The Son Also Rises

"I would be just fine," said Betty.

Greta waited for her mother to leave before talking to me. As Betty walked away, I tried not to look at Betty the way I had looked Greta. I had already been caught once. There was no need to push my luck. When I looked up, my stepmother was sitting again. I saw the empathy in her face.

"I know you have a lot of anger towards your father," said Greta.

I nodded.

"I do, too," said Greta.

"Does that mean you are getting a divorce?" I asked.

"I don't know," said Greta, "I actually spoke with your father at the lawyer's office."

"Will I ever see you again?" I asked.

Greta sighed. She probably did not want me getting involved in the divorce negotiations.

"Do you promise not to take your anger out on anyone else if your father and I get a divorce?" asked Greta.

I thought for a moment about my future. Soon, my father was going to kick me out of the house without a penny to my name. To make matters worse, I would never see Greta or Betty again. I had the feeling Greta was going to take her mother miles and miles away from here.

"Okay," I said finally.

"Please understand," said Greta, "None of this is anyone's fault."

I looked at my stepmother. This entire situation was my father's fault. He was the one who was too proud to come home to his wounded son. He was the one who refused to forgive his new wife for taking sides with his son.

"I don't believe that," I said, "I don't think you believe that either."

My stepmother sighed. Greta did not sound too convincing. Still, my stepmother looked me in the eye and made me swear to her.

"Promise me," said Greta.

"Okay, okay," I said, with my hands up in mock surrender, "But only for you and your mother."

"Thank you," said Greta, "I appreciate that."

The next day, Betty found me in the exercise room in the basement. I had never seen my father in that exercise room, so I had always assumed the room was designed for me. Since my hands and arms were completely useless, I found the machine to do leg lifts. Earlier that morning, I got myself dressed without Betty's help by arranging my clothes on the bed and sliding into them. It was a clumsy process, but I was desperate for some privacy. Being cooped up in the house was driving me crazy.

After nearly a month in recovery, I had grown bored watching television. The daytime game shows were no longer exciting. All of the reality shows seemed to lack authenticity. The news shows and talk shows were all about the evils of conservatism.

I needed to do something. I should have appreciated this time of inactivity and rest, but my father had raised me to be a man of action. I knew of people who would have been completely happy watching television all day, but I was not one of those people.

I went to the exercise machine designed for leg lifts. Since I could not change the settings on the machine, I sat down and hoped the settings were not too high. I pushed with all of my might with my legs. To my dismay, the pedals only moved a few inches and I was reduced to a blubbering pile of sweat. My strength had left me.

When Betty found me, I was perspiring. She looked at me in horror.

"What are you trying to do?" asked Betty.

I stopped what I was doing and looked up at Betty. The raven-haired beauty looked at my disheveled shirt and shorts. I knew she was wondering how I managed to get into the shirt and shorts without the use of hands.

"I am exercising," I said finally.

"You are supposed to be in bed," said Betty.

I rolled my eyes.

"I am so bored sleeping and watching television all day," I said.

"Most people would be happy to just sleep and watch television all day," said Betty.

"I thought so, too," I said, "But I was wrong."

"Can't you find something on television?" asked Betty.

"The financial shows are interesting," I said, "But I can't stand the rest."

Betty sat down next to me. She sighed. The woman took a look at all the expensive and almost-new exercise equipment all around her.

"My daughter says I should exercise, too," said Betty.

"Good," I said, "We can both exercise."

"I can't lie to you," said Betty, "I'm bored sitting around all day, too."

"Why don't you take a day off?" I asked.

"I can't do that," said Betty.

"Why can't you go out?" I asked.

"My daughter says it is not safe out there for me," said Betty.

"Why isn't it safe out there for you?" I asked, "Are you wanted by the police?"

"No," said Betty, "And that is none of your business."

"You don't look like a criminal," I said.

Betty frowned.

"Thanks for nothing," said Betty.

"Do you owe money to someone?" I asked.

"No," said Betty.

"So what is there to worry about?" I asked.

"I don't know," said Betty.

There was an awkward pause as I thought about what to say next.

"I am so bored," I said, "I actually want to exercise."

Betty laughed.

"You must really be bored," said Betty.

"I could just be losing my mind," I said.

"In my experience," said Betty, "The smartest people get bored watching television."

