The Good Mother

January. These long winter nights fill me with reflection. Images from the past. They linger, coursing through my mind. Keeping me awake all these years later. Countless hours staring into the dark, my sleeping wife curled against me in the bed of our pleasant home. Teenagers asleep upstairs. In a few short years, they'll be on their own.

If you are middle-aged, like me, much of your past is inconsequential, forgotten. Just a decades-long string of repetitive days. But some days never leave you. Some hold secrets. Delicious recollections. Those you replay, night after night. Or maybe not. There are days you should just let slip away. Some secrets shouldn't be dredged up at all.

I can't put a label on which this is for me. I keep hitting the replay button. There's a need to understand. So I reverse engineer my past. Deconstruct those lazy summer days long ago, in search of some truth.

In bed at night, and without warning, the sounds also return from long ago. Crickets chirping in the evening fields. Cicadas vibrating in the trees. And our footsteps -- my mother's and mine -- climbing the narrow, dark stairway to the attic. My grandparents' attic. You see, it always begins with my grandparents.

* * *

Theirs was a clapboard farmhouse in the country. They had lived there since the Depression. A drafty two-story affair, large and rambling, steep-pitched metal roof, worn floorboards. The ceilings were high, the stairs creaked. The furniture and the rugs, time-worn and frayed, but comfortable. Out back, the stillness of tobacco fields and endless rows of soybeans beneath a hot summer sun. No neighbors in sight.

It was the covered, wrap-around front porch with its swing and gathering of wooden rocking chairs that my dad found the most intolerable. He had no use for rural America, sitting around on porches like that, passing the evening away. Wasted time, he would say. Too much stillness. Everything so quiet. Which is why, as often as possible, he avoided the two-hour drive to my mother's parents, and the house she grew up in.

Not me. As a young boy, I loved that farm. At least once a month, always on a Saturday morning, I found myself sitting by the passenger-side window, head leaning out to catch the wind, as my mother drove our old, two-toned '64 Chevrolet along the back roads to Gramma's house. One hand on the steering wheel, the other brushing hair out of her face. We drove with all windows down. She was thin and wore simple sun dresses on weekends, light and airy, flowing out from her waist. Usually a pale yellow or flowered pattern, the hem pulled above her knees in the car to capture any breeze. She kicked off her sandals to work the pedals barefoot. I kicked off my sneakers, took off my socks. Such endearing memories. Some of the best.

Sitting on that porch, Gramma would bring us sweet iced tea. While she and my mother talked, Granddad would give me a ride on his tractor, out to the far reaches of the farm, then back. Just for the fun of it. Folks from other farms dropped by later to sit a spell, rocking back and forth. Stories were told into the evening. And then, absolute darkness. No streetlights, of course. Everything outside turning black. Only the Milky Way above. And one feeble, lighted bulb dangling from the porch ceiling.

"Are you ready?" my mother would ask.

Each time I followed her inside, held on to the banister, step by step to the second floor. Then down the long hallway past her brothers' old, unused bedrooms. Opening a plain heavy door, we began a steep, forbidding climb in the dark, up impossibly narrow stairs, walls closing in, winding sharply to the left and to another door. The entrance to the attic. Inside was the bedroom she knew as a girl.

It was small with an awkward, A-frame ceiling, and only one window. All of it a patchwork, walls hammered together by Granddad. I was uneasy with it at first. The furniture faded and threadbare, from another time. A small bedside table and lamp. A mahogany wardrobe against the opposite wall, its finish gone to black. A full-length mirror on its door. A wooden chair beside it. All of it hand-me-downs. Images that remain vivid to this day.

Mother slept on the lumpy double bed. I had a sleeping bag on the floor. Above, a slow ceiling fan. A small gas-flame floor heater to one side. A cramped bathroom with toilet and claw-foot tub. Not much else. All of it claustrophobic, dimly lit and silent. Barely enough space to move around. The musty smell, she told me, was there even when she was my age. I'd fall asleep as soon as my head hit the pillow.

The years rolled by, the trips added up, each time finding us back on that porch and sleeping in her old bedroom. It began to carry some appeal, if only for the quaint coziness of it. I was 27, finishing graduate school, when the change began. During one predictably hot July.

