Brenda

Brenda sighed and picked up her plate from the table. She stood and carried it to the sink. She sighed again as she carried the cloth to the counter and began to wipe it clean.

With jars back in the fridge, bread back in the bread box, and the counters and table clean and shiny, she went into the living room. She sat down and idly flipped the channels of the TV. Soaps, news, and commercials. She sighed and turned it off. `1:30,' she thought. `Frank's back from lunch. Byron will be halfway through his first afternoon class.' She stared at the blank TV screen for a moment, then stood up and climbed the stairs to her bedroom.

In the en-suite bathroom she looked at herself in the mirror. She turned one way, then the other. Overall, she approved of what she saw. `I'm 37. Not bad . . . not bad at all. But these awful housewife clothes! Ugh!' Right then and there she pulled off her old faded yellow blouse and her khaki knee-length shorts. Again she modelled for herself. Still, she liked how she looked. `My breasts are my nicest feature. Or maybe my buttocks.' She stood sideways and craned her neck to look at her backside. `I need something that really hugs this. And something low-cut. Yes, that would work.' She considered what would match her brown hair and eyes.

She walked to the closet. After some consideration and numerous rejections, she settled on a beige blouse and a suede mini-skirt. She took them back to the bathroom and put them on. She studied herself. `Yes. This is it. I still have the look. I'm still pretty!' She looked down at her yellow fluffy slippers. `Oh, I'll have to do something about those!' She removed her slippers and stepped back into the bedroom.

She began searching her closet and dresser drawers for a certain pair of shoes. She couldn't remember where she had last seen them. They weren't in the closet, that was sure. They also weren't in the dresser. She made sure of that, too. So where?

Then she remembered: the garage. Frank and she had put their unused clothing into a huge box and Frank had taken it out to the garage. She now remembered putting a few pairs of shoes into that box. They weren't used any more, they might as well have been put away. Out of sight, out of mind. Well, she would just have to go hunt them out.

She went downstairs to the front hall and, after slipping on a pair of old pumps, walked outside and around the side of the house to the garage. She opened the door and walked inside. It was fairly dark inside, and she stood still for a moment until her eyes could adjust. She stepped further inside and closed the door. She turned around and faced the back wall. There were several large boxes stacked there. She took one step towards them when she heard a slight shuffle and saw movement out of the corner of her eye. She spun around. She couldn't see anyone or any animal. But she was sure she saw it. Thoughts of the Southdale Murderer began to race through her mind. She looked at the door: if she ran fast enough she could beat someone from the other side of the garage . . . maybe.

"Byron?" she called out, "are you skipping school again?"

There was no response.

"Because if you are, you're in for it this time."

`My God. It isn't Byron. What if it really is-'

"Mrs. Brooks?" a tiny voice called out.

Relief. "Who is it?" she demanded.

There were two throats clearing and then two teenage boys slipped out from behind a large tool cupboard. Brenda recognised them as Peter and Greg, two of Byron's friends. They stood there looking very sheepish.

"What are you two doing here? Why aren't you in school?"

Peter and Greg looked at each other for a moment, then Peter said, "Um, well, we don't like Math 10, and um . . ."

"We're skipping school this afternoon," Greg finished.

Brenda clucked her tongue. "Is Byron with you?"

"No," Peter answered, "he likes math, I think."

She thought about this for a moment. "Well, I have a good mind to phone the school. And your parents."

They said nothing. They just stood squirming a little. Greg looked up briefly and glanced, not exactly casually, at Brenda's legs. His eyes widened slightly. It made Brenda feel odd, but not unpleasant, either.

"If you two hurry, you can catch your last class at school. I'll let you off the hook this time, but if I ever catch you playing hooky in here again, I really will let the school know what you've been up to. And they can call your parents. Okay?"

They still stood there silently.

"Peter? Greg? Okay?"

"Okay," Peter said.

"Yes, ma'am," Greg answered.

"Okay, then. Out!"

They shuffled to the door and walked out. Greg turned momentarily and said, "Thanks, Mrs. Brooks. We owe you." Then they were running--in the direction of school, she noticed.

`I'll say you owe me,' she thought as she began rooting through the boxes looking for the pair of shoes. She thought about Greg. She liked the idea that she could attract a fifteen-year-old boy. `Yes, I still have it.'


