On the Beach Ch. 08

Muriel lays four slices of bread out on the counter. "Good, because my soup has chicken in it."

"Chicken is fine."

She lays cheese atop two of the slices of bread, first cheddar, then something white with specks in it, peppers maybe, and then something pale that smells smoky. She tops the sandwiches with the remaining slices of bread and begins to spread butter on the top. She's careful. She spreads it from edge to edge. She turns to the stove, sets a griddle over two of the burners and turns them on. She puts the butter side down and quickly butters the new tops of the sandwiches.

"You got quiet, sugar."

"I let Jill and my father suck my dick," I reply as if that explains everything. After a fashion I suppose it does.

-----

"Hmm, that so?" I mutter, scanning the counter for my spatula. "Your momma know about this?"

He snorts. "I'd say so. She helped dad lick Jim's cum off Bill's chest."

"You don't say? I'm guessing that was quite a sight."

"You could say that."

I use the spatula to lift up a corner of one of the sandwiches. It's coming along nicely but not quite ready to flip. You have to be careful, pay attention to the heat and the time, or you'll burn your sandwich.

"So, everyone was involved, huh?"

"Yup, everyone. Bill fucked Jill while he sucked Jim. Jill sucked me while she fucked Bill and then mom and dad came in for the clean up." He shakes his head. "Fuck, Muriel, my dad put my dick in his mouth. My fucking dad!"

"Your daddy isn't the first man to have wants his woman can't take care of."

"What?" Mark's face is getting all red. He holds his hands up and gestures to the ceiling. If I'd been home I'd have expected scripture or an amen, not from Mark. "What the fuck does that mean," he continues. "Let's pretend it's no big deal my father is bi, or gay. Does that make it okay for him to suck my dick? I'm his son."

"Did you try to stop him?"

"I pulled away. After I realized what was happening, I pulled away."

"Did he follow you? Force you to do more?"

"No, but still."

"He ever do anything like that before, when you was little, maybe real little?"

"Huh? No! Fuck no. My dad wouldn't do something like that."

"Why do you say that?"

I flip the sandwiches, trying not to preen at the sight of two perfectly toasted pieces of bread, golden brown from crust to crust. Gloating never leads to anything good, so I try not to gloat. But, damn, these sandwiches are toasted perfectly. I'm proud of my grilled cheese. I admit it. Hopefully, that won't lead to my destruction. Folks always fuck that up. It is a haughty nature that goes before a fall, not pride. Pride goeth before destruction.

"Why? Because he's a good father, a great father. He'd never do anything to hurt us." His voice trails off as he realizes what he's saying.

"That's what I've always thought about your daddy," I say, nodding. I'm paying close attention to my sandwiches. It's easy to forgot the griddle is already hot when you turn 'em. Easy to burn 'em if you don't pay attention. "I don't think he'd hurt you on purpose. Maybe he got a little too excited, like happens to all of us at times, and pushed things a little further than he meant to or than you cared for but I don't think he'd intentional hurt any of you."

Mark clutches at his hair with both hands. "So incest is okay? That's what you're saying? As long as we aren't kids, it's okay? Really? Don't you think parents always have too much sway over their kids for it to ever be okay? Kids want to please their parents."

"So, why are you over here and not over there letting your momma or your daddy suck your cock? If their pleasure or desires hold so much sway over you, what are you doing here?"

I turn the burners off under the griddle. I put a sandwich on each of the plates on the counter and cut 'em kitty-cornered. I set one in front of Mark and one in front of the place next to him, then ladle us each a bowl of homemade soup.

"You want milk or tea?"

"Milk."

I poured us each a glass and walked around the counter and sit down.

------

I take a bite of soup and roll my eyes heavenward. I can't help it. It's that good. It's clear the noodles are homemade. They're thick but light as dumplings. The chicken is plentiful and the veggies bright and not cooked to mush.

"Holy shit, Muriel. This is unbelievable," I gush in total sincerity. "This is the best soup I've ever tasted."

"Thank you, Mark," she replies with a nod as she picks up half a sandwich. "Don't let your grilled cheese get too cold. The bottom will sweat and get all soggy.

I take a big bite; half of the half I'd picked up.

"When you said you had a surprise, I had visions of a sex swing or something," I mumble around the sandwich, hiding my mouth politely with one hand. My 'see food' joke had not gone over well with Jill. The thought of my sister turns the sandwich to ashes in my mouth. I sit it down and take a drink of milk.

