For C.J.

FOR C.J.

Early on Tuesday morning, Dillon's cell phone rang and woke him out of a dead sleep. It was too early to take a call, and way too early for the rude awakening his ringtone was blaring from the nightstand next to his bed: The intro of Won't Get Fooled Again by The Who. No one in their right mind calls this early. Why didn't I turn this damn phone off last night? he wondered. But he was curious and looked at the phone. The call was coming from a number he recognized. It was the landline in the house where he grew up. So he answered.

"Hi, Mom," he said into the phone. He knew his father would never call him unless he suspected him of stealing his golf clubs.

"Good morning, Honey," his mother said.

"Kind of early, Mom, isn't it? What's up?"

"I know Honey, but I have to leave for work soon. And I thought you'd want to know."

Dillon sat up in bed. "What? What happened?"

"C.J. died."

Dillon's heart sank. He and his mother sat in telephone silence for a long moment. Finally, he asked, "When?"

"Late yesterday. The ambulance came and got him. He died on the way to the hospital."

Another extended pause.

"Poor Katy," he said, and exhaled as tears formed in his eyes. "Have you spoken to her?"

"Not yet," Tanya said. "Millie called and told me." Millie was the neighborhood busybody and knew everyone's business.

"Poor Katy," he repeated.

"Anyway, I'm sorry to deliver the news, but I knew you'd want to know."

"Yes, Mom, Thank You. And please find out the funeral arrangements and let me know as soon as you can."

"I will. What are you going to do?"

"I'm coming back for it."

"Are you sure that's the right thing to do?"

"It's the only thing to do. I have to. "

----

Dillon grew up in a modest, split-level house in a suburban, middle-class neighborhood. Just him, his sister Irene, who was two years younger, and his parents, Tanya and Miles. The textbook nuclear family. His parents still lived there. Dillon now lived in a town three hundred miles from there. He had moved away several years before under somewhat of a cloud. He thought it was the right thing to do at the time, considering the circumstances he faced. He thought if he moved away, someplace where nobody knew him, he could spend his days living his life instead of trying to outlive his past.

When Dillon was a boy, a young couple moved in next door to them. The new neighbors, Katy and Cliff, were young marrieds in their twenties, and despite the fact that they were nine or ten years younger than his parents, they all soon became good neighbors and friends. And Dillon liked his new neighbors almost instantly. Because of Lady.

Lady was a striking, beautiful white German Shepherd. Katy and Cliff had found the dog on the side of a road, injured, bleeding, evidently hit by a car. They rescued her and took her to a vet. They got her patched up, and took her home to heal. They ran ads for weeks, trying to find Lady's owner. No response. They were okay with that. By then, they loved Lady, and Lady loved them.

Dillon fell in love with Lady. She was the dog he'd always wished he'd had. He walked her, he hugged her, he rubbed her belly, and he played with her. He must have thrown her soggy tennis balls a million times, and she happily ran them down and returned them to him, and softly dropped them at his feet.

Dillon became the next-door-neighbor-all-around helper to Katy and Cliff. He tended to Lady of course, but also took care of many other chores to make a little money. He helped in the yard, weeded their garden, cleaned the deck, shoveled their driveway when it snowed, fed their fish when they were away, among other things. Cliff traveled for his job, so oftentimes Katy was alone during the week and Dillon was a big help.

When Katy became pregnant, Dillon was nine years old and got a crash course on the birds and the bees and soon became her right-hand man. He helped her out as much as he could when Cliff wasn't around. Whenever he noticed her pulling into her driveway, he'd run over and carry her packages or groceries or whatever else she had, inside for her. She worked as a real estate agent, so she was always lugging a bag full of papers and files.

Over the months, as her belly grew, Dillon had conversations with Katy like he'd never before had with an adult. She didn't talk down to him, or treat him like a child. She was actually interested in what he had to say.

"Do you want a boy or a girl?" he asked her one time.

"I don't care," she'd said. "I'll love him or her either way. But if it's a boy, I hope he's just like you."

They bonded over those expectant months. When Katy finally gave birth, she had a little boy. He was named after his father. Clifford Junior. Katy called him C.J. from the start. But it did not turn out to be the happy, blessed event everyone was expecting.

