Mom's Taboo Wish

"From everything I've heard, I wasn't really a choice."

"Please," she flipped a hand at him tipsily. "If I had really wanted, I could have gotten rid of you.

"I didn't."

The next morning brought warm sun and blue skies and an absolute inability for Miranda to dress the way she wanted. Showering had been bad enough, with her right arm hanging limply at her side. But one hand was not exactly conducive to pulling up a pair of jeans.

She briefly thought about calling Brendan in, but decided against it. Her son would probably die of embarrassment right on the spot if she asked him to help her dress. Frustrated, she kicked the pair of hip-hugging jeans into a corner of her bedroom and somehow managed to throw a bright yellow sundress over her head with her one functional arm, and then stepped into a pair of panties. Their progression up her legs was like a drunken zigzag, but at least they covered her privates decently, unlike her chest. Taking her bra off the previous evening had been sheer torture. She wasn't even going to try to put one on again. And if what Janet had told her about her new hairdresser was right, she really didn't have to worry much about how she looked.

"Hi, Mom," Brendan said as she walked into the kitchen. A peanut-butter sandwich on toast, his normal breakfast since he was in his teens, was in one hand. The other held a large glass of orange juice.

She looked at the combination and shuddered, and instead picked an apple out of the bowl on the counter. "Here." Brendan got a chocolate muffin out of a package from the fridge. "Some one-handed eating for you."

She fell on the treat gratefully, her eyes rolling up in bliss as she bit into sweet, moist goodness. "I think I'll keep you around, kiddo." Her eye fell to the clock on the wall, and she yelped through a full mouth. "Crap! Is it that late?"

"Why?" Brendan asked. "It's like five minutes from her to Jessie's place."

"We're not going to Jessie's place. I heard about a new salon that's just opened up."

Brendan took a bite of his sandwich and chewed. "Okay. Where is it then?"

"Paducah," he muttered blackly, ten minutes later, as they passed through the outskirts of Mayfield. "Why are we driving to Paducah?"

"Oh, don't be such a baby." She settled into her seat and managed to press the button to roll down the window. Sweet-scented air flowed into the car. "It's barely thirty miles, not the moon. We'll be back in plenty of time for whatever you had planned for the day."

"I had nothing planned for the day, Mom. But now I have way less time to do it in." Belying his words, he smiled and cocked an elbow out of his window as the low, gentle hills of western Kentucky rolled by, his other hand on the steering wheel. "So what's so great about this place that we have to drive half an hour to get there?"

"Well," Miranda said, "I'm not really happy with my old salon. And Jessie is going to be retiring soon. So when I was talking to Karen at the farmer's market a couple of weeks ago, she told me about a new place that had opened up in Paducah that her friends up there were raving about. So I made an appointment.

"One thing, though..." she said hesitantly.

"What?"

"This guy. He's...kind of gay."

Brendan glanced at her, amused. "How can a guy be 'kind of' gay, Mom? Is that like being 'kind of' pregnant? Seems to me that either you're gay, or you aren't. Unless you're bisexual, that is," he added judiciously.

Her face heated, and she reminded herself, yet again, that her son had grown up in a very different world than she had, for all that there wasn't even twenty years of difference in their respective ages. "Actually, he's a lot gay."

"Oh. You mean, he's like, flaming gay?"

"Yeah. From what Karen told me, he's just an outrageous flirt, and says the craziest things. So if he does it to you, just...don't take it personally, all right?"

"Mom." He grinned at her. "You know we do have gay people at college, right? Don't worry. I'm not going to go all redneck on the guy." He leaned back in his seat, deepening his voice into a fruity baritone, like a movie announcer. "I am an enlightened male of the twenty-first century, and confident in my masculinity. I do not need to validate my own heterosexuality by falling prey to straight-white-male good-old-boy stereotypes."

She snickered. "Sure." The car crested the last hill, and the river valley lay in front of them. To the right, the Ohio ran in a broad blue stream, flowing west towards its meeting with the mighty Mississippi, less than fifty miles away. "I'll believe that when I see it."

The salon was called "The Good Genie" and was surprisingly small, tucked away unobtrusively on a side street, just off the main business district. A bell tinkled cheerfully overhead as Brendan opened the door, and Miranda followed. Cool air, scented with potpourri, wafted over them. There were only two chairs, neither of which was occupied, which seemed to Miranda to be underkill, even for a stylist who, according to Karen, only seemed to work as a sort of hobby.