Muriel's eyes never leave my face. I can't face them. I take a sudden interest in arranging the bread crumbs on my plate into a line with my forefinger. If I had a straw, or a bill to roll up, I could snort them.

"Mark, let it go for awhile. sugar pie. Eat your supper. Quit trying to figure out everything all at once and just enjoy the soup. Tea helped but this is a chicken soup emergency or my name ain't Muriel, which according to the tattoo on my thigh it surely is."

Tattoo? I don't recall seeing a tattoo. Wondering about that would lead to remembering last night, which would lead to remembering about this morning and that connected directly to this afternoon. I do my best to shut down that line of thought. I dare to risk soggy bread and focus on the soup. If the bread is soggy when I return to it, I don't notice. The milk is a perfect coda.

I eye the glass. "Where did you get this? It's fantastic."

Muriel starts clearing the counter. I join her.

"Small dairy, across the Sound. Pasture fed cows. You kids have never tasted real milk, from cows fed on real grass. Cows nowadays all get the same feedlot feed, here and in Bum Fuck, Iowa, winter and summer, same old, same old." She shook her head in disgust. "Believe it or not, you use to be able to tell milk from a grass fed cow from one fed on hay. Some folks say it was the same with cheese or butter made from the milk. Any who that's all in the past now. There's a small dairy farmer, sells to a few restaurants and small old-time cheese makers around here." She nods at the glass. "He pasteurizes it. Folks think that's what kills the taste." She shakes her head. "Nope, it ain't that. It's that goddamn processed feed they give to all the cows nowadays."

She hangs up the skillet before she speaks again.

"You know, it's a funny thing, Mark, but Bill was standing right where you're standing this morning. Handing me that same skillet to dry."

I'd been lulled by the rote mechanics of washing and by thoughts of cows and grass and what exactly was the magic that turned milk into the cheese that tasted so damn good when it was melted between buttery toasted slices of bread. As she spoke, all I saw was Bill. I saw his smile. I saw the way his dick looked when he was jerking off this morning. I saw the glow in his eyes as he sucked his best friend, a best friend it appeared was destined to be our sister's boyfriend. And I saw the way his dick looked when Jill rose up and I could see all but the head. It was glistening and shiny, hard and dark red.

I feel sick to my stomach. For a moment I'm afraid Muriel's soup and toasted cheese sandwich will end up in her sink. Her hand is cool against my cheek. I take a shuddery breath, then another, and my queasiness passes.

"Come on," she takes my hand and leads me down the hallway. I follow her into the bathroom. She points to a toothbrush. "That's an extra one, nobody's used it." She begins to brush her teeth. I follow suit.

She steps to a large, old-fashioned soaking tub, claw foot, the feet gilded in gold, and begins filling it.

I rinse my mouth. "Mom ran right over here after Bill's little stunt. She hasn't even bothered to call to check on me." I'm surprised at my anger, and my jealousy.

"You don't believe that do you?"

She looks over her shoulder, one hand under the gushing tap, testing the temperature. I shrug.

"It's true."

"No it ain't and I expect you know that yourself. She and Jill were hot on your tail when you came over here. I waved 'em off. Did you really want to talk to them then?" She didn't wait for an answer, yet another way she reminded me of my sister. "Soon as you fell asleep and I got my noodles rolled out I called over and talked to your momma and your daddy. Had to threaten to shoot the two of them in the ass with a load of salt to keep 'em from storming the castle, so to speak. They're beating themselves up as much as you are. And don't pretend to imagine they don't care the world about you." She shook the water off her hand. "Get in. Do it slow. Water's hot."

I don't argue with her. For one thing, I know it's no use. For another, that bath looks good. I want to step in. I do and I hiss. Muriel wasn't lying about the water.

I brace myself with my hands on both sides of the tub and do the up-down bob of someone lowering their body into a hot bath. I shoot up with a little more exuberance when my balls touch the water. Finally, I'm down. My ass is on the bottom and I lay back against the sloping tub. Of course, that part of the tub is cold but I don't mind. Muriel lets the water run until it's up to my neck. My eyes are closed but I know the water has to be nearly to the top of the tub. She shuts the water off. I'm careful not to move. I don't want to splash water on Muriel's floor.