"What are you trying to say?" I asked.

"Maybe you should go back to college," said Betty.

"Did Greta tell you what happened?" I asked.

"She told me that it was an accident," said Betty.

I sighed. I always felt embarrassed every time the accident was mentioned.

"I don't think my dad is sending me back to college any time soon," I said.

"Why not?" asked Betty.

"I think my dad is going to kick me out of the house," I said.

"What makes you say that?" Betty asked.

"I can hear Greta's conversations," I said.

"Everyone hears my daughter's conversations," said Betty, "They are always yelling and screaming at each other."

"I think I know why you are here," I said.

Betty looked at me out of the corner of her eyes. She waited for my answer.

"Why am here?" asked Betty.

"My father is too cheap to hire a really in-home nurse," I said, "That is why he asked Greta to bring you here."

Betty laughed.

"I didn't think of that," said Betty, "But I think you are absolutely correct."

"When I was growing up," I said, "My father had me mow the lawns for all of his properties."

"Why didn't your father hire a landscaping crew?" asked Betty.

"I was free labor," I said.

Betty and I both laughed. I found it absurd that my father made me work without pay. Betty shook her head. She probably found it absurd that someone with such wealth would cut corners by making his own son work for free.

There was an awkward pause. We avoided each other's glances. We were both tired of being cooped up inside. Even though the television set had over eight hundred satellite channels, we were both tired of sitting around watching television.

"I don't see a pool here," said Betty.

"This house never had a pool," I said.

"Why doesn't your father have a pool here?" asked Betty.

"My father doesn't like pools," I said.

"Greta says he owns a lot of apartment complexes," said Betty, "Don't they have pools?"

"They all have pools," I said.

"How do you know that?" asked Betty.

"That is because I have had to clean all of them," I said.

"Aren't you a rich kid?" asked Betty.

"My father is rich," I said.

"I know that," said Betty.

"I am not rich," I said, "I own nothing."

"Aren't you going to inherit all of this someday?" asked Betty.

I shook my head.

"I don't think so," I said, "I don't think I am even in my father's will."

"I don't believe you," said Betty.

"Have you listened to Greta's phone conversations?" I asked.

"Don't you get birthday gifts and Christmas gifts?" asked Betty.

I laughed as I shook my head.

"I don't even have a car to drive," I said, "I have to hitch a ride with his landscaping crew."

"Do you have driver's license?" asked Betty.

"Yes," I said, "But don't tell my dad."

"Why not?" asked Betty.

"My dad doesn't know I have a driver's license," I said.

"How come your father doesn't know? How did you get a driver's license?" asked Betty.

"I asked one of the landscaping guys to teach me how to drive," I said.

"I don't believe you," said Betty.

"I used the company truck to take the driving test," I said.

"Did your father know about the driving test?" asked Betty.

"No," I said, "And I would appreciate it if you don't tell him."

"How are you going to keep that a secret?" asked Betty.

"I have my own post office box, too," I said.

"That was smart," said Betty, "At least you can still have mail even if your father kicks you out of the house."

I sighed. I was not looking forward to my father kicking me out of the house. I was sure my father was not going to tell me until the very last minute. Unbeknownst to my father, Betty and I could hear all of Greta's conversations.

"My daughter says I should try a sports bra," said Betty.

"Why did she say that?" I asked.

"My daughter says I should wear yoga pants," said Betty.

"Do you do yoga?" I asked.

"Absolutely not," said Betty, "I don't know anything about yoga."

"I think you would look great in exercise clothes," I said.

"Are you kidding me?" asked Betty, "Why do you young people love exercise clothes?"

"What is wrong with exercise clothes?" I asked.

"Exercise clothes show off all of your flaws," said Betty.

"But you don't have any flaws," I said.

Her eyes grew big. She did not believe I had just said that. Betty paused. She had not expected the compliment.

"I can't believe you just said that," said Betty.

"What is wrong with what I said?" I asked.

"Are you still trying to get into my pants?" asked Betty in frustration, "Don't you know I am still a married woman?"

"You said you haven't seen your husband in twenty years," I said.

"So what if I haven't seen my husband in twenty years?" asked Betty.

"Why don't you divorce him and marry me?" I asked.

Betty glared at me. She was wondering why I was sitting there with a huge grin on my face.