At the dinner table that night Brenda asked Byron, "How was school today?"

Byron shovelled half a potato into his mouth and started chewing. After he had sufficiently cleared his mouth, he said, "Fine, mom. I learned tons of stuff and I worked hard and did well and I'll have a great report card, and you'll see my picture in the newspaper, I'm sure."

Frank bristled. "Don't talk to your mother that way! She only wanted to know how school went. I see no need to smart off to her like that!"

Byron grimaced slightly. "Sorry," he muttered.

"How are your friends these days? Um, Greg and Peter, isn't it?"

"I dunno, mom. I didn't see them today. Maybe they were sick."

"I bet they were skipping," Frank said. "I don't like those two. They're a pair of bad apples, and a bad influence on you, Byron."

"Dad, that was just once. I don't skip any more. When are you two gonna forget that and leave me alone? I promised I wouldn't do it again, and I didn't."

"I know, dear," Brenda said. "Frank, let the boy be. He's been very good since then. Honey?"

Frank grunted.

"We don't have anything to complain about, do we, Frank?"

Frank put down his fork. "I just don't want any more trouble. Is that too much to ask?"

"Not at all."

Byron groaned. "Why do parents always make such a big deal about everything?"

Frank began eating again. "You'll understand some day when you have a child of your own."

"I'm not a child. Soon I'll be old enough to have my driver's license. I'm still allowed, right?"

Brenda smiled at Frank.

Frank's expression softened a little. "If you continue to do well at school, well, we'll see."

Byron looked at his parents for a moment. "I take that as a yes," he said, and then forced the other half of the potato into his mouth.


Later that night, after Byron had gone to bed, Brenda dragged Frank off of the couch where he was reading the newspaper and pulled him up to the bedroom.

"Sit there," she ordered, indicating the edge of the bed. She then went into the bathroom where she quickly changed back into the clothes of that afternoon. When she came out, Frank looked up and smiled.

"Well," he said, "I haven't seen you like that for years! You look good, honey."

"Thanks," she said playfully as she spun around once, "but you're just flattering me."

"No! You look fine. Really. It still fits, you look good."

"Oh. Thank you." She sat down beside him on the bed. "Do you remember when we used to go dancing? When we used to sit and drink and laugh until the clubs closed?" She reached up and started playing with his ear. It was almost imperceptible, but he flinched.

"Of course I remember. Where did you get those shoes? I haven't seen them for a long time!"

"I rescued them from the garage." Immediately her thoughts sprang back to Byron's friends. Peter. And Greg.

"They look a little ratty, now," Frank said. "Maybe it's time to retire them."

Brenda sighed. "Perhaps."

She pulled her hand away from him, but Frank reached out and put his arms around her. She stroked his arms. "Am I as pretty as when you first met me?" she asked.

"Prettier."

"You mean, I've gotten better looking?"

"Look, honey. When we first met, we were both seventeen. Girls at that age are too young to be really pretty. So, of course you look prettier now."

`How diplomatic,' she thought, `he scores full points for being honest but not too blunt.'

"That's nice," she said.

But he didn't reply, because he was busy unbuttoning his shirt.

They had sex, but she was unhappy and unsatisfied.


Days passed, but she was occupied with her part-time job in the delicatessen. By Saturday she had almost completely forgot her encounter with young Peter and Greg. But when she looked up at noon on Saturday, she saw Byron and his two friends walking through the door. A strong attraction washed over her as Peter walked by. She feared she would be blushing. `Oh my God. I feel like a damned schoolgirl again.'

"Gentlemen," she said, "exactly what are you up to?"

"We're just gonna play some Nintendo, mom."

"Okay, but keep the volume down."

"Hi, Mrs. Brooks," Greg said.

"Greg, Peter."

"Hi, Mrs. Brooks."

Neither boy looked ashamed. Brenda leaned back in the chair and stretched out her legs in front of her. Both boys watched her.

"C'mon," Byron said and all three walked out of the kitchen.

She listened as they settled down in front of the TV and soon the electronic music and sound-effects drifted into the kitchen. She pulled out the Rice Krispies and began to make snacks for the boys.