I hear her lower the toilet bowl lid. From the location of her voice, I assume she has seated herself atop it. A queen atop her throne. I smile a little. She is a queen.

"So, tell me what happened."

I talk. I tell her as much as I know. I don't make excuses for myself. I tell her how I had jerked off watching my parents fuck, while they watched Jim and Jill through the window. I confess I had pictures of mom and Jill and to an extent, dad and Jim, in my head while I jerked off.

"You were seeing them, your momma and your daddy anyway, weren't you?" Muriel interjects for the first time since I had begun speaking.

"Yes," I answer, eyes still closed.

"Well, then it's not too surprising that's what you were thinking about is it?"

"I suppose not. But it can't be right thinking about your sister or your mom, when you're jerking off. It can't be. Can it?"

I hear a soft creak and then the sound of a cabinet door opening. When she speaks again it's from beside the tub. I jump a little and the water sloshes.

"Didn't mean to spook you. Sorry. Settle back like you was."

I hear her hand dip into the bath. The smell of soap fills the air. It's a light scent, not herbal or flowery. Clean is about the best word to describe it. A feel her body against my shoulder as she reaches over me and picks up my other arm.

The washcloth is soft as it glides over my skin. She washes each finger, then my hand, working her way slowly up my arm.

"Is it right?" Her breath smells of mint tooth paste. It's warm on my ear, cool on the wet skin of my neck. I shiver. If she notices, she pays it no mind. "I don't know, Mark. That's the honest truth. Maybe it's not right for you, seeing how upsetting you find it. It sure wasn't right for me."

I resist the urge to open my eyes and look at her.

"I never knew my real daddy. The man I grew up with was my step-dad. He was a good enough father, good enough man and husband in the beginning, before the drink sunk its claws deep into his soul and hung on for good." She rubs the cloth over my armpit. Normally, that would have tickled but I'm too focused on her words to notice this time.

"Of course, booze can find nothing in a man's soul that ain't already made a home for itself there. Maybe, all of us have dark souls if we let someone, or something, dig deep enough. I don't know. What I do know is even if he was stinking falling down drunk I cannot imagine your daddy hurting any of you. Same wasn't true for my step-daddy. There's no need for details. When I started to come into my adulthood, his drinking and the rest got bad, really bad. Let's leave it at that."

She dips the cloth and the soap and moves to my other arm before continuing.

"So, no, for me there wasn't nothing right about it. But what happened to me and what happened to you got nothing in common, except maybe that family was involved. Beyond that, they're as different as night from day. Lust is not the same as sex or love. Lust is part of sex, mostly a good part. Without lust where'd we be? But lust for control, for satisfaction at any cost has got nothing to do with sex or love. See the difference? Understand what I'm getting at?

"Love between parent and child, brother and sister, brother and brother is different than the love of two people for each other. There's all kind of emotions and feelings get wrapped up in that one little four letter word. A great deal of mischief arises from not keeping that fact in mind, as far as I'm concerned.

"That kind of family love is not supposed to encompass desire, or so people claim. Maybe they're right. Maybe they aren't. I can claim wisdom or experience enough to say one way or the other. Human beings might have a soul - I think they do - but they're for sure part of this world and that means whatever soul they got is wrap up inside an animal. And animals are greedy. They only know themselves, know their needs. Sex is a powerful need, second maybe only to hunger. So, in that sense, maybe it was your momma's titties or her cootch, but the animal part of you didn't care. It just sees something it wants."

She pauses.

"Sit up, Mark."

I do as she asks and she begins to wash my chest.

"You're a smart fella. I know that. I'm not so dumb myself."

When she speaks again, it's in a voice I've never heard. If I didn't know better, I'd swear Muriel has vanished and been replaced in the blink of an eye. This voice has a different rhythm, a different accent, stresses different vowels.

"I was not fortunate enough to have the wherewithal to attend college, though I longed to do so. The majority of my childhood teachers mistook my quietness, my reserve, for stupidity. Unless it was something, such as mathematics, where 2 + 2 always equals 4, they uniformly gave me poor grades. Even if my thesis had not a single dangling participle, not a single misplaced comma, a strong statement and stronger arguments, I got a 'C' if I was lucky. Far more frequently, I was accused of cheating."

There's a pause and Muriel, the Muriel I know, is back.

