Sandy was shipped off early the next morning. I would have slept through her departure if she hadn't snuck into my bedroom while Mother was showering.
She threw herself against me and we wrapped our bodies around each other and kissed ferociously. Both of us were sobbing and I could taste our hot salt tears as they mingled at our mouths.
“Where is she sending you?” I asked.
“Camp Climax, I think. I'll write as soon as I get there.”
“She can't stop us,” I said, trying to convince myself as well as her. “We'll find some way…”
“I think she can, Terry. I don't see how it's possible for us ever to see each other again. She can prevent it.”
“She cannot. The first vacation-Christmas for sure. We'll be able to figure something out.”
“Christmas is such a long way off, Terry. Look what happened last night at the party. How can I trust you? It's bound to happen again and again.”
“I love you, Sandy. Trust me.”
“If only we weren't brother and sister. It would be so easy.”
“But it mightn't be as good as this.”
The shower stopped.
“Kiss me goodbye,” she whispered.
I took sick that afternoon and for the next few days I ran a high, delirious fever. I didn't leave my room at all. I refused to eat the food Mother brought to my bedside, dumping it into the bedpan.
The first day she was suspicious and refused to believe I was really sick, insisted I was faking, which I was at first. But I did such a good job of convincing her that I convinced my body as well.
She called in a doctor. Out of the depths of his scientific knowledge he prescribed that I stay in bed and get some rest. He got twenty-five dollars for this advice.
Mother's attitude changed. She forgot how mad she was supposed to be with me for catching Sandy and me in bed together. She became kind, solicitous, maternal, soft, feminine, tender.
The illness provided me with something to occupy my mind and body and served to lessen the jolt of losing Sandy so suddenly and unexpectedly.
After four or five days I started to eat and within a week I was back on my feet. Instead of using my health as an excuse to start attacking me again, Mother laid off. If anything she was more affectionate than she had been when I was sick. I grudgingly admitted this change in her, admitted it to myself, but remained sullen, irascible and aloof.
I kept to myself most of the day and she didn't bother me. I spent most of my time walking in the woods, swimming, dreaming of Sandy and the few joyous moments we'd had together.
One rainy afternoon I hid myself up in the attic, dozing off and daydreaming of the afternoon we'd spent on the mattress up there. I reread the story about the Ushers and didn't like it any more than I did the first time. I rummaged around some and came upon the packet of nude shots of Mother when she was in her late teens. The resemblance to Sandy seemed even more striking than it had the first time. I cursed the lust that rose in my loins, put the pictures away and went downstairs. But the next day and the day after that I made the trip back up the creaky stairs to ogle the pictures.
In spite of myself I began to look secretly with desire upon Mother. I began to accept the affection she offered, and began to return it. She stopped referring to Sandy altogether, after having spent weeks trying to run her down. She seemed more womanly now than in the haggard weeks in which she'd done nothing but argue with her daughter. The sun had improved her color and lightened her hair some and she looked younger now.
I hated myself for feeling anything toward her after the way she treated Sandy, but it seemed I couldn't help myself. It had been two weeks since Sandy's departure, and I hadn't been near a girl or even touched myself.
Evenings, while Mother sat drinking before the TV set, I would go to bed early, sometimes to read, most often to lie in the dark on my bed and look out the window, thinking of what it had been like with Sandy and dreaming of what it might be like.
One night, feeling especially sorry for myself, I lay there on my belly in the dark, before the open window, sobbing into the pillow. It must have been getting late, because I heard Mother come up the stairs and start to get ready for bed. I tried to stifle my sobs, but only wound up choking on them.
She knocked softly on the door, opened it and stood in the lintel. I looked at her through tear-stained eyes. She wore a loose, transparent negligee which flowed nearly to the floor. The light behind her in the hallway silhouetted every line and curve of her body. Her figure hadn't changed. It was the same as in the pictures.
She walked up to the bed.
“What's the matter, Terry?” she said. Her voice was thick with intoxication and from several feet away I could smell the alcohol on her breath.
“Nothing,” I said, turning away from the unbearably exciting sight of her naked body through the sheer fabric.
“You oughtn't to lie here without any clothes on by the open window. You're liable to catch cold.” She knelt down on the floor beside me. “I don't want my baby to catch cold. He's been sick.”
“I'm okay,” I said, sniffling.
She began to run her hand up and down the groove of my spine. Her long fingers were soft and very hot and made my flesh tingle. Then she patted me on my naked ass and I tingled quite a bit more.
“What's the matter with my baby?” she said.
“Nothing, nothing,” I said. “Just a bad dream.”
Her caresses roved all over my back now, up my neck, through my hair and down again. She was driving me wild. I didn't know what to do. I was afraid to move, to do anything, to say anything. I wanted her to go away, but I wanted her to stay even more.
“You used to have bad dreams when you were little,” she said, in drunken wistfulness. “And you know what you did then? Every time you had a bad dream?”
“No, what?”
“You'd come knocking on my door and tell me all about them, and then, to make sure you wouldn't have any more like that during the night, I'd let you sleep with me.”
“And I was okay then?”
“Yes, Terry. You can still do that if you want — tonight,” she said.
“What's that?” I said, my heart beating like a jackhammer.
“You can come sleep with me tonight if you want.” Her hands seemed to be getting hotter and more active on my back.
I was panic-stricken. I stammered and managed to get out: “I don't think I better. I think I'll just stay here tonight.”
