“Davey?” I asked through the screen door.
I was shocked. I hadn’t seen him in, goodness, had it really been eight years? His dad came and got him when his alcoholic mom’s (my sister’s) liver gave out and I hadn’t heard a word since.
He was grinning, that same grin I had seen when he mastered his bicycle and catching a fly ball.
I threw open the door and grabbed him, laughing and hugging him.
Then I stepped back and slapped him.
Hard.
“Eight fucking years and not a WORD?!?!?!?!” I yelled.
He hadn’t moved, just stood there, his cheek reddening.
He was dressed in jeans and a T-shirt advertising something in a language I didn’t know and I knew he was 24 but he looked the same, to me, as he always had.
“Okay, come in,” I said.
He picked up his duffel back, olive drab and obviously something from the military – it had “Morgan 5582” stenciled on it in that same font anyone who has ever watched M*A*S*H on television would recognize.
I walked him back to the extra bedroom and said, “drop your stuff,” I sniffed, “for Christ’s sake take a shower, and meet me in the kitchen.”
In the kitchen myself, I poured a glass of iced tea and thought. Well, remembered.
My sister, Mary, had been an alcoholic and Davey had spent as much time with me as he had with her while growing up. Hell, he had probably spent more. I had been the one who taught him to ride a bike and to catch a ball. He had come to me when girls started being interesting and had cried on my shoulder when his first love broke his heart. Then Mary died and he disappeared.
I suppose I could have made the move and gotten in touch. Hell, I knew where he had gone, where his dad lived. But at first, I expected him to call or write or something, And then, well, I just didn’t.
And now here he was again.
I finished my tea and poured another.
When he walked into the kitchen and went to the cabinet where the glasses were, grabbed some ice cubes, and poured a glass of tea it was like he had never left.
He smiled when he sat opposite me.
“Soooooooo,” I said, “what the fuck?”
He laughed, a soft chuckle.
“Aunt Ann,” he said, and I felt a quiver. He had always called me “Aunt Ann.”
“It was a pretty dark time, you know,” he went on. “Hell, if it hadn’t been for you I would have been a high school dropout and almost certainly wound up in a life of crime. But all of a sudden I found myself not an only child but one of five. I didn’t really know dad and knew nothing about my stepmom and my brothers.”
He stopped, took a drink of his iced tea, and I noticed some redness in his eyes.
“But to my surprise, I finished high school and even got a couple of years of junior college. Then I walked into my best friend’s house, found him balls deep in my girlfriend, won the fight but was facing assault charges so I enlisted. I did four years in the Air Force and now, well, here I am. I needed a place to stay until I get settled into college and so of course I thought of you,” he said, flashing that damn grin again.
I started to say something but he reached over and touched my lips with his fingertips, shushing me.
“Now,” he said, that grin breaking my anger, “put on your dancin’ shoes. I’m taking you to Sam’s on Lookout Mountain, we’re going to have something to eat, and then I’m going to get you drunk and take advantage of you.”
I giggled and said, “you are, are you.”
He grinned and said, “you have half an hour before I drag you out, ready or not.”
So I said, “fine,” and went into my bedroom to get ready.
If we’re being honest here, I felt foolish feeling butterflies in my belly thinking of dinner and dancing with my nephew. But they were there and I was okay with them and started pulling off clothes. He had said I had half an hour so I turned on the shower, figuring I could at least get in a quick PTA shower (that’s pussy, tits, and armpits for those of you with a Y chromosome) and still be presentable.
I showered, quickly, trying to not get my hair any wetter than necessary, did a good job between my legs and under my tits, the way they sag they tend to get sweaty, and quickly did the rest of my body.
I checked my armpits but decided I didn’t have time to address the stubble there. Ditto my legs.
So I put on undies, a bra, just a white cotton bra, and panties before I selected a blouse with long sleeves and a pair of slacks. I put on knee-high nylons and shoes with a moderate heel. I was, in other words, dressing for some combination of dinner with my nephew and a date.
When I went into the front room he was in clean clothes albeit kind of wrinkled from their trip in his duffel bag (I think that’s what they call it) and looked to be a couple of years out of style. I thought he looked good.
We went through the backyard to the garage, my old house has one of those garages that open onto the alley, and I liked the way he stopped and stared.
My car, purchased new as my present to myself when I got out of college, was a 1968 Plymouth Road Runner, complete with the high-performance 383 and a four-speed. I had always been a bit of a tomboy and, if we’re being honest, gear head, and this was my pride and joy.