"Hello?" she said hesitantly into the seemingly empty shop. "Is anyone here?"

"One second!" a muffled voice called. As she tried to figure out where it was coming from, a cleverly-concealed door at the rear of the salon swung open, and a youngish man walked out of what appeared to be a supply closet. He might be, Miranda thought, on the low side of thirty, but that was just a guess, since his features were ageless. His hair was coal-black, and slightly wavy, and his face was almost indecently attractive, with smoldering dark eyes, full, sensual lips, and a narrow blade of a nose. His skin was a dusky brownish-gold, making his Indian heritage obvious.

Oh, damn, she thought. It's a good thing that Karen warned me. Because I would love to make him my next mistake.

But even without her friend's words of advice, it was clear that Gene was gay. Flaming gay. More. Was there a word beyond 'flaming?' Maybe 'inferno?' Or 'volcano?' If so, Gene was volcano-gay. It wasn't just the clothes, though a t-shirt in an eye-watering shade of pink, tucked into a pair of skintight black leather pants, would have been warning enough. It was in his posture, the way he seemed to almost mince towards her across the room. His mere existence would be an affront to a man like Rusty, and if her parents were still alive, her mother would have had a coronary on the spot, while her father would be reaching for his shotgun so he could run him out of town.

"Hello," she said, biting back a smile. "I'm Miranda Dallben. I'm-"

"My ten-thirty appointment," the man finished. "I'm Gene. And I am absolutely de-lighted to meet you." He took her uninjured hand and kissed the back of her wrist, his eyes glinting merrily. "Oh, my," he sighed, scanning her from head to toe. "Aren't you the most scrumptious little thing." His eyes flicked to her left hand, and then to Brendan. "Not married, I see. Is this your lover?"

Yes. A very good thing that Karen had warned her. Somehow, she managed to keep a straight face, despite her temptation to burst into a spate of giggles at Brendan's thunderous expression. "No. Brendan's my son."

"Ah, the clouds part, letting in the sweet air of enlightenment." Gene simpered at Brendan. "And don't scowl at me like that, honeybuns. Your mother wouldn't be the first woman who walked in here with a younger man on her arm, trying to hold back time by banging someone half her age. Though in her case, I wouldn't blame her. You are absolutely delectable. My own boyfriend isn't much older than you. Though I think he is far more flexible...in his thinking. Among other things. A pity," he sighed. "So many men, and too few of them willing to explore the...sweeter...pleasures in life. But at least young men have the decency to be so incredibly enthusiastic when it comes to lovemaking." He gave Miranda a shallow bow, stilling the stream of vapid commentary. "And what are we doing for you today?"

She lifted her hand to her head. "I need my hair done."

"Nonsense," he declared firmly. "Fiddlesticks. Poppycock. Why would a perfectly lovely woman like you try to improve upon nature?"

"You flatter me," she smiled. And you can flatter me some more.

"Rubbish." He drew her unresisting hand into his arm and walked her towards the chairs. "Your hair is absolutely lovely, my dear. But if you wish, I will use whatever poor skill is mine in the pursuit of increasing your allure." In a trice, he had her seated in a chair, a sheet whipped around her, and had lowered the back of the chair so he could wash and shampoo her hair. "A little dry," he murmured disapprovingly, his hands massaging her scalp, as Brendan took up a slouching, disgruntled seat a few yards away, his eyes drawn down in suspicious slits. "Do you work outdoors?"

"Yes." She closed her eyes against the shampoo's sting. "At a plant nursery."

"Well, we can do something about that. And your hair bleaches in the summer, am I right? All that sun."

"Yes. By August it's the color of hay." She grimaced. "And feels the same way."

"Ah." His hands were really most amazingly skilled. Miranda could almost feel the knots of tension loosen in her neck, her back. "I have something that could help. No more split ends for you, my darling. Your hair will look ravishing, to match the rest of you."

In short order, her hair was washed and Gene had her upright again, drying her with professional skill. As he worked on her hair he kept up a pleasant, cheery chatter, and before she knew it, she was telling him about the accident the day before and the reason why Brendan had to drive her to the appointment.

