“Bring me a couple-three slices?”
“I will.”
“And some tea–no. Not tea. Bring me a beer and a straw.”
I did.
When I came up to clear her dishes, the beer can was empty and she was asleep. I brought her a big cup of ice water and a straw. Before I left, I noticed that her body heat was melting the ointment into a lustrous, clear sheen. Laughing to myself, it looked like someone had painted her back barn-red and then put a thick coat of varnish on her.
I left her alone for the night.
***
She hollered for me at about three in the morning.
I ran to her room and opened the door.
“You may turn on the light,” she said. “I’m decent.”
I flicked the switch. The sheet covered her body. “What’s up, Mom?”
“Pain,” she said. “Hurry up and put on more cream.”
I took the jar from her nightstand and looked inside. We had used a ton on the first application. “Probably enough for one more coat,” I warned, “and then it’ll be empty, Mom.”
“Get some more in the morning. Hurry, now.”
I lubed up her back again, from her neck to her calves. It was so bizarre, having to douse Mom’s fanny in the stuff. I couldn’t help but notice how much bottom she actually had. It bubbled out from her back in a sharp, swooping curve. It was the first time in my life that I realized it could be a part of her that other men found exciting.
When I rinsed off my hands and climbed back into bed, I remembered something. Mom’s bottom, when she was asleep and sunbathing–there had been that thing in there. The heck was that? I tried to remember what I saw.
It had been a small, clear bit of plastic, and it was wedged sideways between the cheeks of her big fanny. From what I had seen, the thing made it look like–it looked like her bottom had been pushed open.
I looked it up on my laptop when I woke up in the morning. It was called a “Thong Tanning Assist.” The description indicated it was for people who enjoyed wearing thongs to the beach or the pool. Its purpose was to keep the cheeks apart while tanning in the nude.
I shrugged. Models, I decided, had some strange occupational equipment.
I peeked in Mom’s room. She had rolled onto her side, but since she appeared to be sleeping peacefully, I left for the pharmacy.
I needed to hurry. It was Friday, and I had school. I was an eighteen-year-old senior, and in just over two weeks, I would be graduating.
It had been my first year at this new school. Mom and I moved from our little townhouse in Nashville to this farm-style acreage outside of St. Louis just last summer. I hated leaving all my friends behind, but Mom needed to get away from her second husband. Plus, Mom always wanted to live in a farmhouse.
Of course, we didn’t own an actual farm; Mom and I didn’t know the first thing about agriculture. We had two acres, a long gravel driveway, and the two-story home with a pool that sat upon the land. Surrounding our property was a wall of pines, beyond that lay a square mile of cornfield that belonged to someone else.
Mom and that–pardon me–that bastard, Gary, were separated now, and the divorce was near-finalized. I never blamed Mom for the move away from all my friends in Nashville; I blamed Gary for driving her away. He never hurt Mom physically, but he was an over-possessive and extremely controlling son-of-a-you-know-what.
Gary hated my guts. He even told me so once. He explained I was a walking reminder of Mom’s first husband, my pop. Gary said he wanted to forget there was anyone before him. He said I was a permanent pebble in his shoe.
My pop passed away when I was eleven. I don’t remember him as well as I used to, and it bothers me. He and Mom were high-school sweethearts. My pop grew up on a farm, and I suppose Mom had good memories of the place, seeing as she fell in love with a farmer’s boy.
So, we moved to our farmhouse once things between Gary and Mom started getting ugly. Mom apologized quite a bit for moving me before my senior year.
It hadn’t been a terrific year. I got good grades, but everyone in a smaller, rural school knows one another–has known one another for years. Not a lot of move-ins, like me. Plus, in the fall someone started a rumor that my Mom was a former dirty-movie star. It got back to me, but my denials didn’t count for much.
The story took root when someone shared a picture from the Internet of a naked woman with three erections in her body who happened to bear a tiny resemblance to my mother. It wasn’t Mom, of course. Didn’t matter. My classmates avoided me, and I was always a quiet fella. Maybe I didn’t deny the lie with enough anger. Maybe I didn’t try to figure out who started the rumor with enough relentlessness. I tried to be polite, mind my own business, and work hard.
It’s too bad that we didn’t move here a year earlier. By early spring, the rumor had faded and gone. I was starting to make progress with friends. Fellas didn’t mind sitting beside me at lunch. Girls smiled at me sometimes. In April, I got invited to a party, but I had to miss it because Mom made me come with her on the photoshoot trip. She was worried Gary might appear, and she wanted me close.
While I was at the pharmacy, picking up a couple of new jars of sunburn ointment, Mom texted me. “Where U?”
I told her in my reply.
She responded, “Hurry.”
I returned, and it was almost seven-thirty. Before heading upstairs, I heated up a sausage biscuit in the microwave and poured her a glass of iced tea.
“Oh, thank you, sugar,” she said when she saw the food. “You bring me a straw?”
I nodded.
“Perfect. Any trouble finding more of that gel cream?”
I held up the new jars.
“Good.”
“You need me to stay home today, Mom?”
“Absolutely not. You will not be missing a minute of school on my account.”
I nodded.
Mom was belly-down on her bed. Her sheet had been pushed down to leave her back exposed while still covering her bottom and legs. A round bulge of side-breast peeked out from under her body.
“How does it look?” she asked.
“Like it hurts.”
“Worse or better than yesterday?”
“Worse.”
“Oh, poo,” she muttered, head sinking onto the pillow. “I was such a fool, sugar.”
I took the jar and unscrewed the lid. “Like before, Mom? Grease up everything and don’t rub it in?”
“Yes, but–.”
“What?”
“Nothing, yet. I’ll tell you when you’re done with my back.”
I sat beside her and knocked out a coating on her back.
Mom sighed, “Okay, you’ll do my fanny and my legs like before only–only I need you to get that ointment between–inside–my bottom. I’m burned in there, too, and it really hurts.”
I blinked and didn’t speak for a few seconds. “You mean inside your–inside the crack there?”
“Don’t be coarse, sugar, and I am very, very sorry to ask this of you. But, yes. The sun got in there, too.”
I remembered the tanning assist, and it made some sense.
Mom added, “I’d do it, myself, but reaching back is just too painful right now.”
I sighed.
“Oh, don’t comment,” Mom said. “And don’t make fun of my fanny. I know boys think their mommas are gross, and I know this isn’t how you want to spend the moments before a school day, but please help me with this.”
“You’re not gross. It’s just–you’re my mom.”