Before long it became obvious that something was not right with the little boy, and after umpteen tests and referrals and doctors and prayers and fits of angst and depression and optimism and hopelessness, they learned that their precious little boy had muscular dystrophy. And it wasn't the run-of-the-mill, everyday muscular dystrophy, which was bad enough, but it was the ugly, ruthless, evil, black sheep cousin of M.D., the one that guaranteed a short life. Duchenne syndrome, they called it. C.J. was a very sick little boy.

----

After the phone call from his mother, Dillon went to work that day and went through the motions for eight hours. He was a salesman for a company that sold lawn, garden and farm equipment, but he didn't sell anything that day. Not even close. His heart and mind were far away. About the only thing he accomplished was to arrange to take a couple days off so he could go back home, or what was once his home, and attend the funeral.

He got back to his apartment that night, ate a grilled cheese sandwich and a bowl of soup for dinner, and did a load of laundry. He was happy his roommate wasn't around because he wasn't in the mood to chit-chat. He had just started to pack a bag for the trip when his mother called and told him the funeral plans. There would be viewings on each of the next two nights, Wednesday and Thursday, and the funeral would be Friday morning. He decided he would work Wednesday, and drive there on Thursday for the viewing. If all went well he could attend the funeral on Friday, and have the weekend to visit with his folks and maybe a friend or two.

----

The first few years of C.J.'s life were a steady parade of doctor's offices, tests, grim news and hopes for a miracle. It put a great strain on Katy and Cliff of course, and their marriage began to suffer. Katy was a strong mom, but her sadness was a weight that became harder and harder to disguise. Cliff had a terrible time coping with having a terminally-ill child, as if his sperm were the cause of it and somehow made him less of a man. He appeared embarrassed and ashamed, and never bonded with his son. He traveled more and more, and drank more and more, distancing himself, trying to lessen the pain and desperation. As C.J. was growing up, his dad was not much of a factor. His parents eventually separated, got back together, separated again. Wash, Rinse, Repeat.

Dillon continued doing the chores Katy asked him to do, often with C.J. sitting in his wheelchair on the back deck, watching him. He'd always make a point to sit with C.J. for a while, and they would talk about things. A lot of things. Especially sports.

Dillon was amazed with C.J.'s knowledge of sports, especially baseball and football. Although he'd never play the games, even at the age of six or seven C.J. knew the rules and all the players and their numbers and their stats and where they'd gone to college, and he asked smart questions. He knew the histories of the sports, facts and events from way before his time, stuff of which Dillon had no clue. Mother Nature had given C.J. a badly-damaged body, but she had also given him a brilliant and curious mind.

By the time Dillon was a senior in high school, he was a star on the baseball team. Katy would bring C.J. to all the home games and would park his wheelchair in the special spot the team had reserved for him, where he'd root for his team. The players would come over to him and say hi, and considered him the team mascot and their number one fan.

Over the years Dillon had spent hundreds and hundreds of hours doing chores for Katy, and spending time talking with her and C.J. As a result, he came to realize two very important things.

One, C.J. was not just an unfortunate, disabled kid who happened to live next door. No, he was much more than that. He was smart, he was witty, and despite everything he'd been through, he was a happy child. He was a friend. A close friend. Like the little brother he'd never had.

And two, he no longer just viewed Katy as the amazing mom next door who didn't talk down to him and paid him to do jobs that needed to be done around the house. He saw her differently now. She was a friend, yes, but she was a woman. A strong, attractive woman. Some innocent flirting happened from time to time. So what if she's fifteen years older, he thought. No harm done.

He found himself admiring her pretty face, trim body, firm breasts, and tight ass. And he always noticed her fingernails. They were always manicured and neatly polished, and regardless of what color she'd chosen for her other seven fingers and her two thumbs, her right pinky was always the same: Bright, fluorescent purple. It stood out like a beacon, and Dillon didn't know what it meant, but he liked it.

He didn't act on his desires, of course. Why would a thirty-something, semi-married woman with a sick child be interested in an eighteen year old boy? He tried to put her out of his mind. He went off to college and studied and got involved in a number of activities. He partied and slept with various girls. But when he came home for holidays or summer vacations, he would always spend time next door with Katy and C.J.

When Dillon came home for the summer after his sophomore year of college, he was twenty years old. He went next door to visit, and learned that the doctor had placed C.J. in a treatment facility for a few days for another battery of tests. That's when his affair with Katy began.

