In for a Penny

When my parents told me that they were retiring and moving to Florida, I was elated for them. I knew that was their lifelong dream and I was happy to see it finally coming to fruition for them.

What I was less thrilled about was them wanting me to come back home to help them gut the house of the clutter and knick knacks and memories that over forty years of living had amassed.

I agreed, took a week off of work, and flew down to help them move with as little as possible to tow with them. After catching up, and catching them up, I began to take inventory and realized a week would not be nearly enough. It would take me that long just to go through my own personal belongings I had left behind when I moved away to college.

Mom assured me that would be enough. They could handle everything else, they just didn't want to throw out anything I might have wanted to keep.

Which is how I ended up out in the garage, reminiscing nostalgically over long forgotten stuffed animals and art journals and high school year books, where I found that old picture of all of us from the lake tucked between the pages of my freshman chronicles.

I could feel the twinge in my sinuses as tears welled in my eyes. We certainly didn't know it then and it never even occurred to me in the years that followed until just now, but that picture signified the end of me and Tina's childhood.

It was the summer before high school, the summer that we both began adulthood. Albeit different ways and for different reasons.

Tina and I had met in kindergarten and quickly became friends, and just as quickly became inseparable. It was our friendship that had eventually made our parents become friends as well.

Play dates with our moms turned into dinners at each others houses turned into cook-outs with our dads turned into weekend adventures at amusement parks or camping at the lake.

I marveled at how well the photo had turned out, what with me and my family being so dark-skinned and the Matheson's being so white and pale. Usually the photos we all took ended with me shrouded in indecipherable shadow or Tina glowing obscurely. But this photograph captured everyone's smile in perfect detail.

Tina and I had our arms around each other's shoulders and our free hands on our hips. Our faces were cheek to cheek as we stood in front of our parents, me in front of the hers and she in front of mine. It was a beautiful contrast that would have seemed orchestrated had I not known for a fact my dad had just thrown his camera at a stranger at the paddle boat rental and asked him to get us all in the shot.

Our fathers each held their wives about the waist just behind us, all four smiling as big as my best friend and I.

I wondered if that picture was the last time Mr. Matheson had touched his wife. She hired a lawyer and filed for divorce the day after we got back.

Tina was devastated. Hell, I was devastated. It was the first time in my life I realized just how easy a world could shatter. My idealistic perception of life had been ruined, even the most perfect and picturesque all American dream could sometimes be just that, a dream.

Mr. and Mrs. Matheson's divorce was finalized by the time Tina and I began our high school careers. Tina stayed with her dad, stayed with me, stayed clinging to the only life she had known while her mother abandoned her and moved out of the Philly suburb and back upstate.

At least, Tina had felt she had been abandoned. Mr. Matheson too. They both became withdrawn and sullen as they pulled back from everyone, even each other, and retreated inside themselves.

It hurt, to have my best friend distance herself from me. I felt abandoned too.

Tina and I were had been so close that the kids in middle school teased us about being lovers. In full disclosure, we had indeed experimented with each other, but only to the extent to realize that neither of us was gay.

And it hurt hard, to lose her. And the harder I tried to stop it from happening, the further she slipped away from me.

It hit my parents hard as well. They tried everything they could to help and support Tina and her father. They tried to keep the weekend traditions alive but were met with resistance that turned to indifference.

They constantly invited the two over for dinner but the offer was never excepted. They began making dinners and showing up on their front door uninvited. We would all sit around their huge dining table in silence staring down at our plates until Mr. Matheson decided he had been cordial enough and excused himself.

My folks would leave the leftovers, wash the dishes, and return home dejected. I would spend the night with Tina in her room, trying to get through to her, bring her back to me. Usually she would just act like I wasn't even there, sometimes she would throw back the blankets and invite me into her bed and I would hold her while she cried herself to sleep in my arms.

Gradually, my parents efforts became less and less as they slowly gave up. Eventually, they stopped completely. But I would not. I was determined to get my friend back. I was determined to be a happy little kid with a happy little friend again.

