© Copyright Sarkel 2000/2001. All rights reserved.
Charlene was shampooing a middle-aged woman’s flamboyant bleached hair when she heard the bell at the entrance of the salon tinkle. Looking up, her heart caught in her throat as she met Morrisey Hawthorne’s piercing dark eyes. Her hands froze in mid-massage, and the wrinkly woman under her grumped.
The obscenity jarred Charlene back to life and she gingerly wrapped up the job, studiously ignoring the taller woman, who was conversing with the receptionist. Once the shampooing was complete and the elderly customer properly huffed away, Morrisey approached the blonde.
"Hello," she said, almost shyly, avoiding eye contact. "Do you have a minute?"
Miserably, Charlene nodded and untied her smock. She surreptitiously glanced around her place of employment—it was a rinky-dink cheap place. Fluorescent lights shone harshly onto the linoleum floors and exposed the age, wear, and tear of the place. The waiting room consisted of a threadbare sofa and magazines at least two years out of date. To a woman who had gone to prestigious universities and could have any job she wanted, this salon was probably a shitty place.
At the same time, Charlene was encouraged by the fact that her visitor seemed not to bode ill will. She hadn’t come barging in with an angry scowl on her face. Once they were outside, both women shivering in the chilly December air, the blonde immediately apologized.
"I am so sorry, Morrisey. I wasn’t thinking. I’m just so selfish, I really am," she pleaded.
Morrisey glanced at the shorter woman incredulously. "Why are you apologizing? I came here to apologize for my parents’ behavior yesterday. They had no excuse."
Charlene shook her head, crossing her arms. She ran her tongue against her cheek. "Your mother was right. I have no place in Gareth’s life." The blonde studied the concrete sidewalk with grave finality.
Morrisey was quiet for a moment, the simple words piercing her heart although what she should be doing now was jumping for joy. "My mother was out of line, especially with branding you a rapist. I just wanted to let you know that." The dark-haired woman recalled the previous afternoon, after she had finally calmed down. She and her mother had gotten into a tremendous fight, with Morrisey raging at the older woman to stop trying to control her life and the older woman attempting to smack some common sense into her daughter. Dave Hawthorne had finally intervened and calmed things down. He asked both women to apologize, then reasoned with his wife, explaining to her that Gareth was Morrisey’s son and it was up to her to govern the course of his life.
Charlene leaned against the brick walls of the strip mall’s exterior. "She’s right, though."
"Maybe," Morrisey murmured, exhaling a small breath. She gazed at the blonde for a moment—so vulnerable, open, endearing, looking like a wounded bird. Puckering her lips, the taller woman could think of nothing further to say. "I’ll let you get back to work."
"Thanks for coming." Charlene smiled thinly. "I appreciate it."
"Yeah." Morrisey reached into her pocket for car keys. "I’ll call you in a few weeks and let you know how everything’s going."
"No." Charlene spoke like she was fighting back tears. "Don’t call me just because I’m selfish and want to know how Gareth is doing."
The dark-haired woman sighed, replacing the keys in her pocket. "Get back to work," she said, jerking her head towards the facility entrance. "And I’ll call you."
****
That night, for the first time since the rape, as she put Gareth to bed, Morrisey thought long and hard about it and about the men who had attacked her.
Shoved back in the dark and hidden corners of Morrisey’s closet at home was a stack of four neatly typed papers and one handwritten letter, still in its sealed envelope.
The essays were dated a week before Morrisey Hawthorne’s rape. She’d graded them the day before the night that forever changed her life, but hadn’t gotten around to passing them back out. She’d given the papers, minus those four, back a few days later. The four men who had attacked her had either dropped out of the college or withdrawn from her class. So, for whatever reason, she had kept the papers, hidden in the closet. Out of sight, out of mind. Until now. She would never forget those names as long as she lived, although, thankfully, she was no longer able to picture their images in her mind, even when she tried.
Mark Franklin Smith.
Henry Thomas Wallace.
Zachary Tyrone Banks.
And the fourth, the only one that had actually raped her, the father of her baby. John Patrick Sudsbury.
His essay had touched her in a way none other essay had. Morrisey Hawthorne had seen so much potential in that young man. He was destined to do great things, she had thought. She saw things in him she saw in few other people. Even though he was sullen and somber in her class, he couldn’t conceal the spark of learning and intelligence in his eyes or the interest in his voice on those rare occasions he participated in the class discussions.
And his papers. They blew Morrisey Hawthorne away, and on each paper, in red ink, she wrote far more comments than on any other student’s paper. John was promising, perhaps the most promising student she’d ever had. Sad what alcohol, the loss of a dream, and peer influence could do to someone. After the rape, Morrisey grieved not only for the loss of her sense of security, but also for John. Because the respect and admiration she’d previously felt for that young man was gone, replaced by anger, disgust, and perhaps even hate. All she wanted to do was see him and his cronies behind bars, paying for their crimes. They were scum.
But John had died before the case went to trial, and his friends got slaps on the wrist—probation and community service. They hadn’t actually raped her after all, reasoned the generous American justice system. She hadn’t seen the remaining three men since their court date, and hoped she never would.
Morrisey had learned of John’s death from her lawyer the day after it happened. Ironically, she learned only hours later that she was pregnant. And then the day after, she got the letter in the mail. There was no return address, but she recognized the handwriting instantly as that of John’s best friend, Henry Wallace. So she’d just shoved the intrusion back with the essays, unable to toss them all out, for some reason. All those events so close together had been a triple whammy—the death, the pregnancy, the letter.
But now she had an overwhelming desire—no, a need—to re-read John’s paper and see what Henry had said in his letter.
Still rocking in the chair, her infant son snoozing soundly in her arms, Morrisey forced herself to recall John’s essay in precise detail. The students had to write a three-page paper on a topic of their choice. The assignment was primarily to evaluate how far their grammar and organization was progressing, but Morrisey had been impressed by a few of the papers, and John’s was one of them. He had written about his childhood. Morrisey had never met a child who so fiercely loved and treasured his mother—and readily admitted it. What impressed her more, in a way, was that John, eighteen years old and a big, husky football player, was capable of such tender emotion and expression. She remembered thinking as she read that paper, blissfully unaware of how her life would so suddenly shatter the following evening, that John was the perfect man in many ways.