----

It was a five hour drive. Dillon didn't remember most of it, which kind of scared him. He had no recollection of miles and miles of highway that had disappeared into his rear view mirror. His mind was focused on what lay ahead. How was Katy holding up? Would Cliff make a scene? How would people react when he showed up? Would he be welcomed, or sneered at? Would his parents be embarrassed, or would they support him?

He'd timed things perfectly. The viewing was scheduled for six- until eight p.m., and he pulled into the funeral home parking lot at 6:30. He drove to the farthest end and parked his car. He sat, rested, waited. He reached to his right and picked up the small bottle of nail polish from the passenger seat. Neon Purple. He shook it, uncapped it, and carefully applied it to the fingernail on his right pinky. He blew on it until it dried. Then he took a deep breath, straightened his tie, opened the door, got out, retrieved his sport coat from the hook above the backseat window, and walked to the building.

----

Dillon got home on a Thursday afternoon in late May after completing his sophomore year of college. In a week or two he'd receive his grades and officially be a junior. He would be home for three months, and would start his summer job in a few days. After dinner with his parents, he noticed that Katy's car still was not parked in her driveway next door. It hadn't been there earlier when he'd gotten home, which was not unusual, but Katy always made a point to have C.J.'s dinner ready at the same time every night, and now it was well past that time. He looked out the window periodically, checking for Katy's car. At a little after nine o'clock he noticed that her car was now in her driveway. It was getting a bit late for a social call, but when he saw the light go on in the den, he figured what the hell, he'd go over and say hi.

When Katy opened the door, he could tell right away that something was wrong. Her blond hair was bunched into a cabbage ball atop her head, her blouse was wrinkled, her lean face looked stressed along with her tired eyes.

"Hi, Dillon," she said, when she opened the door. Her faced shriveled into a sad prune. "He's in the hospital."

She burst into tears. Dillon didn't know what to say, but instinctively took her into his arms and hugged her. That was a first, but he held her tightly, felt the curves of her body hard against his. She hugged him back, put her head against his shoulder, and cried harder. He let her cry.

When her tears subsided they went into the den. They sat on the couch, side by side. Katy explained that C.J. had had an attack of some sort and couldn't breathe. She called 911. He was back in the hospital. More tests, more scans, more doctors. She was a nervous wreck and scared shitless. Dillon tried to calm her as best he could, tried to assure her. Cliff was not around, as usual.

He noticed he was holding her hand. He looked at her slender fingers, her polished nails. All of her nails were painted black, except one: Her right pinky was purple. He'd always been curious about this habit of hers, this purple pinky. He'd noticed it many times, and no matter whether the rest of her nails were polished or not, her right pinky always was, and always stood out in bright purple.

"What's with the purple pinky?" he asked, wrapping his fingers around hers. "I've always wondered, but never asked."

"It's for C.J." Katy said. "I think about him all day, everyday."

He squeezed her hand and pinky. She squeezed back.

"You know his favorite football team?" she said.

"Of course. The Ravens."

"Right. He loves The Ravens. Purple for The Ravens."

"That's nice," Dillon said softly. "You're a good Mom, Katy."

Katy shook her head. "My poor little boy," she blurted, and burst into another flood of tears.

Dillon put his arm around her and let her cry, her head nestled against his neck. Neither said anything for a while. When her tears abated she wiped her cheeks with her fingertips.

"Thanks for coming over, Dillon. I'm sorry, I guess I needed someone to talk to."

"It's okay. I'm glad I'm here."

"You're always so easy to talk to."

"So are you," Dillon said, knowing it sounded lame. "We always could talk..."

"I know." She hesitated, played with his fingers. "But I feel so alone. I can't remember the last time I felt good. About anything."

They sat quietly for a bit. Words escaped him. He nestled his cheek into her hair. It smelled good, like ripe melons. Then, by instinct, as if it were the most logical thing to do, he kissed the top of her head.

Katy raised up, turned her head toward him, focused her hot blue eyes onto his. Dillon's eyes felt the burn. Then, because it was the second-most-logical thing to do, he kissed her lips.