Weeks turned to months and so on. Occasionally I would get a glimmer from her, talking about old times or playing certain songs for her. A light would twinkle in her eyes and I would silently rejoice at the return of my friend. But that light would extinguish itself just as quickly as it had sparked, like she had reminded herself that she was supposed to be sad or depressed or angry, and I would lose her again.

We were well into our second semester of our freshman year when she turned to drugs. It started with weed and alcohol, as is usually the case, and I tried to indulge her. I had hoped that partaking with her would help us reconnect on some level.

But the weed made me tired and lazy and the alcohol made me stupid and clumsy. I tried to convince her we should stop, but she ran wild.

She tried ecstasy and from there coke, crack, ketamine and anything else anyone put in front of her. And she fucked anyone and everyone that hooked her up with a little something something.

I was having to rescue her more and more, dragging her kicking and screaming from party after party while the boys who hadn't got a turn on the village bicycle that night tried to stop me.

It got to the point I was carrying pepper spray and knuckle dusters with me everywhere I went. It got to the point where I was doing her homework for her so she wouldn't flunk out of school. It got to the point where it got to be too much.

I was tired. Exhausted. I was malnourished and emaciated. My GPA had dropped nearly to hers. I was constantly fighting with my parents who thought that it was me that was on drugs.

So I went to her father and told on her.

I didn't want to get her in trouble, that wasn't my intention. But I just didn't know what else to do. I couldn't tell my parents, they would put me under lock and key to keep me from the bad influence that Tina had become. Or worse, get the authorities involved.

And I couldn't go to the school counselor because they would definitely get the authorities involved.

So I dumped it in her father's lap in the hopes I could wash my hands of the whole mess, or at the very least he could help me reel her back before she got herself killed.

It was a plan that turned out to be a double-edged sword. In recounting the exploits of his daughter over the past year, I saw the glimmer in his eyes like the ones I used to occasionally see in hers.

Faced with the possibility of losing his daughter like he had lost his wife, Mr. Matheson had an awakening. He realized that his lackadaisical drifting through life had numbed and blinded him to the one who needed him most. He cursed and belittled himself for being so selfish, for focusing solely on the love he had lost and not at all on the love who needed him. It was like flicking a light switch, his change was that sudden and abrupt. I cursed myself for not having done this sooner.

Unfortunately, the other edge of that sword was the wedge it drove between Tina and me. When she found out I had spilled nearly every single bean to her father our friendship, as tenuous and nearly non-existent as it was, was over.

For the first time in my life, she called me the N word. She said it with such vehemence and loathing and searing hatred, I knew our friendship, our love, would never recover, even if she somehow did.

But she did not. A week later, she was expelled from school for letting half the football team run a train on her in the boy's locker room.

I tried not to care, I tried not to cry. I tried to distance myself. I tried to mourn the friendship that had died.

Mr. Matheson called me just after midnight that Saturday. I was up. I had barely slept the past year, and even less so now. He was beside himself, sobbing with hitches. I couldn't make out what he was saying, just a guttural wet word here and there, something about Tina, something about his wife. His howls of anguish and sorrow rang in my soul in a way Tina's hatred and anger never had.

I calmed him down enough to make sure he understood I was on my way over to his place, to just hold on. I quickly dressed with what was on top of the heap in the hamper by my dresser and rushed to him.

The front door was open and he was sitting on the porch in the wicker love seat. His face was sallow, his red-rimmed eyes were sunken, he was trembling like he was freezing even though the night was warm and humid.

As I bound up the steps to the porch he stood, looking at his feet, and motioned for me to follow him inside. I stepped lightly behind him as he shambled to the phone nook in the living room. It was a small book case where they had their cordless landline with an answering machine beside it along with a small legal pad and a cup of pens.

With knit brow I watched him hit the playback button on the answering machine. It had been so long since I had heard his wife's voice I didn't recognize it at first.

"Thomas. I have Tina with me. She'll be staying with me. She's a mess, Thomas. How the fuck could you let this happen? What the fuck is wrong with you? You pathetic piece a..." Her voice trailed off as she cut the call, but I knew what she said. We both did.