“Are you sure?”
I mumbled something noncommittal.
“Well if you change your mind, baby,” she purred, “don't hesitate and don't be afraid. Now kiss me goodnight.”
I turned my head to her and she brushed her soft, wetted lips against mine and held them there. Without locking tongues it was as sensual a kiss as possible. I watched her stand up, thrilling at the sight of her naked flesh, watching her firm, high breasts jiggle slightly as she stood and turned. She walked into the hall and left the door open behind her. She left her door open as well.
I was scared stiff. I lay there motionless for minutes, listening to the beating of my heart as it pounded the blood through my arteries. I listened to the rustling of her clothes as she got into bed.
Then I got up. I didn't decide to. In fact, I kept telling myself, “Don't, don't,” but it wasn't any good to tell myself anything. I couldn't be anything but passive to my passions.
I tiptoed through the hallway into her room, and she let out a little purr of pleasure as I walked in. Cautiously I walked to the other side of the bed from where she lay and slid in under the sheets. I lay on the edge of the bed, careful not to touch her with any part of my body.
“Terry,” she whispered.
“Yes?”
“You weren't so stand-offish when you were younger. You used to like to cuddle up to me.”
“I guess I've gotten older now.”
She slid alongside me. I gasped when I felt her body against mine. She had removed her nightgown, and her nakedness pressed against me from the tips of her breasts to the hollow of her thighs. She fondled my stiff, throbbing penis.
“You have grown up some,” she said.
I couldn't restrain myself any longer, and rolled over on top of her, sucking on her breasts as I had during my first days and weeks in the world. I didn't remember what they were like then, but now they tasted like ambrosia to my lips.
Her hands were hot all over my back and buttocks, urging me toward her. I felt slightly inhibited with her, still felt reluctant to take the final plunge, until she grabbed me around the back with her legs and pulled me to her, sliding her hand between us to guide me back to the womb.
We moved slowly and slitheringly at first, and the words, “Motherfucker, motherfucker, motherfucker,” reverberated in my head until I shut them out by repeating the syllables “ma-ma-ma-ma-ma-ma-ma-ma-ma-ma-ma-ma-ma-ma-ma-ma-ma-ma-ma ma-ma.”
The pace got rougher, sweatier, louder and more wild as we went on and I didn't want it to stop, didn't want to have to face myself in the aftermath.
Like all things, though, this came to an end and I withdrew from her. I slid down along her until I rested my head on her breasts. Taking a nipple into my mouth, I fell peacefully asleep.
When I awoke it was still dark and Mother was still asleep under me, breathing heavily. I didn't want to face her in the morning, so I got up and tiptoed back into my room. No longer the captive of my lust, I felt wretched, horrible, and guilty, not because I had fucked my mother, not that in itself; but because of what it implied about my loyalty to Sandy. And I remembered what she had said about me in relation to Mother, that I would go to bed with her, given half an opportunity. If she were ever to find out, it would be the last straw for her. It would end everything between us for good.
I slept late in the morning, not having been awoken as usual by Mother. Her door was closed, and when I went down to breakfast Grandma asked me how come both of us had slept so late and how come Ava was still in bed.
“I guess she's not feeling too well,” I said. “Maybe you better go see if something's wrong with her.”
“You know I can't get up those stairs any more. Why don't you go see what it is?”
“I'd rather not.”
“Why not, Terry? She's your own mother. Have you two been fighting again? You seemed to be getting along so nicely recently.”
“We were. It'll probably be different now, though.”
“How's that?”
“Nothing. I'll go see how she is.” I walked slowly upstairs and knocked on her door.
“Who is it?”
“Terry.”
There was dead silence for what seemed five minutes. I finally said, “Grandma sent me up to find out if you're all right.”
“I'm dandy. Look, will you get a pot of coffee, a bottle of brandy, a bottle of aspirin and my cigarettes like a good little boy?”
I got what she asked for and knocked again. This time she told me to come in. She was still in bed, but had put on a nightgown and held the sheets up to her chin. She looked dazed, hung-over, sheepish and guilty and never once met my darting, furtive looks at her.
“Look, Terry,” she said, and then trailed off into silence.
I was relieved. I had expected her to be furious with me. Instead, apparently, she was all girded up for my hate for her, which I didn't feel.
I said what I had planned to say. “Maybe it would be better if I went away for the rest of the summer. I wouldn't mind spending a little time at camp.”
“It would do you some good, probably, Terry. Because I'm going back to the city today, anyway. It'd be pretty lonely for you up here by yourself with Grandma.”
“I thought maybe Quivering Pines.”
She shook her head. “That's too close to where Sandy is. I don't want you two that close together after what happened…” her voice trailed off again as she realized she no longer had much of a moral case against us. “Anyway, that's all boys there. I think the way you're getting you'd rather go to a co-ed camp, like Camp Interplay.”
“Sure, wherever you like,” I said. “You're footing the bill.”
I started out the door. “Oh, Terry,” she said. I turned to her. “About last night. I hope you'll just forget about it and not let it bother you. I guess I've been up here too long, and then seeing you and Sandy… I hope you won't make too much of it. It happens more often than you think.”
“Yeah, sure,” I said, relieved that she was trying to toss it all off as lightly as I was inclined to do.
“I guess you'd better start getting your things together. Oh, and go get me the telephone number of Camp Interplay.”