`What am I doing?' she asked herself, `It isn't right. I'm too old for this. I'm a mother, for Chrissakes.' Yet she felt something for the two boys--not as a mother, exactly, though what she felt wasn't purely a physical attraction, either. It was forbidden, she knew, and yet something in that fact made it all the more exciting.

When she brought the Rice Krispie Treats into the living room, Byron was sitting on the floor, playing Nintendo. His face was nearly pressed against the TV. "Byron, sit back a little, you'll ruin your eyes."

He grunted and shuffled back a few centimeters. She sat down between Greg and Peter on the couch. "I brought you a snack," she said to Peter.

"Thanks, Mrs. Brooks," he said as grabbed one off the plate.

"Greg?" she said offering the plate to him.

"Thank you, ma'am."

He took one. "Take another," she said picking one up herself and handing it to Greg. As he reached out to take it, she made sure that their hands touched briefly. Greg noticed.

"Well," she said suddenly as she plopped the tray into Peter's lap, "Don't leave crumbs all over the floor. Byron, there's some treats here." She stood up and walked to the kitchen doorway. "Don't spend all day here, boys. Try and find something a little more productive to do. Like your homework, Byron?"

"Yeh, okay, mom."

Peter took the control from Byron and began playing. Byron reached over and grabbed a handful of treats. Greg watched her as she turned and walked into the kitchen.

Brenda sat down and began to make out her grocery list.




Byron and I have gone to the football game. We'll have dinner out, first. Be back around 11. -Frank.


She put the note back onto the rolltop desk where she'd nearly missed it before. She started wiping the counter top with her dishcloth when the phone rang.

"Um, hello, Mrs. Brooks." It was Peter. "Is Byron around?"

"I think he should be home any time, Peter. Why don't you come over? He'll be home by then," she easily lied. A sea of warmth flooded over her body. She wasn't sure what it was. It reminded her of feelings she'd had as a much younger woman. But it wasn't exactly sexual. `What am I feeling?' she asked herself.

"Okay, Mrs. Brooks. Tell him I'll be over in a sec."

"See you later, Peter."

As she hung up, her mind raced with possibilities. `I could phone him back and tell him I just found the note. Or tell him when he gets here--I'll have to do that. I could turn out the lights and sit here until he goes. What will he think? Christ, he's a child, he wouldn't think anything! I could tell him to wait in the living room until he gets bored of waiting. Just a child!'

She removed her apron, and quickly assessed herself. She decided that she was presentable enough.

And soon the doorbell rang and she opened the door to Peter.

"Hi, Mrs. Brooks. Is he here, yet?"

"Come on in, Peter," she said casually as she turned and walked from the door. "Sorry, he's not here, yet."

Peter edged inside and shut the door, pulling his shoes off as he did so. "Oh, did he say where he was going?"

"No."

He walked into the living room. "Well, um, maybe I should go and he could phone me when he gets home."

Brenda sat down in the easy chair. "If you like. Or you could wait here and I could get you something. Do you want a pop?" She crossed her legs, allowing her dress to slide up her thigh a little.

Peter sat down on the couch, trying not to stare at her legs, but not succeeding. "No thanks, Mrs. Brooks."

There was a silence, uncomfortable for Peter, but enjoyable for Brenda. "How's school, Peter? You're not skipping any more, are you?"

He seemed relieved at this question. "I haven't skipped since that day in . . . . School's fine."

"Getting a good education's important, you know. You may not think so now, but you'll be better prepared later in life if you work hard now--and get good grades."

"Yes, ma'am. I know. My mother says that, too. But math is hard."

"Mmm. I know, I had trouble in math, too. But that's years ago."

Peter said nothing, so Brenda continued. "You're probably not interested in the history of an old bird like me?"

"Umm, I don't think you're old, ma'am."

"No?"

"No, ma'am. You're a lot . . . cooler than, like, my mom."

"Your mother is Dolores?"

"Yeh."

"Yes. I met her one night at the band concert. She seemed like a very nice woman."

"I guess."

"I forget, what instrument do you play?"

"Well, last year I played the trombone, but I don't play this year. I, um, guess I wasn't very good at it. I didn't like it."

Brenda smiled and shifted in the chair. Peter practically ogled her as she did this.

"Are you sure you won't have a Coke or something?"

He considered for a moment. "Okay. Yes, please."