His slumped shoulders dropped even lower as the button popped back up, ending the recording. He sniffled but it wasn't wet, his breath was ragged and raspy and I could tell he had cried himself dry.

That didn't stop him from trying, though. He half turned to me, still staring downward, and shook as he tried to cry dry tears.

"I-I-I I don't, I don't know...," he stuttered, unable to even complete a thought.

It shook me, to see him cry. My heart broke for him. It occurred to me that besides movies and television, I had never seen a grown man cry for real. Not even from my own father. It hit me in destitute ways I had never felt before.

I think it was the display of vulnerability that did it. Much like my own father, I had viewed Mr. Matheson as a rock, an anchor, a steadfast stalwart superhero. Much like my own father, there was nothing he couldn't do, couldn't fix, couldn't figure out. Much like my own father, he was wise, wily, and worldly.

He was the epitome of all that is man, and to see him reduced to this, blubbering and helpless, shattered me.

My purse hit the floor as I rushed to him. I knew not what else to do.

I collided against him so hard he staggered, the side of my head hit his chest as my arms wrapped around his midsection so abruptly he had to step back to keep his balance.

I said nothing. What was there to say? To tell him I was sorry? That we would get through this somehow? That everything was going to be alright? All the things we had been telling each other and ourselves for nearly a year now? All the things that had yet to ring true?

No, there was nothing I could say, nothing that needed to be said. Mr. Matheson needed no words of reassurance right now, he needed something tangible to hold on to. He needed me.

I felt his arms wrap around my shoulders as he crushed me to him. As he regulated his breathing and started controlling his ragged hitches, I felt him lay his face against the top of my head, against the bonnet I had shoved my hair into on my way out the door earlier.

It occurred to me that this may have been the most direct contact I had ever had with him before. He had been a huge part of my life since before I could remember, enough so that I considered him my second dad and even referred to him as 'Dad' on the many many sleepovers I had had at the Matheson's. But our direct physical contact had never gone beyond a side-by-side half-hug or a peck on the cheek when he sprang for pizza.

I had never realized just how solid he was. Crushed against his chest was like being pressed against a wall, and his arms felt like steel cables constricting as he squeezed. I could feel the muscles in his forearms stretching and rippling against me as he shifted with his hitching.

With horror and shame, I realized I was wet. At a time like this.

I dismissed it. I forced my focus solely on Mr. Matheson and his pain. I squeezed him tighter.

"What do I do?" He murmured against my head, "What do I do now? I'm all alone," he hitched and sniffled.

"You're not alone, Dad," I whispered against his chest. "You still have me," I said as I finally registered the waft of alcohol on his breath.

"Oh God, Sammy," he gasped as he released me from his grasp and pulled me away from him. He and Tina were the only ones who called me that, and I hated it. But right now I hated even more that he was pushing me away.

Mostly because he was hurting and the only way I could think to comfort him was by physical touch, but selfishly, I hated that he was no longer touching me. His vice-like embrace had set my nethers to tingling and try as I might, I couldn't ignore it completely.

"Oh God, Sammy," he said again as he looked down at me. "I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry to get you involved," he winced as he tried to focus on me. He was swaying, then he staggered and grabbed my upper arm for support.

His grip was so hard that when he squeezed me, my pussy pulsated.

My own arms shot out to help steady him as I realized just how drunk he was.

"Don't, don't be," I tried to console him with my own squeaking voice, but I was at a loss for what to say.

"I think, I think I need to," he staggered again and grabbed the phone stand with his other hand. "I need to lie down," he groaned with an airy belch that made my eyes sting from the liquor it carried.

"Agreed," I tried to laugh as I twisted in his grasp and ducked under his arm as I wrapped mine around his waist. "Let's get you to bed."

"Oh God, Sammy," he murmured again as he let me guide him to the stairs that led up to his bedroom.

I paused at the bottom. Mr. Matheson was nearly twice my size and double my weight, there was no way I was going to haul his drunk ass all the way to the second story. Not when I was already buckling under the weight he was putting on me.

"How's the couch sound?" I grunted as I turned him from the stairs towards the living room.