"Have you taken your medication yet?" asked Betty.

"No," I said.

"Have you had breakfast?" asked Betty.

"No," I said, "I would rather starve than have another one of those green protein shakes."

Betty sighed. She rolled her eyes.

"I can't stand these high-fiber, high protein breakfasts," said Betty.

"Those protein shakes give me all sorts of gas," I said.

Betty started laughing.

"You are not the only one having gas," admitted Betty.

"Maybe we can go get pancakes or waffles somewhere," I said.

"How do we do that?" asked Betty, "Don't you know we are not allowed to go anywhere?"

Betty was right. Greta was just like my father. There was never any time for fun with my father. It was always about making money and working hard. Even though most people admired those traits, our father and son relationship suffered. Even when he was away, my father seemed to call at just the right time to keep me from seeing my friends or go to a party. After a while, I didn't have any more friends in high school.

"My dad doesn't let me do anything either," I said.

"My daughter is always telling me to stay out of trouble," said Betty.

"At least we have one thing in common," I said.

Betty nodded. Then she asked me a hard question.

"Why don't you leave?" asked Betty, "Why don't you start a new life somewhere else?"

"I tried to run away once," I said.

"What happened?" asked Betty.

"My father had some guys track me down," I said.

"Was he happy to see you again?" asked Betty.

"No," I said, "He beat my ass so hard that I could not walk the next day."

"Is that how you got those scars across your back?" asked Betty.

"That was the last time I ever crossed him," I said.

There was an awkward pause. I was not sure if Betty understood what my father was capable of doing.

"You can't live in fear for the rest of your life," said Betty.

I shrugged my shoulders.

"My dad is going to kick me out anyway," I said, "It is only a matter of time."

"When do you think he is going to kick you out?" asked Betty.

"If I heard correctly," I said, "My father will kick me out of the house after the casts come off."

"I don't think you will leave the house," said Betty.

"Why do you say that?" I asked.

"This is a beautiful place," said Betty.

I sighed.

"This is not my place," I said, "And my dad doesn't want me here for much longer."

Betty shook her head. She did not believe me when I talked about my father.

"Do you want to see something cool about this house?" I asked.

"What are you talking about?" asked Betty.

I went over to the far wall of the exercise room. This wall was lined with floor-to-ceiling mirrors. I went to the corner and gently pushed against the wall. Immediately, that part of the wall swung open. It was a secret door. Beyond the door, Betty could see a row of priceless sports cars. Betty's eyes grew big.

"What is that room?" asked Betty.

"This is where my father stores his beloved sports cars," I said.

"How did you know about this?" asked Betty.

"I followed him one day," I said, "He left the house when my stepmother thought he was exercising."

Betty frowned.

"Your father is such a rat bastard," said Betty, "I bet he was cheating on my daughter."

"I used this same door to leave the house once," I said.

"Was this the time that you ran away from home?" asked Betty.

I nodded.

"My father stopped using this door after I found out," said Betty.

"What does he do nowadays?" asked Betty.

"Nowadays," I said, "My father has a secret apartment in Las Vegas."

"Why am I not surprised?" asked Betty.

At that, Betty turned around and left the room. I watched as Betty swung her hips from side to side like a professional stripper. I found it curious that Betty did not walk with any modesty whatsoever. In fact, Betty seemed to delight in drawing attention to her muscular posterior.

A few minutes later, Betty returned with her daughter, Greta. She pulled her daughter to the far side of the room where I was standing.

"What am I supposed to see?" asked Greta.

"Is that a secret door?" asked Betty.

"I never knew about this door," said Greta.

"Junior says his father sneaks out of the house through this door," said Betty.

Greta crossed her arms. She was furious. My stepmother looked through the door and shook her head at all the shiny automobiles. She pulled out a finger and counted the total number of vehicles and whistled.

"Does the divorce lawyer know about all of these expensive cars?" asked Betty.

"Don't worry," said Greta, "I am going to call my lawyer after we get done here."

"That is why the house looks bigger from the outside," said Betty, "No one knows about this half of house."

"This is how that son-of-a-bitch disappeared on me," said Greta.

"I didn't know that," said Betty.

"My husband and I had an argument one day," said Greta, "He probably used this door to disappear."

"There is more," said Betty.

"What else do I need to know?" asked Greta.