As Morrisey compelled herself to revisit the paper in her mind, she began to remember things John had said about Charlene—things that had, unconsciously, perhaps, helped her make the tentative decision to begin allowing the blonde into Gareth’s life. Because that essay, long buried in her mind, had caused her to develop a respect and admiration for Charlene over a year ago, before the two had even met, for having the strength to overcome the challenges and obstacles in her life.
The major, and perhaps even the sole, reason John was so disappointed, so crushed about his football injury was because he was no longer able to give his mother what he felt she deserved. He’d planned to go pro after finishing up his scholarship at Florida State, and finally repay his mother for all her sacrifices. In the essay, John wrote about telling Charlene his grand plans for the both of them, the big houses, fancy cars, luxurious vacations, and Charlene just beaming and telling her son she didn’t care about any of that, just as long as he was happy. If he was happy, she would be happy too.
He wrote that his mother thought he didn’t know she had gone without meals so he could eat. Of her working three jobs at a time and never getting to see her. Of the gaping holes in her socks she endured so he could go on a class field trip. John wrote about the anguish he suffered during his pre-teen years, hearing his stepfather slam his mother against the thin living room wall, calling her an array of names: cunt, bitch, whore, dumb fuck, good-for-nothing. Then the monster would leave, slamming the door behind him, and not return for days. John would venture into the living room, where Charlene would be collapsed on the floor next to the wall, the swellings and bruisings already on their way. Her green eyes were always tear-stained and she’d be curled into the fetal position.
He would lay next to her and wrap his arms around her. They’d stay that way for hours. When he was a teenager, Charlene had finally listened to John and wised up, realizing that just because there was a man in the house didn’t mean her son had a father—that they were better off without such influences around.
John recalled the day he physically and happily got rid of Charlene’s last husband, the monster. The man had seen John with new eyes, for gone was the rail-thin scrawny boy with sticks for legs. In this boy’s place was a giant of a young man with steely determination, hardened eyes, a tough resolve, and bulging muscles. And revenge on his mind.
The coward had quivered under John’s menacing stare. The monster was drunk most of the time and never really saw nor cared about his stepson—and was completely unaware of the metamorphosis. John had gotten the greatest satisfaction when the man peed in his pants, like a baby. "Leave my mother alone," John growled, spitting into the rat’s face.
And then he’d broken the slime’s filthy arm and given him a concussion. And John’s stepfather had never come back. Charlene never knew why, of course.
John said he wasn’t proud of what he’d done, but had seen no other choice in the matter. In that situation, the end justified the means. Morrisey had silently agreed with her former student. That was the only time, John said, that he’d use violence. How wrong he had been, Morrisey thought wryly, as she cradled John Patrick Sudsbury’s son in her arms.
John’s son. Funny. Morrisey had never called Gareth that before. Because John wasn’t the baby’s father, right? Of course, she knew she was wrong. Because by allowing Charlene access to Gareth, she was recognizing that John was more than a sperm donor.
Morrisey remembered one small paragraph in John’s essay but the exact words were not forthcoming. She’d have to re-read that part. The dark-haired woman solemnly put Gareth to bed and padded to her own room. She flipped the lights on and went to her closet, opening the door and her mind to tortures of the past. Automatically, she got to her knees and her arm reached for John’s essay, finding it immediately as if it was something she did every day. She leaned against the closet door, entwined her legs, and flipped to the last page, first paragraph.
Her heartbeat quickened. John was talking about the kind of father he wanted to be. He would wait until he was in a loving marriage and financially stable before having kids. He wanted three—two girls and a boy. Grandchildren for his mother to dote upon—a family for her too. He wanted his kids to grow up happy and carefree, experience a childhood so different from his own. Very importantly, John said, he wanted to give his kids what he’d never had himself—a father. A stable home life. He’d go to their games, plays, dances, give his daughters away at their weddings. Maybe his son would go pro. But John was careful to point out that he wouldn’t let his failed dreams take over his children’s lives. He couldn’t wait to fall in love. He had recently begun dating someone that had changed his bitter outlook about love, and he desperately wanted that relationship to work out.
Hmm, thought Morrisey. Wonder who that woman was.
Her eyes flickered to the bottom of the page and she read her own comments. She commended John for his organization and impeccable grammar, his command and mastery of the English language. She commented that his mother truly seemed like a wonderful person and that he’d done a great job conveying her character. She had wished him the best of luck—not that he needed luck—and said that she knew he would do great things, be a great father, and go far in life.
Morrisey bit her lip. John had gone far, all right. Six feet under.
Her eyes fell upon Henry’s letter. Morrisey replaced the essay and gingerly tore the envelope open. Henry had been a good kid too, John’s best friend, who had also fallen in with a bad crowd. He was always sick, with asthma or the cough or bronchitis. He was thin and pale where John was tall and burly, and was painfully shy and timid. He was the antithesis of the athletic John Sudsbury.
During the trial, which had taken place after John’s death, Henry Wallace had sobbed on the stand. He was so sorry, he said. He wished he could die for what he’d done to her. Mark Smith and Zachary Banks had looked at him from the defense table, disgusted looks on their faces. "What a baby," Morrisey had seen Mark whisper to his buddy. "Fucking wuss."
It was amazing what all Morrisey remembered a year later.
Steadying herself, Morrisey slowly read the words of the man who had nearly raped her and helped another rape her. The letter stayed true to Henry’s character—mostly bumbling and taking forever to get to the point. Henry used a full page to explain that he wasn’t sure if he should write and had tried many times before, but had just torn up those letters. He really hoped she’d read this letter, but he understood if she threw it away. He was so sorry for what he’d done to her—that much was quite clear. And he’d never forgive himself. Morrisey didn’t realize she’d been holding her breath until she finished the letter. Henry’s handwriting was small, jumbled, and messy—difficult to read.