* * *

For hours, we cleaned out the cobwebs and clutter in the barn, our clothes soaked in sweat. It was one of our now twice-monthly trips to the farm. All to help my grandfather, who by then was in declining health. Exhaustion consumed us. Moving to the porch after dinner, my grandparents sat in those rockers, Gramma breaking up snap beans from a bowl in her lap. I was in the swing beside my mother, she in her usual sun dress. With the spread of darkness, the grandparents retired for the night.

Mother and I uncorked a bottle of red wine sneaked in from the car. We sipped it in juice glasses pilfered from the kitchen. Swinging slowly back and forth. The swing squeaking. Moths flitting around that solitary porch light overhead. A few fireflies blinking on and off out in the darkness. The nighttime heat only slightly less draining than the daytime sun. Somewhere in the sweet scent of green crops and rich soil, I could detect the familiar aroma of her skin. Her sweat mingled with a hint of perfume on her wrist when she lifted her glass. She was that close. After pouring maybe one too many glasses, she stood up.

"Are you ready?" she asked. We headed inside.

I don't want to mislead you. Mother was not a youngish, bosomy blonde. She bore the narrow face of a calm and serious, middle-aged high school librarian, which she was. Tall and thin, a brunette with watchful eyes and chocolate brown hair pulled up in back, off her neck. Turning gray here and there, with a few strands of silver. A straight nose, lips perpetually ready to break into a wide smile, but never quite did. It was just her look. Well-dressed at school, modest fashions, low heels. She did not think herself attractive. It's true, she wasn't a standout, but nice looking.

I thought her a proper woman. Decent, respected. Carrying an inborn sense of responsibility. A woman with an education, who had manners, chose her words carefully, and kept her past to herself. She donned reading glasses to look at menus. She was often silent. To me a sign of sophistication. I admired that. Collecting black and white photographs. That was her hobby. Scenes from the long ago sidewalks and plazas of New York, Paris, Berlin. Photos large enough to be framed and hung on the walls of our home. Most were of crowds sitting at sidewalk cafes. Tables where one could sit and watch life go by without participating. Places she knew she would never get to. She was 52.

As we settled into the attic bedroom on that July night, I waited for a sweaty sleep, listening to the loud mating calls of cicadas in the woods and June bugs bumping against the screen of our open window. No air-conditioning. Having outgrown the sleeping bag, I lay beside my mother on the double bed. She in her customary dark, summery thin pajamas, me bare-chested, in boxers. We'd done this many times before. The ceiling fan offered little relief. Sweat seemed not to leave my skin. I felt a movement, then watched in near shadows as my mother pulled her knees to her chest, raised her hips a little, and in one slow, silent act, slipped off the bottom of her pajamas, leaving her in panties. Eventually, we fell asleep.

Blinking awake sometime later, I felt my way to the bathroom. Gently closing the door, I stood in darkness at the toilet, my eyes acclimated, and reached through my boxers. I pulled out and began peeing. Lightheaded and a little unsteady from the wine.

The rest seemed to unfold in slow motion.

The door opened. The light switched on. My mother stood at the door jamb. "Sorry. I thought maybe you were sick," she said. "Too much wine. We drank too much, you know." Her voice was hoarse from sleep.

But she didn't leave. It was the oddest thing, unexplainable really. Instead, she leaned her shoulder against the door frame, arms crossed, beginning a conversation, me not six feet away with dick in hand and a stream of urine arcing out, then curving down into the water, splashing loudly.

"I guess this may be one of our last trips together," she said. "When grad school ends, you'll go off to some job." Her eyes dropped to my penis then lifted to my face, then back again. She tried to conceal it, but I could tell. And then the strangest feeling flowing through my loins. This sick, squeamish sensation of being indecently exposed. Yet I did nothing about it.

I blame it on the wine. It saps resistance. There's no other excuse for me to have stood my ground, as I did, and unashamedly continue peeing.

"Maybe not," I said. "I don't know what will happen. I could wind up with a job in town."

I could see the bottom half of her white panties below the hem of the pajama top. And the slight rise of her mons pubis pushing out the fabric. A faint dark patch showing through the material. Pubic hair. But not a lot, no strands emerging out the sides of the panties. I would have thought there would be more. Her thighs slender, smoother than you would expect for a woman her age. She hadn't seen my penis since I was a small boy. And I never thought I would see her in panties. Mothers in our neighborhood just didn't do that sort of thing. Surely she knew my view of her was hiding very little.