"Ask junior here," said Betty.

"What do I need to know, Mike?" asked Greta.

"My father has a secret apartment in Las Vegas," I said.

"How do you know this?" asked Greta.

I shrugged my shoulders.

"He has always had a secret apartment in Las Vegas," I said.

"Have you ever been there?" asked Greta.

"No," I said.

"So how do you know that he has a secret apartment in Las Vegas?" asked Greta.

"My father brags to his friends about the secret apartment all the time," I said.

"My deadbeat husband had a secret apartment in Las Vegas, too," said Betty.

Greta raised her hands up into the air in frustration.

"Why am I the last one to know about these things?" asked Greta.

"Did you see what is in this room?" I asked.

Greta and Betty stepped into my father's secret garage. They marveled at the classic sports cars.

"There are six cars in here," said Greta.

"My father tells people the cars are worth a half millions dollars," I said.

"Why are you telling me all this?" asked Greta.

I shrugged my shoulders.

"I will never own them," I said, "But maybe you will."

"Maybe you should tell your divorce lawyer," said Betty.

Greta nodded her head in agreement.

"Thanks, Mike," said Greta.

Betty stood beside me and squeezed my shoulders. I saw the smile on her face and it made me happy. Greta saw her mother standing next to me and immediately placed herself in between.

"You two are getting too friendly with each other," said Greta.

"Good work, junior," said Betty.

"Thanks," I said to Betty.

The next day, Betty came into my bedroom. She wore a brightly colored athletic pants and a matching sports bra. Her hair was pulled back in a ponytail and there was a bead of sweat on her forehead. I almost swore that I was looking at Greta, with the exception of the larger bosoms and the darker hair. Needless to say, her outfit immediately put a smile on my fact. I could clearly see all of her luscious curves. Carefully, I tried to cover myself with my bathrobe. Just in case I started enjoying the view, I didn't want my manhood active and exposed.

"Are you working out?" I asked.

"It was your mother's idea," said Betty.

"You look great," I said.

Betty stopped. I could tell that she was not expecting a compliment. A smile came to her face and one of her eyebrows was raised in suspicion.

"You are trying to get into my pants," said Betty.

"Everybody is trying to get into your pants," I said plainly.

Betty gasped. Playfully, she slapped me on the face.

"That is an awful thing to say," said Betty, "You should be ashamed of yourself."

"It is the truth," I said.

"All guys are pigs," said Betty.

"Why don't you admit it?" I said, "You are beautiful and you know guys want to get into your pants."

Betty rolled her eyes. However, that did not stop Betty from looking in the mirror to check out her muscular posterior.

"You look great," I said again.

The raven-haired beauty stood in front my mirror. I sat there and watched. From behind, Betty looked exactly like Greta with the exception of her hair color. I loved the muscle tone on her posterior. From what people told me, regular exercise did nothing for the posterior. Instead, I heard a rumor that a person only developed muscle tone on their posterior through daily sexual activity. If that was the case, Betty must have had plenty of lovers.

"Are you checking out my ass?" asked Betty.

I tried to say something in my defense, but my mouth only produced a stream of unintelligible syllables. Betty turned and walked towards me. That is when I noticed that her nipples poked through the thin, man-made fabric. To make matters worse, her breasts jiggled each time she took a step.

"Are you checking out my tits?" asked Betty.

I tried to say something, but Betty placed a finger over my lips. She looked at me sternly.

"There is no use lying to me," said Betty, "I can tell if you are lying to me."

"Sorry," I said.

Today, Betty was more than happy to help me in the bathroom. I noticed she was always eager to touch my member. I was not sure why because it was full of scars. Still, Betty seemed to take her time examining it.

In like manner, Betty helped me with my lunch. This was something she had refused to do the day before. Since I had stitches on my fingers, I was absolutely useless at the dinner table. I could barely hold a glass to drink. In the same way, I could barely use a fork and a spoon.

Before dinner, Betty and I sat me down on the edge of the bed. Playfully, she patted me on the knees. There was no anger on her face, so I waited for her to speak.

"Why are there no pictures on the walls?" asked Betty.

"I don't know," I said, "That is what my father always wanted."

"There are no family photos anywhere," said Betty.

"If you had as many ex-wives as my father," I said, "You would not be putting up any family photos, either."