Morrisey sighed, sorting through what Henry had written. His words were basically the same as what he had said during the trial, but now she was willing to listen. Morrisey swallowed, then re-read the letter.
****
The call came two agonizing weeks later, just as Charlene was stepping out of the shower and was beginning to dry herself. Hearing the phone ring, the blonde broke into a full run, narrowly avoiding a messy and painful skid on the tiled bathroom floor and on the carpeted floor of the hallway. Three seconds later, Charlene, out of breath, panted into the phone. She had forgotten to turn on the answering machine, seeing as how she was only taking a brief shower.
"Hello?" She held the receiver to her ear, whilst struggling to keep her towel covering her body. That day had been a long and hard one at work, with two particularly irate customers who complained that Charlene shampooed their hair roughly.
But all those unpleasant, worrying thoughts flew out of Charlene’s head immediately upon hearing Morrisey Hawthorne’s rich contralto voice. "Mrs. Sudsbury," she said in a business-like tone, "this is Morrisey Hawthorne. I wanted to let you know Gareth’s doing fine."
The blonde let out a very relieved breath—more relieved that Morrisey had called and seemed amenable than anything else. "Oh, Morrisey!" she exclaimed. "I am so glad to hear that. Will you give Gareth a kiss and hug from me?"
Charlene could see the smile at the other end of the line. "I will, Mrs. Sudsbury."
"So tell me more," Charlene asked brightly.
The taller woman smiled. "He’s his good old self. No crying or anything."
"So Christmas and the holidays are only a few days away," Charlene mused. "What y’all doing? Could I uhh… give Gareth a present sometime soon?" She wanted to prolong the conversation, maintain this tenuous bond with Gareth.
The dark-haired woman shrugged. "Suppose. We’re doing a family get-together Christmas morning." She wouldn’t admit it, but hearing Charlene’s voice had been nice. Charlene possessed one of those rare voices: not overwhelming and booming, but not a nearly inaudible whisper. The blonde’s speech was very sweet, genuine, completely sincere. That was one of the major reasons Morrisey had let Charlene meet Gareth in the first place. "How about you?"
The blonde wrapped the phone cord around her finger. "Probably go to dinner with one of the girls from the salon." She chuckled, remembering last year’s holiday. "Last Christmas, Molly- that’s her name-nearly burned down the house. She simply can’t cook and we ended up ordering pizza. I’m fixing dinner this year if I go over there." Her voice suddenly became serious. "Morrisey, do you think that maybe I could spend an hour or so with Gareth?"
Morrisey grinned into the phone, knowing that the question was inevitable. What the hell? She had her son for the whole year; Charlene had much, much less. The dark-haired woman responded affirmatively. "Sure, we will do that."
Charlene was overjoyed. "Thank you, Morrisey! Will you and Gareth come for Christmas Eve? We can have dinner and do Christmasey stuff." The blonde laughed, then hastened to add: "If you don’t already have plans, that is. Anytime is fine, really. Any day."
"Sure." Morrisey couldn’t believe the words that’d just left her mouth, seemingly as if they had a mind of their own. Damn! Did she really want to the spend Christmas Eve with a near-stranger? And Gareth was too young to remember, so it wasn’t like he would benefit. She grimaced, wondering what she’d possibly gotten herself into. Why Christmas Eve?
Spending Christmas Eve with her rapist’s mother while she fawned over the child created during such a violent encounter.
"Do you mean it, Morrisey?" Charlene asked hesitantly.
The timidness in the blonde’s voice caused the younger woman to smile. Charlene indeed was a sweet soul. "Sure," she said as jovially as she could.
Charlene laughed. "Oh, that’s great, Morrisey. It’ll be so much fun! Would your family like to come too?"
"Mmm." Morrisey made the appropriate noises. "I don’t think they would. Thanks for the invitation, though."
The two women chatted for a few more minutes, hammering out the details of the visit. By the end of the conversation, Morrisey was even a bit glad she’d allowed the visit; the green-eyed woman’s sheer joy shone through in her voice. Clearly, she appreciated the gesture. It was one evening, a couple hours, and Morrisey could live with that.
****
CHAPTER FOUR
Almost immediately that evening, Charlene began preparations for Christmas Eve. The first thing she did was haul a large box from the basement and a high stack of newspapers and tissue paper. Then she proceeded to carefully wrap and store every picture and reminder of her son, a task that took quite a while. Over twenty pictures of a smiling, freckle-faced boy, gradually shifting into a handsome young man, decorated the various rooms of the small house. Charlene forced herself not to dwell on the pictures and to work quickly.
Then on the mantelpiece stood several of John’s football trophies, which needed to be packed too. Charlene reached for one, her son’s senior year MVP award, and stared at it, her heart suddenly heavy. The award consisted of a small statue of a football quarterback about to release the pigskin, and the plaque at the bottom read: John Sudsbury, Most Valuable Player. The award had been given during a banquet a couple weeks after his leg was broken. The blonde still remembered her son, supported by crutches, hobbling onstage to receive his honor. At that time, John had still been optimistic that his leg would heal and that surgeries would be successful. Charlene had no reason to believe otherwise either; it was about time life gave her son a break, and no one was more deserving than John.
Numbly, Charlene sat on the well-worn sofa, trophy still in hand. She crossed her legs and stared into space. Most days, she went on well, but there were just some times where she would come crashing—all the pain, grief, and guilt flooded back. The blonde stifled a sniffle as she got onto wobbly feet and wrapped the trophy. She loved her son and missed him to no end. That would never change. Forever she would blame only herself for his descend into despair and his subsequent death. She approached John’s injury and the rape in totally the wrong manner. His death and the rape—all her fault. She really didn’t deserve to have Gareth in her life, Charlene knew; she was tremendously lucky to have Morrisey as his mother. A quarter hour later, Charlene found herself done with the trophies and various awards, although she couldn’t recall how the time had passed. She would probably put everything back up after Christmas Eve, but keeping those things out for the visit would serve to alienate Morrisey and remind her unnecessarily of a bad chapter in her life.