There was no emotion. She rarely showed any. My childhood had been one of few embraces, an occasional comforting word, and the rarest of kisses on the cheek. Her manner was not lack of affection, nor inattention. She took care of me, as well as any mother. It was just her way. Growing older, I was aware that people liked her. But none were close. And there was a weariness about her. As if resigned to her fate. She was unknowable to me.

Those thoughts were rushing through me as we stood there, me with dick in hand, disregarding all modesty. The raw, naked light bulb above illuminating my body, and hers, surrounding us in the tiny, clammy bathroom. I didn't know what to make of this. If she wasn't going to leave, then I was stubborn enough -- and drunk enough -- to just keep showing it all. Penis out, both of our eyes lowered to watch the pee flow. I had been holding my dick with my hand, but to let her see more, I adjusted, holding myself with just two fingers at the base. A memory so visceral that, even now, I can at certain moments recall the exact sensations in my prick as her eyes lowered to it. Its skin bristled, itched a little as it began thickening, hardening, expanding. The hardness accelerating, feeling as if it was turning into iron. "We'll just have to wait and see," I said, barely managing to get my words out.

But there was little attention to our words. My mother kept talking, her face with no emotion, but her eyes lowering, looking at it, then raising again, meeting mine. As if her son's penis, reaching the pinnacle of its erection, was just the ordinary course of events. As if we were still sitting in the swing on the front porch, chattering away.

What did she think of this hardening erection, I wondered, as the last drops dribbled into the toilet. Her eyes lowered to it again, as if she was memorizing the bobbing up and down that had begun. Did she notice how the skin of my dick was a slight shade darker than the rest of me? I worried about that. Could she see the small mole on the side? Did she notice that when the head of my cock swelled, it seemed artificially smooth and rubbery, to me at least? Did she think me well-enough endowed?

My emotions seesawed, at once proud of this enormous, marvelous erection, while being flushed with a nauseous feeling that it was in front of my mother. Maybe I was about to throw up. I wasn't sure.

We ceased any attempt at conversation and just stared. Both of us. My arms down by my side, leaving my hard-on in profile for her. This prick of mine, at full mast, was uncontrollable, weaving side to side. I could have grabbed it, steadied it. But I liked her seeing that it had this life of its own. Her face stoic, with seeming disinterest. But her eyes -- those eyes were riveted to my cock.

Then, something else so uncharacteristic of me. I continued standing over the toilet, but slowly began stroking, my hand moving up and down its length, up and back, then again, maybe even a third time. I let go and just watched. Droplets starting to seep out of the opening. I looked once more at my mother. Still no emotion.

Turning away slowly, she faded into the dark and climbed back in bed. My ego and my erection deflated, I turned out the light and climbed in after her. No further words from either of us. I spent much of the night staring at the ceiling in darkness.

* * *

On the next morning's drive home, she changed radio stations, again and again, frantically twisting the dial this way and that with one hand, the other on the steering wheel. All in search of loud music, anything to drown out the silence between us. She would not look at me, nor I at her, both in fear of this mute complicity between us. I had showed her. She had watched. And the farther from the farmhouse we drove, the more I sensed this was not to be talked about.

At home, the days ahead were filled with self-consciousness, nervousness, withdrawal. For both of us. I lived an hour away, in an apartment near the university. Most weekends, however, found me back home. My mother talked a lot to my father during dinners, little to me. Humiliation when our eyes met. We avoided being alone together.

And I was faced with additional shame. My guilt was matched by something worse: the stomach-turning thrill of it all, at having had other eyes watching my erection. Those of my own mother.

Other women, the young ones I'd been with, had seen me naked, with a hard-on. They didn't stare. They seemed indifferent. I didn't think that much of it. I wasn't an exhibitionist. Yet, deep down I fantasized about having another opportunity to show my dick to my own mother. I hated myself for the very notion. Sexual thoughts about her had never before crossed my mind. Still, there was no escape from my feelings. Standing in that little bathroom, my hard prick felt thicker, hotter and more alive than I could remember. As sick as it was, I loved the sensation of the two of us watching it together. I shamefully contrived fantasies of her stepping forward and taking my dick in hand, holding it as I finished peeing.