She stood up and walked closely past him as she went to the kitchen. As she poured a glass of Coke for him, she could hear him moving the newspaper and magazines around on the coffee table. She smiled.

"Oh, no!" she said loudly as she put the bottle back into the fridge. Peter said nothing from the living room, but the rustling stopped. She smiled again and retrieved the note from the desk.

"Peter," she said as she walked back into the living room, glass in one hand and note in the other. "I've just found this note in the kitchen. Here," she said handing him the glass. "It says that Byron and his dad have gone to the football game. They won't be home until eleven."

"Oh!" Peter said tensely. His took a long drink of Coke. "I guess I'll go over to Greg's, then. Can I use your phone?"

She sat down beside him. "You could stay and keep me company, if you wanted."

Peter looked down at her legs again.

"I gotta go. See ya." He rose quickly to his feet.

"Peter? What are you afraid of?"

"Nothing! I was just gonna go over to Greg's is all."

"Stay. Keep me company."

"But, Mrs. Brooks . . ."

"What?"

"Well, I, um . . . " He flushed.

"Stay. Finish your drink, at least." She realised she was blushing, too.

He slowly sat down on the far side of the couch.

She handed him the glass. He took it from her and gingerly sipped from it. His hands were shaking, ever so slightly.

She smiled at him. He attempted to smile back. She leaned over and took the glass out of his hand. She put it on the coffee table and kissed him. He startled, clearly unaware of how to respond. She kissed him again, longer. She could taste cola on his breath as he awkwardly returned her kiss. `He's a lousy kisser,' she thought, `What did I expect? He's just a child, for God's sake!'

But Peter was warming up. His hand landed on her knee and began moving up, under her skirt.

`My God! This is all wrong!'

She broke off. "That's enough," she ordered. Peter's hand recoiled instantly. "You'd better go now." And he was up and out the door so quickly with his shoes in one hand that Brenda hardly had time to stand up herself.

As the door closed she picked up his glass from the coffee table and carried it back to the kitchen. She emptied the rest of the pop and began washing the glass. `I'm a grown woman,' she thought, `How could I have done that? Jesus. I'm not even sure what I've done!'

`And yet . . .' she smiled at the expression she briefly saw on his face. She still felt warm all over, still with no idea of what exactly it was. `It must be embarrassment,' she decided, knowing she was wrong.

A week to the day later Brenda was on the phone.

"Hello?" Greg answered.

"Is this Greg?" she asked.

"Uh-huh."

"Greg, it's Mrs. Brooks. Is Byron over there with you?"

"No, ma'am. I don't know where he is."

"I see. Well, if you see him or talk to him, tell him to call me."

"Okay."

"You promise, now? You won't forget?"

"Promise, Mrs. Brooks."

When the phone rang a few moments later, she was busy doing the dishes--the job she had told Byron to do before going out. She sighed and shook off the water from her hands.

"Hello?"

"Mrs. Brooks?" It was Greg.

"Yes, Greg?"

"I, um, think I remember where Byron is, now. He said he was going to go to the movies with some friends."

"Oh, well thank you very much, Greg, for remembering."

"Yeh, well, um, you see, I woulda gone, too, but I've been grounded and I hafta stay home for the next week."

"Grounded? Why?"

"Well, I was caught skipping school," he said with no indication of remorse. Then he added, "Again."

Brenda clicked her tongue and said, "You'll never learn anything that way, Greg."

"Yes, ma'am, I know."

"Byron hasn't been skipping with you, has he?"

"Oh, no, ma'am!"

`He wouldn't tell me even if Byron was,' she thought.

"Well, Greg-"

"I guess I skip a lot of school, Mrs. Brooks."

`What?' she thought.

"That's terrible!" she said.

"I guess so, ma'am. But I just hate it, is all. You know, it's boring. I don't get school stuff much, and most of the . . . people in school are, um, boring, too." He sounded very uncertain.

`Subtlety is not one of his strong points,' Brenda thought.

There was a lengthy pause. Greg cleared his throat and moved the receiver around, she could hear.

Finally she said, "I'm sure your parents will agree with me that school is far too important to be worrying about how boring the people are."

"Yes, ma'am." His voice was tinged with embarassment.

"Well, I should go," she said. "You boys should come by sometime. I haven't seen any of you all week."

His voice brightened. "Yes, ma'am."