Walking through the modest one-floor, one basement home, the blonde wondered if she should buy new furniture. The couch was a worn, faded shade of brown and the wooden furniture was scarred and scratched from years of wear. She wanted Morrisey to continue to think highly of her, or at least think enough of her to let the green-eyed woman associate with her grandson, especially after seeing the salon. After careful deliberation, Charlene decided against purchasing new furniture. She could easily tell that Morrisey was not a woman for airs or fancy things, and hopefully would admire the character in the furnishings—after all, the taller woman’s house and especially her office, had been quite devoid of anything. Charlene did spend a productive hour scrubbing and polishing everything—the desk, the tables, the TV stand.
After the painstaking work of storing John’s things and spiffing up the public areas of the house, Charlene lumbered the heavy box back downstairs. The basement was musty and old, and hopelessly crowded and disorganized. The blonde was a pack rat and still had her second grade papers somewhere, as well as John’s. Several discarded pieces of exercise equipment—a bike, a treadmill, stair master, and thigh master, dotted the open room. Like everyone else, Charlene had bought them with pure intentions, which quickly had morphed into laziness. The blonde headed back upstairs for what would perhaps be the most distressing task of all. She went down the hallway, where the house’s two bedrooms and one bathroom were located. She twisted the knob and opened the door to her son’s room. It was just the way it had been before she kicked him out—a living museum.
After receiving the news of the fatal extent of his injury, John had torn down his football posters and countless sports memorabilia that decorated the walls of his room and adorned the furniture. As a result, the walls were a grim, stark white. His desk and drawers were bare too. Football truly had been John’s whole life and his whole room. But Charlene knew if she opened a drawer, she’d find his clothes still intact. Or if she slid the closet door open, his suits would be there, waiting for their owner to slip back into them. A few pictures of a child John with his mother dotted the room.
Charlene sighed, realizing she couldn’t bear to alter the room yet. That would be like admitting her son was never coming back. Mournfully and quietly, she stepped into the hall and nudged the door shut. She’d just think of something tell Morrisey if the situation came up—perhaps the door led to a closet or storage room.
The blonde willed her thoughts to find a happier track. Unlike last year’s Christmas and the recent Thanksgiving, she wouldn’t be alone. And that was what she needed to focus on. Her spirits somewhat restored, the blonde trotted back downstairs and pulled up the box where the fake Christmas tree was stored.
This would be hard too. She and John always decorated the house for Christmas together. Last year, the blonde hadn’t bothered. She barely noticed the holidays come and go.
John had been so good with his hands, but his mother was another story. Tentatively, she began to assemble the tree, cursing occasionally and wondering how come her handiwork was always crooked and off-kilter while her son managed to produce works of art. Finally, she put the final needles on the eight-foot tree and stepped down from her ladder. Surveying the result critically, Charlene groaned. The tree bore a startling resemblance to both the Leaning Tower of Pisa and the Hunchback of Notre Dame. Grimacing, Charlene brought the ornaments and lights upstairs.
****
Morrisey wasn’t quite sure why, but she was eagerly, although nervously, anticipating Christmas Eve with Charlene. During a phone conversation, her mother had asked her point blank why she and Gareth weren’t spending the night before Christmas with the family, and Morrisey told her why.
"Gareth and I will be with Mrs. Sudsbury," replied the dark-haired woman tersely.
Harriet groaned into the phone. Her daughter had been pissed about her behavior during the first meeting with the blonde. Morrisey had even refused to speak with her and Dave for a few days, arguing that she was allowed to live her life as she saw fit. "It’s not like she’s moving in with us!" the younger woman had exclaimed. "Don’t you dare take over!"
However, Harriet knew she had to respect Morrisey’s wishes or risk losing her and Gareth. Still, she needed to try once more to understand. "That’s fine, hon," she remarked neutrally, hoping to avoid a confrontation. "But can you tell me why you feel the need for her to be involved in Gareth’s life? She is your rapist’s mother."
Morrisey rolled her eyes. "Mom, I don’t feel any such need. She seems like a decent person, and when you think about it, how much time will she have with Gareth per year? Maybe twelve hours altogether, which really is not much at all. Gareth is the only family she has."
"What about when Gareth gets older? He’ll pick up on something. And how can you call those two family? They’re not!"
"I’ll worry about that later." Morrisey sighed, not completely blaming her mother. Sometimes she herself wondered why she allowed Charlene to see the baby.
Harriet decided it was time for the big question. "Am I not a good enough grandmother?"
The other end was quiet for a moment. Morrisey was blinking stupidly into the device, her blood boiling. Never ever would she imagine her mother would stoop this low. Finally, she spoke in a dangerous whisper. "Mother, you know better than that."
"Hmm." Harriet sounded far from convinced.
"No." The response was flat, since Morrisey was still processing her mother’s gall. "Mother, grow up."
The phone conversation, chock full of tension, ended shortly thereafter.
****
Two days before Christmas, Morrisey and Gareth went shopping for Christmas presents. Buying gifts for her parents was easy—her mother loved glass figurines, her father adored anything to do with fishing, and her brother drooled over the Beatles. And Gareth was easy to shop for, being a six-month-old infant.
On her way out of the last store, where she had bought a tackle box for her father, Morrisey realized she had yet to buy a gift for Charlene, and she really should. The blonde’s house would probably be crammed floor to ceiling with gifts—for chrissakes, the woman had brought piles of gifts her first day with Gareth. Muttering, but somewhat good-naturedly, Morrisey headed back into the store, baby in one arm, purchases in another hand, and surveyed the aisles. She was at a generic department store, which sold any sort of thing, basically.
What would Charlene want?
Should she buy a gift from both her and Gareth or one from each, or just from her, or one just from Gareth? Social niceties and customs gave the dark-haired woman a headache. Finally, she threw in the towel and decided to buy the blonde two presents. Charlene had done so much for Gareth, been willing to sacrifice so much while demanding nothing in return, although she was quite persuasive. The younger woman wanted to make a good impression on Charlene, wanted to show the blonde she was a good mother. But why did she care? Charlene was even lucky Morrisey let her see the baby.