"Oh God, Sammy," he murmured with a wail. "I'm so sorry."

I ignored him as I led him to the overstuffed leather sofa. On the skewed coffee table in front of it lay and empty bottle of Johnnie Black next to a half full rocks glass of whiskey.

As I leaned him towards the couch, dropping him on it more than setting him down, he swiped at the glass trying to pick it up.

"You don't need that," I whispered at him as he tried to grab at it again and missed. I picked it up to hold it further away, and he leaned off the couch trying to grab it again. He nearly slid off the cushions.

I kept him from dropping with a hand against his chest, and pushed him back. Knowing only I had to get rid of the whiskey quick, but not wanting to leave him to go dump it down the sink, I took it to the head.

I wasn't exactly a connoisseur of alcohol, but I knew top shelf when I tasted it. The liquor as smooth as it was, still burned, and it warmed me instantly from my ears to my gut.

"All gone," I wheezed as I gave him the glass to see for himself. He took it, tried to drink from it, and looked at it despairingly.

"Awww," he moaned mournfully as he sank back into the cushions.

I began pushing him to the side, to get him to lay down, but he stopped me.

"Unh," he grunted as he pushed my hand away. "Pants. Off."

I stood up straight as he tugged at his khakis, trying to pull them off without unbuttoning them first.

I considered letting him struggle until he either figured it out or gave up, but decided I was already in for a penny. I bent over again and unfastened his pants for him. As we both worked against each other trying to jerk them down his legs, I saw it. His manhood.

My breath caught as the head of his sex slipped out from under the leg of his boxer shorts and I jerked upright again.

If he noticed either his exposure or my surprise, he gave no indication as he slumped to the seat cushions on his side with his pants bunched around his knees.

I realized that my fingers were pressed against my lips and I was still staring at his dick. It was darker than the pale thigh it was nestled against, the crown of it almost purple, the cut collar of it a reddish pink made all the darker by the brilliant glow of his white flesh.

He snorted and I jumped, scared I had been caught staring. But I quickly realized he didn't snort so much as snore. He was already asleep.

I fought to avoid looking at his sex again as I turned from it. Using his pants as leverage, I pulled his legs up onto the couch before tugging them the rest of the way down his legs and over his feet.

When I turned back to grab the blanket off the back to drape over him, I couldn't stop myself from looking at it again. It had slipped further out, exposing more of the shaft. I swear, I could see the faint blue veins reaching along the side of it pump and pulse with his beating heart.

It looked like it was breathing. Christ, it was huge. And it wasn't even hard!

The tingling I had felt in my own sex was now more of a sizzle. My thoughts were swooning and I realized the whiskey had hit me.

I was disgusted with myself. My best friend had run away, my second dad had been reduced to a mewling drunkard, and I was just standing there staring at his cock while my pussy gushed. The fuck was wrong with me?

I snapped shut my eyes, threw the blanket over him, and turned away.

Opening my eyes, I located my purse still on the floor where I had dropped it, and ambled to it. I tried to ignore the fact that I was buzzing from the alcohol, or my own raging hormones, or both, but when I bent to retrieve it I nearly fell over.

Standing back up, realizing I was mildly drunk, I paused to ponder my options. I only lived a few blocks over, and there was no traffic this late in suburbia. I could make it home no problem.

But I was also one of only a handful of black people in the community. And I had alcohol on my breath. And I had already ran afoul of the police before, thanks to my misadventures with Tina.

I cursed myself for having drunk that whiskey, because now I couldn't leave.

Resigning myself to the fact that I'd be spending the night, I returned to the living room and plopped down in the recliner opposite the couch. I watched him, snoring irregularly, as he twisted and rolled around on the cushions, ready to rush to him should he fall off.

I kept my thighs closed, as if that would stop my seeping wetness, and sunk my fingers into the armrests as I tried not to think about what was under that cover, breathing, pulsing, reaching.

I was no stranger to sex. Naive, surely. Inexperienced, definitely. But I had been touching myself since I was a little girl, sometimes waking up in the middle of the night to find that I had been humping a stuffed animal in my sleep.