She hung up. Greg seemed like a nice boy to her. She started having little fantasies about sex with him. It aroused her a great deal. She felt warm, not just from excitement, but from that other feeling--the one she still couldn't identify. `What is it?' she asked herself. `What am I feeling?'



The three of them sat in the kitchen.

"Unbelievable!" Frank said, and turned his eyes to Brenda.

She said nothing, but returned his gaze. He didn't look exactly furious--there was a touch of pride there, also. `He's proud his boy's stuck up for his woman's honour.'

"Mom? Dad?"

They both looked at Byron, who was still pressing the ice-pack against his puffy bruised eye.

"I . . . I am sorry I was fighting with Peter. It's just . . . you know, he was saying those things about you, mom. I just wanted to kill him-"

"That's enough, Byron," Brenda said. "When I have to leave work early just to come to the school to find that my son's been fighting in the hallways with his friend, well, there's not a lot you can say to make it better."

"I'll say, buddy," Frank agreed. "You can kiss your driver's license goodbye for a while."

"But, Dad!"

"But nothing! You screwed up, buddy. That's the end of it. And you can consider yourself grounded indefinitely, too!"

Byron sagged but said nothing more.

Frank looked back at Brenda. He seemed happy with the punishment he'd just doled out. Brenda wasn't sure how she felt. Maybe guilty. Maybe, like Frank, a little proud of Byron's loyalty. Maybe there was something else, too: perhaps she liked that attention. Frank looked a little confused now, and she realised she was smiling slightly. She turned to Byron and said, "Go to your room."

Frank piped up, "We'll talk later, buddy."

Byron, who had up until this point been remarkably strong, winced at the word `buddy' as he walked out of the kitchen. They waited until he was upstairs and in his bedroom before they began to speak.

"Frank-"

"I know what you're going to say, and I think his punishment fits the crime."

"But he was just sticking up for . . . for me."

"I know, but that's no excuse."

Brenda's eyes widened. She couldn't say anything.

Frank quickly added, "I know that it's an awful thing for that little hoodlum to say, honey. If I was there I might have . . . well, I wouldn't have stood for it, anyway. But the boy's got to learn that using his fists isn't the answer--if he did use his fists. He looked like he got the worst of it."

"Frank, he shouldn't have to wait for his license and be grounded. It's too much."

"Well, we'll make it only a week, then. He's on probation at school already. That should keep him in check. But I definitely won't allow him to hang out with those two little punks any more. They're bad news. So what did the Vice Principal have to say about it, anyway?"

She sighed. "Um, not much really. The usual. I don't know why, but I felt like I was in trouble, too--like I'd been called in on the carpet for passing notes or talking in class."

Frank snorted. "If that was all that kids these days did, I'd feel a lot better. Needles, sex, heavy metal music--whatever that is--and stealing. How do we raise a kid to be good and honest, these days?"

"I don't know, honey. But it's dinner time. Let me get the meatloaf out of the fridge, okay?"

"Okay." He walked out of the kitchen and sat down on the sofa.

She heard the TV click on to the news. She took the meatloaf out of the fridge and turned on the oven. And as she wiped down the table, she had a mental image of Byron and Peter duking it out in the school hallway. Students standing around gaping, teachers coming running. She smiled again. In a way it was hilarious. But it wasn't, really. She suddenly realised how she felt about the incident. She felt angry--no, betrayed by Peter. He had opened his big mouth and hurt Byron, Frank and her. (And, hopefully, himself by way of a black eye or bloody nose complements of Byron.) For a brief instant she remembered going to high school with Frank. They had had a teenage infatuation that lasted years--long enough, in fact, that when Frank had finally settled down into his job and he had asked her to marry him, she agreed immediately. But the honeymoon was long gone. Now it was school band concerts, part-time delicatessen work and table scrubbing and meatloaf baking. She put the meatloaf into the oven and closed the door, gently as always, but with a great desire to slam it so hard the metal would buckle. It felt to her as if nothing in her great grand world could break, but there was no sense of security in that belief, only boredom and a faint sense of panic.

`I wonder what Peter's parents had to say? My God! What would he say? The worst? Would they believe him?' She silently contemplated this as she set the table. All kinds of horrible scenarios came and went in her mind. But eventually she let it ride, and soon dinner was ready.