That settled, Morrisey hadn’t the foggiest idea of what to get her baby’s grandmother. She had scant experience shopping for others. And unlike Harriet, who at least was the right age, Charlene wasn’t a typical matronly grandmother who wore aprons and had white hair neatly tucked into a bun. The woman was just about her own age, for crying out loud. Okay, Morrisey thought, what would I like?
Nothing popped into her head. She had never wanted much.
Yet Charlene’s present last month genuinely had pleased and touched her. The book was so beautiful, its red covering so rich and textured. Great, Morrisey thought, she’s the type of person who knows exactly what to buy. Wish I had that trait.
Morrisey tried to remember what Charlene had told her about herself. Had the dark-haired woman even really listened? No, she admitted, she had not. Finally, Morrisey grabbed an item off the shelf, as Gareth was fussing. The snow globe was actually quite beautiful, exquisite in its detail. A young woman with gold spun hair cascading down her back, wearing a flowing green ballroom dress, was dancing with a handsome young man, his black hair wavy. The globe played soft, slow songs and Gareth stopped sniffling, his ears alert as he listened. His eyes began to droop.
Morrisey chuckled to herself. No more late nights trying to figure out how to put her baby to sleep. One down, one to go. She headed into the infant section, searching for something Charlene could use with Gareth, not really allowing the deeper implications of such a gift to take root. Morrisey settled upon a baby swing. She and Gareth were tired and cranky and wanted to get home. Quickly, she paid for the presents and dragged them to her car.
Then she realized she’d forgotten to buy wrapping paper for the presents.
Sighing, Morrisey dashed back into the store and came out with several rolls of silver wrapping paper, dotted with Christmas trees.
****
For Charlene, the anticipated day arrived too slowly but Charlene hoped it wouldn’t pass too quickly. She would get to spend a few hours with her grandson, but after that, who knew when they would meet again?
Morrisey and Gareth almost arrived at Charlene’s house in bad moods. The dark-haired woman had gotten lost three times trying to find her way to Charlene’s house. Gareth’s refusal to stop fussing irritated Morrisey, who did all she could to quiet her son. Traffic was horribly congested as well and freezing rain was beating down onto Washington.
The dark-haired woman had taken care with her appearance. She wore form-fitting jeans, a yellow shirt, and hiking boots. Admiring herself in the mirror after getting dressed, Morrisey thought she looked smashing—not overdressed, but not overly casual. And the shirt displayed her firmly toned muscles. Charlene would never know that the dark-haired woman had spent an hour agonizing and coordinating her wardrobe for the day, nor that she had labored for a good fifteen minutes brushing her jet black hair, giving it a healthy sheen. It was important that she continue to make a good impression on the blonde, Morrisey reasoned.
Finally finding herself on the right track to Charlene’s house, Morrisey let out a relieved sigh. The homes in this neighborhood were virtually indistinguishable from one another, and the green-eyed woman’s house was no exception. They were dull, brick tract houses.
Before she was even out of the car, Charlene was next to the vehicle, driver’s side, beaming and grinning. The taller woman reached over to the infant seat and lifted her son out. They stepped out stiffly. Morrisey drew in a sharp breath when she saw Charlene, and didn’t dare breathe as long as their touch lasted. Good God, the woman was even more beautiful than she remembered, beyond words. She had a new hairstyle; her tresses were cut slightly above her shoulders and she’d added highlights. Charlene also seemed lighter, more buoyant. Her smile was so incredibly gorgeous, and so was her laugh—pure and delightful. Morrisey’s mind actually went blank for a moment as she absorbed the other woman’s minty perfume, a perfect complement for the season. The green-eyed woman had chosen to wear a tight gray sweater that left little to the imagination, khakis, and a pair of gorgeous boots.
Morrisey couldn’t believe herself. Why the hell was she noticing those things—and more importantly, why was she even caring?
Charlene was hugging her tightly and fully, so Morrisey brought an arm around to return the gesture, cradling Gareth with her other arm. The baby let out an indignant burp, unhappy of being the middle of a sandwich.
Charlene let go. "Merry Christmas, Morrisey!" she exclaimed, looking up at the woman. Her gaze dropped to eye-level, to her grandson. "Merry Christmas, Gareth!" she gushed, pinching a cheruby and red cheek. "It’s so great to see you two again!" Charlene was practically bursting at the seams, a bundle of energy.
Morrisey grinned, the green-eyed woman’s antics not bothering her for once. "Here," she said, sliding Gareth into his grandmother’s arms.
"Oooh," Charlene remarked proudly. "You’ve put on weight, haven’t you? Yes, yes, you have. You’re going to grow up such a big and strong boy. Mmm-wah!" She placed several loud and smacky kisses on the child’s cheeks and forehead. I missed you, yes I did, yes I did."
The dark-haired woman smiled in amusement, but was unable to peel her eyes off the captivating sight of Charlene Sudsbury. "Let’s go in," Morrisey suggested. "Brr." She wrapped her arms around her leather jacket.
"He’s really getting heavy," Charlene mused, elevating her grandson.
"I’ll carry him," Morrisey volunteered. "I can do it. I’m big and strong."
Charlene grinned mischievously. "Let’s see about that." Squeezing Morrisey’s arm muscles through her jacket, she whistled admiringly. "You made of steel?"
The blue-eyed woman smiled, a full and pleasant one. "I have a night job," she explained. "The Superwoman outfit is in the closet. Shh…" She whispered, holding a finger to her mouth.
"Ooh." Charlene’s adorable green eyes went round and wide. She leaned in conspirationally, causing Morrisey’s heart to skip a beat. "Kryptonite too?"
The dark-haired woman chuckled. "I’ll show you if you’re good."
"You should smile more. You have a beautiful smile," Charlene pointed out. "A great laugh too."
Again, a light pink blush graced Morrisey’s planar features and she looked away. What am I doing? she thought. Grinning ear-to-ear, Charlene ambled into the house, tickling the infant.