Rubbery, was his first thought. Soft. Sensual. Not like most of the hard-lipped, forced college girl kisses he'd had. Really nice, felt natural. His lips lingered on hers for a moment before he backed away. Her eyes were wide, two unblinking round pools, boring into his. Oops, Dillon thought, now I've done it. He pulled back.

"Oh Katy, I'm sorry," he said. "I had no right to do that. Please forgive me."

"Don't be sorry, it's okay," she replied, and gently pulled his hand toward her. "I like it. It felt good. I want to feel good." Her fingers laced deeper into his. She took a deep breath and said, "Do it again."

Dillon tightened his grip on her shoulder, dug in, made sure she felt it. He pulled her to him and their upper bodies touched, then melded. His hand went to her breast and he thumbed her stiff nipple through the flimsy fabrics of her blouse and bra. When he put his face to hers, Katy's lips parted immediately and her tongue slithered into his mouth. She slued around to face him, pulled him close, front-on-front, their bodies flush now, giving her tongue deeper depth. Dillon sucked her tongue, which was swirling like a lizard in his mouth. He felt her tits firmly against his chest, her arms around him, and her leg looped over his. The kiss went on, a duet of tongues, until saliva oozed between their lips and their groins were on high alert.

When their mouths finally separated, Katy peppered Dillon's face with kiss pecks, saying, "I need this. I want this." She pivoted her body, straddled his legs, sat on his lap, facing him. She felt his dick hard against her crotch. She kissed him again with open lips, her tongue on a rampage, two hungry mouths screwing while she ground her mound onto his swollen cock and pressed her stoked bosom against his chest. The kiss went on, their hands roamed on backs and butts, he was hard, she was wet.

"Let's go to bed," she rasped with shortened breath.

She unsaddled him, rose up, took his hand and led him to the bedroom. The bedroom where by this time, now being more or less separated from her husband, she slept alone. Standing beside the queen bed, they kissed. She admired his handsome face, broad shoulders and slim, athletic body as she unbuttoned and unzipped him, top to bottom. Dillon returned the favor.

Naked, their bodies plunged onto the bed. Katy's mouth was ravenous, attacking his, sucking his tongue into her mouth. Her nimble hands and fingers squeezed his ass, surrounded his cock. Dillon followed along, but painting by numbers.

He suddenly realized that he was in way over his head. What to do?, he wondered. This is a mature woman, not some dumb college broad with no more experience than he. He wanted to please her, he had to. He decided to take control, pick up the pace. Pushing, grinding, overdoing.

"Hey," Katy said warmly, running her fingers through his short, brown hair. "Take it easy. Take your time. We have all night."

"Sorry," Dillon said. Then humbly added, "Show me what you like."

She did. She kissed him, held it for a bit, her supple lips hypnotizing him. With her hands on either side of his head, she guided it downward until her twat was in his face. She fingered her clit in front of his face.

"Here," she said. "Put your mouth here. Lick it, kiss it, eat it, suck it, but keep your mouth there. You'll know."

Dillon dove in. He took her swollen fruit into his mouth, molded his lips around it, tasted it with soft caresses, and she hissed when he slipped his tongue inside her. He planted his hands under the cheeks of her ass and held tight, mashing face to twat. He explored her hungry, squirmy cunt with his tongue, and savored her wet, salty tang. He kept at it, stayed down there, and wouldn't come up for air until he'd gotten what he was after.

Katy's body writhed with pleasure as he ate her. Her hands were firmly adhered to his head as she smushed her crotch into his face. She started grinding her pussy into his face, and soon was pumping it, fucking his mouth. Dillon sucked her like a straw.

She shrieked when she came. Her cum streamed out of her. He felt her gush on his face, was surprised by its intensity, like none he'd experienced before. Katy was surprised too; even though it had been a while, her torso shook with the power of it, and she had an orgasm like she'd not had in a long, long time, if ever.

"Oh My God!" she blurted, when her body stopped quivering.

She pulled his head up to hers and kissed him, tasted her cum in his mouth. As they kissed, his body atop hers, she wrapped her hand around his cock and fed it into her drippy snatch. It slid into her with slick ease, balls deep.

"Fuck me," she whispered into his ear. "Fuck me hard."

She wrapped her legs around his like tentacles and squeezed, tightening like a boa, as if to get every last drop of juice from a lemon. Dillon took the not-so-subtle hint. He clenched her buttocks in his hands and started drilling her.