"Well, you're well rid of that bozo, if you want my opinion," the stylist sniffed. "And you're lucky you have this young man to help you out. Think how much more difficult things would be if he wasn't around."

"That's the lord's truth," she sighed. "You know, just once in my life I wish I could find me a man who treats me as well as my own son. You wouldn't think that would be too much to ask."

"Mmmm," Gene murmured noncommittally. "Well, we're in the business of making wishes come true, here." He finger-combed her hair, frowning slightly, then began to carefully work with the scissors. "And how about you, sugar-lips?" he said, glancing at Brendan. "Do you have a cute little girl waiting for you? One who can't keep her hands of your manly physique and who melts into a puddle every time she hears your voice?"

If possible, her son's posture became even more resentfully hunched. "No."

"No?" Surprisingly, Gene's tone had lost its customary foolery. "Why not? I admit, I might be biased, sweetie, but even for a jaded old pervert like me, you are more than presentable. Miranda, what do you think?"

"I think he should sit up straight, for one thing," she said. "And that his love life is none of my business."

"Ah." She could actually hear the smile in his voice. "A mother who doesn't interfere. That's new. So how about it, Brendan? What kind of woman do you like?"

"Not the kind I've met up at college, that's for sure," Brendan grunted. "Half of them won't even talk to me, since I'm a hick from a small town. Can't have some sorority girl from Frankfort or Louisville or Lexington or Nashville be seen talking to a boy from a town where they barely have speed limits."

Gene made an encouraging noise.

"But if I did, it'd be a girl from a place like Mayfield," Brendan continued, drawn out of his sulk. "Someone who understands me. About how hard it is for a person from a place like that to haul themselves out of the muck and make a better life for themselves."

"Someone like your mother?"

Brendan snorted. "I should be so lucky." Miranda almost blushed as she saw the admiration in his eyes. "Mom didn't have her entire life handed to her on a silver platter, like some people I've met. She's had to work for everything she has. She gets it. She knows how the real world works. I wish I had a dollar for every dumb-ass I've talked to up there that thought the world owed him everything. I'd have, like," he counted off on his fingers. "Eight bucks."

Gene laughed out loud, and Miranda clapped a hand over her mouth, hiding her grin. "That much?"

"Oh, yeah," he grinned. "Maybe ten."

"Well, the world has a way of making sure that people who are right for each other find each other," the older man said. "Though sometimes it takes a few false starts before your dreams come true. But if I can give you some advice, just make sure that when opportunity knocks, you aren't busy spanking it in the bathroom."

Brendan snorted laughter, to Miranda's intense relief. You know, even if he's my own son, he's really cute when he smiles.

"There." Gene set his brush down with a firm click that signaled a job completed. "What do you think?"

Miranda looked in the mirror. Gene was a genius, she decided, her inner voice faint. Her hairstyle wasn't much different than it had been before. But at the same time, it was as if he had accentuated every positive aspect, to make her seem more attractive than she really was. Somehow, the eye was drawn to how the strands of her hair were every shade of blond, from platinum to gold to bronze. Every curl was more lustrous, bringing out the dark blue of her eyes, the pink in her lips, the blush of her cheeks.

"I think," she said faintly, "that however much I'm paying you, it isn't enough."

Gene laughed, removing the sheet with an elaborate bow, like a vizier before his queen. "I live to serve beauty, in whatever form it may take," he said. "And it is my pleasure to see your wishes granted. Perhaps some day soon you and your son may each find the one who will make your lives complete."

"Maybe," she replied with a smile as she walked to the counter, handing over a credit card to pay the bill. "But wishes aren't usually there for the granting. Or the taking."

"Usually doesn't mean always," the stylist replied, as Brendan got up to wait by the door. He smiled mysteriously. "Sometimes we find that what we want has been in front of us all along." Their fingers brushed as he handed back the card, and a receipt to sign. "We just need to open our eyes to see it.

"Now." He flipped open a leather-bound appointment book. "When would you like to schedule your next appointment?"

Miranda followed Brendan out of the salon, a smile on her face that felt as wide as the Ohio River. "My god, the man's a miracle-worker!" She fluffed her hair out over her shoulders. "Doesn't it look good?"

"You always look good, Mom. You know that."