One Saturday, Brenda was driving home from the delicatessen. As she turned off the main thoroughfare and onto the trunk road, a black silhouetted figure dove in front of her car. She was about to slam on the brakes, when it jumped back. As she slowed, the figure waved. It was Greg. She came to a stop.

"Hi, Mrs. Brooks," he said even before she rolled her window down.

"Good evening, Greg. What are you doing down here?"

"Gettin' off work. See?" He held up a cap with some kind of fast food logo.

"So you've already started off your career without benefit of graduation, I see."

"Um, yeh."

"Do you need a lift home?"

"Oh. Um, my dad's coming down to pick me up. Thanks anyway."

She rolled up her window as Greg said, "Maybe some other time."



"Mom, I'll just say it: Can I please get my license?"

Brenda had to stop herself from smiling. "No."

"Mom!"

"No! Your father and I discussed this. It's hasn't been a great school year for you. Maybe in the summer."

"Mom, that's . . . that's not fair."

"Really. Not fair. How fair was throwing punches at Peter?"

Byron hunched down his shoulders, but said nothing.

"You haven't proven that you're responsible enough . . . yet. Wait until the summer. Your dad and I will talk about it again then."

"But-"

"But not until then."

Byron snorted.

"Now leave me alone so I can wash the dishes."

He turned to leave.

"On second thought, why don't you wash the dishes? It's probably your turn, anyway. Okay?"

"Yeh, fine . . ." he grumbled.

As Byron began filling the sink, Brenda sat down to do her shopping list. With sounds of clinking cutlery and plates, she couldn't resist asking Byron, "How is your other friend? Greg, isn't it?"

"Yeh, he's fine. I can't go out with him, though. Dad wants me to keep away from him. You know that."

"Yes, I know. But he seems a little different from Peter, doesn't he?"

"I guess. Except he skips all the time."

"I saw him the other night."

There was a particularly loud clank. "What? Where?"

"He was standing around on a street corner, coming home from work."

Byron began scrubbing the plate again. "Yeh. He works down at Fat Freddies. He's a bus boy, I think."

"Maybe you should be thinking about some work for the summer, yourself."

"Like what?"

"Like maybe you could wash dishes at a restaurant, or paint houses, maybe just mow lawns for the neighbors. It wouldn't hurt, you know."

"I guess."

"And it would give you some spending money. You could even learn to save a few dollars here and there. It's not a bad idea at all, actually."

"Yeh. Well, maybe I'll look for something."

"Maybe?"

"No, really, I will. That way I could save up for a car."

Brenda said nothing. She didn't like the idea of Byron owning his own car. She remembered Frank's old car from high school. It was a deathtrap--she'd known that even at the time. It was where they'd first had sex, awkward and embarrassing as it was. Cars were freedom for kids--too much freedom, she felt. Brenda knew that Byron would not treat this new-found freedom with any respect. After all, Frank and she hadn't. She knew what would happen.

"Mom?"

She cleared her throat. "Yes, Byron?"

"Do you think it would be alright if I saved up for a car?"

"Um, we'll see. For now you should be concentrating on finishing the dishes so that your father and I can see how responsible and hard-working you are. That way we'll have some reason to let you get your license. What good's a car if you can't drive it?"

"Okay." He sounded encouraged.

`Cars will come first, then girlfriends' she thought. `Then he'll start staying out the occasional night until very late. Hickeys, lipstick on his shirts. And then what? An announcement his girlfriend's pregnant?'

Without any conscious notice, her mind turned to Greg standing on the sidewalk. She remembered how he had pretended to jump out in front of the car, exactly like something Frank would have done at that age. Teenage boys seemed to think that putting their lives in jeopardy was amusing. She didn't understand it then, and she certainly didn't understand it now.

In fact, the only thing that seemed to frighten these boys was the concept of girls. They all handled it differently, of course. Some boys seemed overly aggressive while others had to learn over time to overcome that fear. She looked at Byron as he carelessly wiped down the cutlery and decided he would hide his fear of girls from everyone--friends included. That thought frightened her. He would chase girls. And, very probably, some would chase him. And he would have a car.

`Greg, on the other hand, would probably react just like Peter. Scared and ready to run.' She smiled as that familiar feeling washed over her. `Greg would be terrified.'


Return to the stories