"Lean forward so I can do your back." The feel of the cloth inscribing soapy circles across my shoulders draws a sigh from deep inside my chest. "No, I'm not dumb. I know how to say 'wash'. I chose to pronounce it 'wursh'. That's who I am. That's how I talk. I'm not changing who I am for a bunch of blind buffoons too dumb to listen to what I'm saying, not how I'm saying it."

She moves to the foot of the tub. "Lay back again, sugar," she requests. Once again, I do as she asks. "You ticklish?"

I shake my head. She picks up one foot, washes it and my lower leg, then the other.

"On your knees."

I comply without questioning. She wrings the cloth out and drapes it over the side of the tub. She rubs the soap in her hands and reaches between my legs. Her hands are gentle. She washes my cock and balls, before reaching between my legs and washing my ass. Her fingers glide over my butthole and I feel my cock twitch to life against her forearm.

She finishes and I'm a little sad. She reaches past me and pulls the old rubber plug from the drain, draping the chain over the spigot. She twists at the waist and retrieves an old stainless steel pitcher. The kind mom used to use iced tea if no company was coming over. This one is missing its handle.

Muriel turns on the water, adjusts the temperature and fills the pitcher.

"Lean over, Mark."

When I do, warm water cascade over my head and down my back. I shiver again. Her hand appears in front of my face, haloed by my dripping hair.

"You wash your face. I don't want to get soap in your eyes."

As I rub my soapy hands across my face, her fingers work shampoo into my hair. I hear the sing of the water in the pitcher and then water pours over my hair. I scrub the soap from my face. Again. Again. The next time she pours the water down my back, rinsing away the shampoo suds. The water runs into the crack of my ass and her playful fingers follow.

"Lean back, sugar."

I sit back on my feet and she pours a fresh pitcher over my chest. I lean back further and the next pitcher flows over my cock and crotch. I'm hard, have been since her hands had touched me there.

Muriel runs her hands over my chest and belly. She grasps my cock, fondles my balls.

"You getting cold?"

I shake my head. She reaches behind the tub and retrieves a wooden tray, designed to rest on the rim of the tub and make a shelf for a book or a drink or whatever you had a mind to bathe with.

"You think that would hold you? If you sat near the edge of the tub?"

I take it from her and try to flex it. I feel no give.

"Yeah, I think so. Why?"

She doesn't answer. She gets up and sets the attachment across the tub, as close to the sloping back of the tub as she can. She hands me a towel.

"Sit on that. Easier on your butt."

She leaves, seeming to hurry for the first time since I'd known her. She returns with one of the dining room chairs. She drops a towel over the seat and sits down. She grabs a comb and combs out my wet hair. I nearly fall asleep, it feels so relaxing. She fills the pitcher again and tips a bit of water over my chest and sets it down in the tub. Six little streams of water squirted out of the holes where the rivets that held the handle in place had once been.

Muriel reaches behind her and, tipping the chair back, is able to open the linen closet. When she turns back she has a can of lady's shaving cream and one of those razors designed for ladies.

"This is a new razor; in case you were wondering."

I shrug. I wasn't.

She squirts a handful of shaving cream into her left hand. She uses the fingers of her right to spread the cream over my left arm and armpit. She has to reach across me. I hadn't noticed when she washed that arm but this time I'm very conscious of the weight of her breast on my right arm and side. She shaves my arm slowly, carefully, stopping to flick the shaving cream off the razor and into the bottom of the tub. She presses under my elbow and I raised my arm. She shaves my armpit.

She picks up the pitcher, only half full now and no longer leaking, and pours some over the razor before using the rest to rinse off my arm and armpit. She does my right arm. The feel of her fingers smoothing shaving cream over my chest somehow manages to be relaxing and erotic at the same time. The feel of the blade riding over my collar bones makes me shiver. Shivering at her touch is becoming a habit.

She shaves slowly around my nipples. Wiping the cream away to check, using short little jabbing strokes to rid them of any stragglers. Then she turns to my belly. She has to push my cock down with the side of her arm to shave my pubis. Next, she shaves the shaft and my sack. I stand and rest one foot on the rim of the tub. She shaves my leg, up to my crotch. Then the other.

I turn. She shaves the back of my legs. I put a foot on the back rim of the tub and squat slightly, opening my ass to her. She dabs shaving cream in the crack of my ass, spreads my cheeks with one hand and then shaves my ass. She checks the results as she had with my nipples, fingertips wiping and razor stroking.