the other stocking in exaggerated slow motion. She was doing this for him, because she kept shifting her eyes to gauge his reaction.

“I hate these things, but your father doesn’t like panty hose. So he bought me these. But I shouldn’t complain. They’re Wolfords, which are très expensive.” She then turned toward him. “What do you think?”

“I have to go.”

“Hey.”

He didn’t know if she was going to get mad and slap him or what. He just knew that he wanted to leave. Suddenly she took his face in her hands. He felt something sharp pass through his heart. Her eyes were crazy askew. Because she was tall, he only stood shoulder-high to her. So when she pulled him to her, he found his face buried in her breasts, her gold crucifix digging into his cheek. By reflex, he turned his head, but she held him against her.

Suddenly he felt scared. “Mom, what are you doing? Let me go.”

She loosened her grip, but still held his face. She said nothing as she stared at him. He could not read that twisted gaze, but he felt his blood flow faster. The moment buzzed with anticipation. Suddenly she pressed her mouth against his. It was open and wet and he felt her tongue trying to force itself into his mouth.

The next second she shoved him off of her. “Get out of here,” she said. Her voice was scathing. “Get out of here!” And she pushed him into the hall and slammed the door.

For a stunning moment he stood there gaping at the door. Then he dashed into his room, wiping his mouth in horror at what had just happened, but knowing that for the next several days she would not speak to him, not even look at him. That she would suffer a silent, black torment that would last until it ran its course like a fever.

In the meantime, he would be gnarled with fear and guilt.