“You like,” I said with a giggle.
“Can I drive it?” he asked and I laughed.
“In your dreams,” I said, “in the passenger side.”
He surprised me with the simple courtesy of opening the driver’s side door for me.
“Well thank you, sir,” I said and he smiled and did a little bow making me giggle again.
I was giggling a lot I noticed.
“You know the place?” he asked and I said, “youngster, I was going to Sam’s when you were still on my sister’s tit.”.
I backed out, carefully, and we headed out. My radio was tuned to my favorite oldies station and I sang along with Dion and the Belmonts as they whined about being a teenager in love. To my surprise, he sang along with me.
“You DID spend too much time with me when you were growing up,” I said as the song wound down.
“All of it good,” he said, very serious, sending tingles up and down my belly.
I headed north to Colfax and then west. When we got clear of the city, and Colfax turned into U.S. 40, I let the Road Runner out a little, enjoying his grin as the big four-barrel carburetor started making its weird moaning sound and the dual exhausts began crackling.
I backed off, enough of that fun, and settled into a quiet 70-mile-per-hour cruise for a few miles. I made the right onto Lookout Mountain Road and then slowed to a sedate 30. It’s a VERY crooked road up to Sam’s.
The place was still there I was happy to see. I hadn’t been there in years, but it hadn’t changed much at all. It was still a white cinderblock building with the bright red “SAM’S” in neon over the door although nobody I knew remembered who Sam might have been. Hell, might have been Samantha, the original owner for all I knew.
It was a Wednesday evening, so it wasn’t as packed as it would be on the weekend with college students. The place had started out as a 3.2 joint back when 18-year-olds were allowed to drink 3.2% beer in Colorado. When the federal government required a 21-year-old drinking age to keep getting federal funds in 1987 the place had upgraded to a full liquor license and now served as a night spot but still catered to a younger crowd.
In a way, it was a standard bar and grill arrangement. A long bar covered the western wall with an opening to the kitchen through which food would be passed. A couple of dozen small tables, two-tops my brief excursion into waitressing as a student had taught me, with a smattering of larger four-top tables covered about three-quarters of the floor space. Against the south wall was a small stage and in front of it was a small dance floor.
The best feature of the place, though, was its east wall, a plate glass panorama, that showed Denver spread out below. The main streets were easy to pick out, Colfax and Broadway and Colorado Boulevard and 32nd Street, as they faded into suburbs. It really was a glorious view.
For a wonder, one of the window tables was open so we took it.
If I’m being honest, I can’t say that I remember much about the dinner or the conversation. I suppose it’s because it wasn’t particularly memorable. You can take any conversation between two people catching up after almost a decade, change the names to Ann and David and you’ve got it.
My clearest recollection of the evening, dinner, drinking, and dancing, was how natural I felt in his arms as we danced. And he’s a good dancer. He’d better be. I taught him for his first junior high dance and evidently, he hadn’t forgotten. In fact, somewhere along the line, he had learned new things.
I was careful, watching how much I drank. My RoadRunner has WAY too much horsepower to drive drunk. So I can’t blame the fuzziness of my memory on alcohol.
Oh, shit, why not be honest here.
I was smitten. I was loving the attention. I liked his voice. I enjoyed his stories. Mostly, I absolutely adored the way I felt in his arms.
The ride home was oddly quiet. I suppose in part it was a matter of being talked out. It had been a talkative evening. Partly it was a matter of enjoying the oldies on the radio. Mostly, though, on my part anyway, it was nervous anticipation. I knew, already, I guess I had known since our first dance, that he would spend the night in my bed.
When we entered the house he seemed oddly reluctant. I had expected him to be after me but he was the perfect gentleman instead.
I finally understood what the word “nonplussed” meant. I had seen it before but hadn’t really understood it. But here I was, nonplussed.
We stood, awkward, in the front room.
“You used to want me,” I said, finally.
“You really don’t know?” he said back.
“Know?” I said, demonstrating that I’m not always the wittiest conversationalist around.
“Aunt Ann,” he said, closing the distance between us and taking both of my hands in his, “you’ve always been the only one for me.”
“Only one?” I said. Okay, it wasn’t my best performance. I’d blame the alcohol but, honestly, the conversation had just got away from me.
Still holding my hands he eased to his knees. His eyes were locked on mine and I couldn’t seem to look away.
“Ann Fredericks,” he said, his voice soft and serious, “will you accept the gift of my virginity?”
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