She ushered her two visitors into the house, studying Morrisey’s reaction with what she thought was discretion. The gesture was all too obvious to the dark-haired woman, but thankfully, she didn’t have to fake. She disliked lying and considered it hypocritical. The blonde had indeed gone all out for the holiday. Christmas lights twinkled in every corner of the house, plump wreaths adorned the doors, statue Santas, ceramic and mini-fake trees stood at jolly attention in nooks and crannies, and bowls and bowls of candy were placed in strategic locations. Candles flickered in windows. A toasty, rip-roaring fire danced in the fireplace near the sofa. Charlene’s tiny house was crammed with Christmas cheer.
"Whoa. Looks like you’re having a party for an army," Morrisey said. She hadn’t decorated her house one bit.
Charlene’s face fell. She’d gone overboard.
"I like it." Morrisey hastened to add. "Well, except…" She squinted at the leaning tree next to the TV. "Interesting." Piles and piles of gaily wrapped presents sat below.
The blonde blushed, her face highlighted with scarlet. "I couldn’t get it to straighten up."
Morrisey flashed a white, toothy smile in her companion’s direction and surveyed the tree up close. "I like how you’ve defied the laws of physics," she complimented. "By all rights, that star should be on the floor. It’s great."
Charlene giggled, shifting the baby in her arms.
The aroma of baking cookies and other heavenly scents tickled Morrisey’s nose. "Yum. That smells good."
"Thanks." Charlene was glowing. She’d made sure beforehand that the dark-haired woman would eat turkey, stuffing, biscuits, and the heaps of other food she planned to cook.
"Oh, that reminds me. I need to get some presents and Gareth’s food from the car," Morrisey remembered.
"You’re so sweet. You didn’t have to get me anything!" the blonde enthused.
Morrisey rolled her eyes, the simple look of happiness on the other woman’s face making her glad she’d bought gifts for Charlene. "It’s Christmas, no?"
"I’ll get them," Charlene volunteered. "Take your jacket off; make yourself at home. I’ll be right back."
Morrisey whispered into Gareth’s ear, just loud enough for his grandmother to overhear. "She just can’t wait to see what I got her." She sent a cautioning look in Charlene’s direction. "No peeking," she admonished. She ran her tongue against her cheek, her lips curving upward.
"You just need me occupied so you can see what I got for you," the blonde retorted teasingly.
"Caught me." Morrisey turned her palms upward in defeat.
Before the taller woman could register what was happening, the blonde was standing on her tiptoes and kissing Morrisey’s cheek lightly. "Thank you for coming. This will be a great evening." After placing Gareth in his mother’s arms, Charlene headed outside.
Morrisey stood, nearly paralyzed. Slowly, her hand went up to her cheek. The spot was warm and she stroked it gently with her fingertips. No one had touched her like that before. Ordinarily, she would be steaming at such a violation of her personal space, but Morrisey found herself replaying the brief sensation of Charlene’s soft lips brushing against her cool cheek. The dark-haired woman stared absently into space, her brain telling her to cool off, to be detached and aloof. She couldn’t get close to anyone. She knew that, and besides, Charlene was straight. The kiss had been made in friendly thanks. But Morrisey’s heart, for the first time, wanted to disregard her brain’s commands.
As Charlene walked towards the car, she was indescribably happy. She had been a nervous wreck for the past few days. A hundred different scenarios flashed through her mind, all of which contained Morrisey regretting the invitation and pissed at her for intruding during the holidays, and the visit ending with a emphatic: "You’ll never see Gareth again!" Charlene had learned that when around Morrisey, she had to be careful. Gareth’s mother was an extremely private woman and did not easily warm to strangers, much less her rapist’s mother. But just now, the two of them had played and enjoyed friendly banter with each other. Yep, things were looking up. Even the long-term future looked promising.
While Charlene was otherwise occupied, Morrisey carefully placed her son on the sofa and shrugged their jackets off. Something seemed off in this house, and she’d just figured out what it was. In the living room, were many pictures of Charlene and presumably of her family, but there was not one photo of John. Morrisey sighed, glad that she were spared the awkwardness of that. The blonde had the foresight to remove those.
Charlene clambered back into the house, Gareth’s baby bag slung over her shoulder and two presents balanced in her arms. "You have the car keys, right?" she asked, setting the items down. "I locked the car."
"No problem." Morrisey nodded, joining the blonde by the tree, baby comfortably nestled in her arms. He was drooling up an ocean and seemed content. "Did you buy out Toys ‘R Us or what?" Despite his earlier drowsiness, Gareth was wide awake. The shining multi-colored lights on the tree fascinated him, as did the clinking ornaments. The many colors reflected in her baby’s bright, wondrous eyes, uplifted and saddened Morrisey at the same time. What kind of life would her son have? Being raised by an extremely independent single mother who was barely breaking even financially, without a father?
Morrisey willed the negative thoughts out. She would be a good mother. She’d learned the hard way that the majority of parents were not good for their children. And the dark-haired woman was determined not to fall into that category.
"Gareth has got to begin opening presents now. He needs a head start." Jumbles of boxes of every size surrounded the tree. "You’d think that the cat was getting some too."
Charlene blushed. "Well, I did pick her up some things." Leaning in apprehensively, she continued. "You don’t mind, do you? That I got him all that stuff. A lot’s for you too."
"Nah." Morrisey sighed. She knew Charlene wasn’t doing it to usurp the mother’s rightful place or assert some sort of dominance over the two. "It’s your job, after all."
"Oh, let me show you the Santa pictures!" Charlene dashed into the kitchen and retrieved a package. "Sit, sit!" she commanded the other woman, forcing her onto the sofa. "Don’t worry one bit either. I have two sets, one for you."
Grinning, Charlene’s enthusiasm contagious, Morrisey set Gareth on the floor and leaned in for a mini-brag session. "They came out real well. Gareth’s quite photogenic." Charlene chuckled self-consciously. "Can’t say the same about myself, though." The first fifteen or so nearly identical photos were of only Gareth, cocking his head or drooling or smiling. The rest were of the baby in various poses with Santa. There were a few of the blonde and the baby together.
"Morrisey, would you mind terribly if I put a few photos of Gareth and me up? Framed them?" Charlene ventured hesitantly.