She cocked her head at him, surprised by the unexpected compliment. "Why, thank you, honey. But there's a difference between knowing it and feeling it. Gene made me feel beautiful."

"A gay hairdresser?"

"His sexuality has nothing to do with it," she said primly. She poked a stiff finger at her son's chest, smiling as he backed away with a surprised grunt. "A woman needs to feel beautiful, Brendan. Even when she's not. Sometimes, especially when she's not. So let that be a lesson to you, when you start dating again. Tell her."

"Well." Brendan ducked his head, his cheeks coloring. "You're gorgeous, Mom. I just wish the guys you went out with appreciated you. Because as far as I can tell, most of them just take you for granted."

She smiled, warmed by his words. "Thank you, honey. And chivalrous, too," she teased as he opened her car door for her. She decided to award him by flashing just a little more leg from under her dress than was really necessary as she swung into the car. From the sudden widening of her son's eyes, it seemed he noticed.

The ride home was a cheerful one, as they laughingly discussed some of the more outrageous things Gene had said during the appointment. Miranda was happy to see that Brendan had apparently shaken off his earlier grumpy mood. When they got home, they had a light lunch. Afterward, Brendan excused himself to his room to, he said, talk to some of friends on the internet and, Miranda suspected, play video games on his computer. Since he had already given up a good chunk of his day for her, she kept her mouth shut on her opinion that video games would rot the brain right out of his head.

She read for a little while, but the warm day soon had her head nodding, so she lay down on the couch and had a nice little nap. But it was rudely interrupted an hour or so later, by a series of loud, obnoxious knocks. Blinking the dregs of a very sexy dream out of her foggy eyes, she walked over to the front door.

Where, upon opening it, she was met by the very last person she wanted to see.

"Miranda." Rusty Barwick's eyes fell to her chest, then back up, his lips curling in a greasy smile. "Thinking about me?"

She closed her eyes, praying for patience, while at the same wishing she had put on a bra. Trust Rusty to make something as happily erotic as a pair of erect nipples something to be ashamed of. "No," she said flatly.

His smile, if anything, widened. "Well, let me in, and maybe I can help you remember." A flash of annoyance crossed his features. "Seeing as how you didn't bother to check on me. I finally made bail this morning. No thanks to you."

"I spent two hours in the hospital yesterday," she shot back. "No thanks to you." She gestured with her right arm, still in its sling. "And do you really think I'm interested in screwing, less than a day after you got me in a wreck? With my son in the house, in the middle of the afternoon? You got no sense, Rusty Barwick! No sense at all!"

"Oh, come on, Miranda. We both know that ain't true." His voice took on a wheedling tone, the same as when he was trying to convince a prospective car-buyer to purchase a vehicle way outside their price range. "We both know you're always down to fuck. I learned that on our third date."

She shook her head, pushed to the limit. I so do not need this shit right now.

"You know, Rusty," she said wearily, not caring if he saw exactly how little he meant to her or not. "I used to think everyone was wrong about you. That you were a good guy, deep down, and that people who bitched about how you tried to screw them over when they were buying a car were just jealous.

"I was wrong. So wrong. You aren't just an asshole. There are plenty of those around here." She took a deep breath. "But you are so incredibly, majestically, catastrophically dumb that it goes beyond mere stupidity. It actually kind of approaches genius, but from the opposite direction." Her voice rose. "Do you really think, after what I went through yesterday, that you can just waltz in here like nothing fucking happened? I mean, look at me!" She gestured furiously at her sling with her good arm. "I can barely move my arm! And you can be goddamned sure that it's your fucking insurance that's going to be paying my hospital bill, not mine, you colossal dipshit. I could have been killed because you couldn't wait to read a stupid text! And you think I'm going to be happy to see you?

"Leave," she said, her eyes hard. "Don't come back. I don't want you around here ever again."

"Oh, no." Rusty caught the door as she tried to shut it in his face. "You don't get to talk to me that way, you stuck-up bitch." She pushed furiously, but she had only one working arm, and the larger man was able to force it open, her bare feet skidding across the floor. "I've had about enough of your smart mouth. It was all right when you were putting out for me. But not now. Not after the night I've had. You don't get to treat me this way."

"Actually," a flat voice said. "I think she does."