No way would it ever happen again, not back in our happy little home. And I assumed there would be few invitations back to the farm. Not after that night.

* * *

Peach season. I had forgotten about that. Every August.

"I want to drive over and help gather them in," my mother said to my dad at the dinner table one weekend. Three weeks had passed since that sweaty night in the bathroom. The orchard was just a dozen trees to the side of the farm. Still, it was a lot of work. Dad nodded approval. "Maybe Michael can go with you and help."

"That would be nice," she said, her eyes calm as she looked at him. Not even a glance toward me. She raised her glass of iced tea and changed the subject. She had known Dad wouldn't go. And knew that I would.

* * *

The sky spread out before us, the Saturday morning turning vivid blue. Not a cloud overhead to protect us from the sun. The day's heat settling in early. We were on the road to the farm to pick the peaches, the city far behind us. I was driving, my mother in the passenger seat. It doesn't take much for details to come back to me. Even the smallest particulars. Thin, bare-chested farm boys outside country stores, drinking orange sodas in the shade. The smell of hot asphalt wafting up from under our tires. My mother's fingers changing radio stations, her nails manicured and polished in fire engine red. Something I had not seen on her before.

She raised her knees, braced them against the dashboard glove box in front of her. Her legs parted, the sun dress slipping, more and more, as we rode along. Eventually, showing a little thigh. Our conversation nervous and awkward. Each afraid to say much.

We pulled onto the gravel drive at the farm. My eyes shifted to the tall pitch of the weathered roof. And to the side window of the attic. I wondered about her years spent in that little make-do bedroom.

"I love this old house," I said in a spontaneous moment. It embarrassed me. She too looked up. "I feel safe here," she told me. I wish I'd asked what she meant.

"I brought wine," she said as I turned off the ignition. Her voice quivered, eyes focused out the windshield, toward the house. She would not look at me as she spoke. "We can sit on the porch again tonight and have a glass." She opened the car door, got out, then half turned back to me. "But don't let your grandmother see the bottle," she warned.

I found myself staring as she walked away. Disbelief in what she had said. Drink wine on the porch? That's what precipitated that night in the bathroom. Was she suggesting something? I felt the immediate return of that familiar sickening thrill.

Two hours under the sun. Sweat on our faces, running down our arms as we picked peaches. My mother walked to me. "We're almost done," she said, holding a wooden basket stuffed with plump cling-stones. Beads of perspiration trickled down her neck and chest, disappearing into the bosom of the sun dress. Her voice less nervous by then.

She hoisted the basket to the back gate of Granddad's pickup truck. As she returned, I felt a hand on the shoulder of my damp tee-shirt. A gentle squeeze. She kept it there a second longer than you would think. So out of character for her. That got my blood going, my imagination too.

I caught myself staring at that summer dress as she walked on, her back to me. The material so damp it clung to her bottom, wedged slightly between her buttocks. Each buttock conspicuously separated. Each cheek defined. Each inducing a barely noticeable jiggle with every step. Those naked shoulders in that dress, naked arms, bare chest. For the first time, I conjured images of what my mother might look like nude. I had a hard-on.

Dusk settled over the fields. My grandparents retired. The house slipped into a quiet stillness. A hush over everything. Sitting on the porch, we had half of the wine, then carried the bottle with us, climbing the attic stairs and clicking on the lamp without speaking. I slid the lock bolt shut on the door. We had never bothered with it before.

"Don't worry," she told me. "They never come up here."

She turned her back to me, slipped off her sandals and reached behind, fingers clutching the zipper of her dress. She was going to take it off with me right there. Always before, she had used the bathroom to change. Always.

Her fingers, long and slender, red nails still intact, slowly pulled the zipper down, inch by inch. All the way to her white panties. My eyes retreated, looking at the floor. The dress parted. I heard the fabric being coaxed past her hips. The faint sound of it slipping to her feet. My eyes raised. I couldn't not look. Her back came into view.

Her hands neatly smoothed out the dress. With her back still to me, she hung it in the wardrobe. I tried to collect my thoughts. Maybe I should act busy somewhere else in the room. Or maybe say I needed to use the bathroom. I was only deceiving myself. I knew I could not look away.