"That’s fine." The dark-haired woman smiled gently, touched by the blonde’s engaging nature. "You can show him off. Don’t need my permission." Charlene’s obvious love and affection for the baby captivated Morrisey, causing unnatural tremors in her heart. The way Charlene’s yellowish-green eyes sparkled, her smooth voice, the feel of her leg brushing against Morrisey’s, her excited whispers tickling the dark-haired woman’s neck, all did wonders to send her brain into a jumble of thoughts.
When Charlene dutifully wrapped up the picture session, Morrisey was sorry.
Gareth was sitting on a plush rug near the couch, searching for objects that would fit in his mouth. So far his endeavors were unsuccessful, as the adults had placed small items out of his reach. The baby was taking out his frustration by valiantly attempting to consume the rug.
"He wants to open a present," Charlene announced seriously. "We shouldn’t overexcite him by making him wait."
Morrisey fixed a wry glance on her companion. "I hardly imagine Gareth’s overexcited."
The blonde pleaded with the other woman, pouting, her green eyes round and innocent. "Please? Okay, I admit it. I’m the excited one. C’mon, I want to see Gareth open a present before we eat. You can open one too!"
"Geeh!" the baby cried, promptly sending a rivulet of drool down his coveralls.
"Oh, see! He wants to open some now!" Charlene implored, pouting with the other woman.
Morrisey chuckled. "Well, he has been good this year. I suppose there’s no harm in it. Oh, all right!" Morrisey she made a big show of being annoyed. "One gift. One." She waggled a stern finger in the blonde’s direction. "Then the rest after dinner."
Charlene bounced from her seat. "Gar-Gar!" the blonde beamed, taking the boy in her arms and squeezing him. "Let’s see what the big man in red brought you and your mommy. Yeah?" She carried him to the tree. "Wow!" she cried, acting like she was seeing the gifts for the first time. "Wow!" she exclaimed. "You must’ve been a good good good boy! Because Santa brought you lots and lots and lots of stuff! Yes, that’s right!"
Gareth gurgled happily and made fists in the air as Charlene set him on the floor.
Still inspecting the pile around the tree, the blonde made a choice. "Mmm… oh! This one! No… no." Frowning, she eyed another box before settling on a third. Nodding triumphantly, she bent over and gathered the present, then joined her grandson on the floor. "Come here!" she called to the younger woman. "Gareth says he needs your help. He can’t do it all by himself."
"Open it yourself," countered Morrisey. "I’m comfortable where I am."
"Well, now! That’s just not right," the blonde reasoned. "I’m giving this present to him. It’d be like you unwrapping a gift you bought for me. Get over here."
Grumbling good-naturedly, the dark-haired woman made her way to the cheerful group. "Your grandma’s such a slave driver," she complained to the child, plopping him in her lap.
"Open up!" Charlene, cross-legged, eagerly thrust the present, a small rectangular box, into Gareth’s lap.
Morrisey snaked her arms around her son’s waist. "Wonder what this is. Any ideas?" She held the box up to his ear and rattled it a bit. No sound was forthcoming. "Hmm," Morrisey mused. The redheaded infant seemed equally perplexed, studying the box with great care.
"Geeh!" he cried, banging his hands on the gift.
"See?" The blonde proclaimed. "Told you. He’s excited."
"Yeah, sure." The dark-haired woman lips curved upward wryly. "He just wants to put the bow in his mouth."
"Such a spoilsport," Charlene reproached the other woman. "Quit it. Stop keeping him in suspense. Go on now."
"Such persistence," Morrisey muttered. "Here we go." As she unwrapped the box carefully, the fluffy red bow was the first item to come off. Per her predictions, the child immediately thrust the decoration in his mouth.
Charlene shrieked, causing her companion to jump and utter a small cry of her own. "What?"
"My camera! Be right back." Scrambling to her feet and rushing towards Gareth’s bedroom and disappearing inside as if her life depended on it, the blonde was back in the living room seconds later, camera glued to her eye.
She proceeded to snap five shots of what she proclaimed: "Gareth looking so cute with that bow in his mouth!"
"I think you just wanted to open presents now so you had an excuse to take more pictures," Morrisey teased, inwardly glad that the other woman was a camera-toting person, because she herself had never been big on preserving memories.
"You two now!" the blonde declared.
Oh God, Morrisey thought. She wants pictures of me. She hated being in pictures, period, even with other people. "Sure, but not now. Maybe later, when I’m fixed up."
The blonde chuckled and swatted Morrisey on the shoulder, but caught herself in time. "Oh, silly. Don’t be so modest. You’re a perfect ten right now. If you were even more beautiful, you’d burst." Charlene caught herself in time, before her face turned tomato red. Morrisey was incredibly gorgeous, but there was no need to be so emphatic.
The dark-haired woman rather enjoyed the compliment. So it was with some enthusiasm that she posed with her son, a genuine smile on her face.
"Oooh. You two are so cute together," Charlene enthused. "Ok, go on now. Open the box."
Morrisey mock-saluted the green-eyed woman. "Yes, ma’am. You’d make a good dictator."
A look of shame crossed the blonde’s features. "Am I being too bossy?"
"No, not in the least," Morrisey drawled with a wink. "Here we go… ta-da." With a flourish, she peeled the tape off the plain cardboard carton and unveiled the gift.
"Pretty." Morrisey spoke in hushed tones as she extracted the ornament from the box. It was a solid red stocking, with abundant white padding at the top, designed to be hung on a Christmas tree, proclaiming Gareth’s first Christmas.
"Like it?" Charlene smiled, appreciating the other woman’s reaction. "Hang it up."
Morrisey leaned over to the Christmas tree and found an empty space. "Here we go," she murmured. "Baby’s first Christmas."
"Be right back," Charlene promised. "Gonna check on dinner."
"I’ll help," Morrisey volunteered, bringing the baby into the kitchen and setting him on the floor. "It smells so great. Been cooking all day?"
"Yeah." Charlene grinned sheepishly. "I hope you like it."
"Why wouldn’t I?" Morrisey smiled back, noticing how the blonde’s nose was slightly off center. "You’re going to have a lot of leftovers." She whistled as the green-eyed woman extracted a mammoth turkey from the oven.
"I love leftovers." Charlene laughed, waving away some steam. "Besides, I’ll eat a lot tonight." She began to carve the bird, but Morrisey intervened. "Let me do that. I can take care of getting dinner ready. You play with Gareth."
"Are you sure?" The blonde peered into the planar features.
"I’m sure." Morrisey smiled. "Play with him for a few minutes."
Charlene took the baby back into the living room, placing him on his back. She fell to the floor as well, tickling his stomach. A thought suddenly occurred to her and she darted into the basement quickly, returning with a well-worn children’s book that had been a favorite of John’s. Propping Gareth in her lap and leaning against the couch, the blonde proceeded to read, imitating the various character’s voices.
"But Molly!" she fussed indignantly. "That was my cookie."
In an ashamed drawl, she admitted: "My dog ate it."
"Then tell your dog to say sorry!" she exclaimed reproachfully.
Gareth listened with rapt fascination, and unbeknownst to the blonde, so did his mother from the kitchen. The green-eyed woman’s voice was addictive, as was her allure and charming manner.
When she completed the story, she fell silent, wrapping her arms around the plump infant’s mid-section. He sighed happily, placing his head against her breast. "Did you like that book?" she whispered, not realizing that Morrisey was coming to announce dinner was ready. "It was your daddy’s favorite."
The taller woman’s blue eyes narrowed upon hearing the proclamation. "What did you say?"
Charlene’s head jerked up, and immense guilt jumped onto her face. "Nothing," she lied, looking away.
"Spare me. You said that book was John’s favorite." Morrisey spoke scathingly.
"I did," Charlene admitted, clutching the infant tightly. "I… I’m sorry. I won’t do it again."
Morrisey sighed, sitting next to the blonde on the floor. "Look… we need to talk.
She crossed her arms, knowing this conversation was inevitable. "To me, your son was just a sperm donor. When people ask, I first tell them it isn’t their business then just say I wanted a baby and got artificially inseminated. Unorthodox, maybe, but I don’t care."
Encouraged by the open answer, the blonde faced her companion, meeting the strained gaze. "What will you tell Gareth? And what do we tell him about me? ‘Cause I’d really like it if I could be involved, you know? We could be really good for each other; I believe that and I think you do too. I know I shouldn’t say this, it’s too early on, but he means a lot to me and—"
Morrisey interrupted. "What do you tell people about him?"
Charlene bit her lip. "Well, honestly, I don’t go out of my way to tell anyone. Too much explaining to do."
The dark-haired woman nodded. "It might be best to play this by ear. See how things go." She hated emotional, deep conversations. "Let’s discuss this later. But for now, let’s eat!"
During dinner, the two women chatted.
"What d’ya do in your free time?" Charlene inquired. "You know, when you aren’t working or whatever."
The taller woman shrugged, plucking her son up and placing him in her lap. "Stuff. Read. Play with Gareth. I work out a lot."
"What kind of books?"
"Modern stuff. Murder mysteries, the like." Gareth grasped his mother’s finger and wrapped his tiny digits around it.
"I like those," Charlene agreed. "I like the romance novels too. How about you?"
"Not really," Morrisey admitted. She gaped at the other woman, awed at how quickly the food on her plate could disappear. "How do you not gain any weight? Do you exercise?"
"I’m lucky, I guess. I’ll eat anything!" Charlene giggled. Then a nasty look crossed her face, like she’d just eaten a lemon. "Well, except tacos."
"Tacos?" Morrisey repeated, not getting the non seqitur.
"Yeah, yeah." Charlene put her elbows on the table, then launched into her narrative. "See, okay. In elementary school, my class was on a field trip and we stopped for lunch at this taco place. You know how boys that age are right?" The blonde sent a knowing look in her companion’s direction.
"Sure. The cootie phase."
"Okay, well. This really mean group of boys told me and my pals that taco meat came from cats and dogs. We didn’t believe them of course, but just to be safe, we didn’t order tacos. Then I got home and asked my brother—he was year older than I—if it was true. He laughed and said something like, yeah, everyone knows that. He asked me what did I think happened to dogs and cats after they died? Boys!" The blonde shook her head in annoyance. "So I was totally mortified and stayed away from tacos even when I found out they came from cows. I mean… okay. I’m eating a taco, I’ll still think of dogs and cats. And cows are still animals, y’know? In India, people aren’t allowed to eat cows. In China, though, St. Bernards are popular." Charlene shuddered at the thought.
"Mmm." A small wanna-be smile played around the corners of Morrisey’s mouth. "So how old were you when you found out the truth?"
Charlene blushed. "It was a while," was all she said.
"So what did you do to your brother?" Morrisey was curious.
The sad look that crossed Charlene’s face made the dark-haired woman immediately regret asking the question.
The blonde folded her arms, a wistful look entering her eyes. "By the time I found out, he’d already moved out. He died a few years ago."
Shit. Morrisey nodded, not showing the panic she felt inside. What to do now? "I’m sorry to hear that," she murmured awkwardly.
Charlene plopped down next to her companion, closer this time. "Barroom fight, got stabbed in the chest. He was livin’ in Nevada at the time. I hadn’t seen him in fifteen years. My little sister’s all screwed up too. She’s my half-sister really, but that doesn’t matter. She’s two years younger than I am. I tried to get her off drugs and alcohol but she wouldn’t let me help. I think she lives in California now. Haven’t seen her in five years, just about."
Change the subject. Why can’t Gareth cry when I need him to? Morrisey made an interested noise. "You turned out okay," she managed to say, very uncomfortably.
Charlene turned to her, green eyes shining. "You think so? I could’ve done lots better. Never wanted to be like the people around me. I always thought I’d make it out of the cycle."
"But you can." Morrisey wrapped her arms around her son. "You have money now. Go back to college. No reason for you to work at the salon anymore."
"Maybe," the blonde whispered. "Maybe I will." She caught sight of Gareth’s outstretched hand and laughed. "He can’t wait to open the rest of his gifts."
CONTINUED IN PART FOUR