Bobby Redding
Mommy_s sick friends
CHAPTER ONE
Claude's father.
Irene had an image of the man, which her memory could command forth any time she wished. She wished often. It gave her a certain pleasure to see the man in her mind's eye, and in that way guess what her son might look like if…
If he had not been saved by her for something better, something else. He would be her creation, nurtured on her pleasures. She would be both father and mother, and she would enjoy both roles. What would that hard-muscled lover of one night – David; too soft a name for him. Really – what would he have thought of their son? He would wretch in agony, seeing the distorted issue of their union. She delighted in the disgust he would feel. But of course he did not know, and he never would. Claude was her son, and the tanned and too suave advertising copywriter was merely the agent of fate. She would have given herself to almost any man that night. The child had been her idea, her idea alone. She would raise him herself. He would be her creation.
She would not remember David's face, except that she saw its reflection every time she looked at Claude. And it was more out of love for Claude than anything else that she relished the memory of that night with his father. Strange, she thought, how often he came to mind…
That evening she had stared at herself in the mirror before leaving her apartment, searching for any tell-tale clues. She had not been out with a boy since she was a senior in high school, and she feared that she somehow might give herself, and her secret, away.
But no, she told herself calmly, she looked fine, even desirable. Boys had always liked her then, and even now men made passes at her frequently, though she was usually careful to avoid situations in which they could. Her hair looked good this way, the honeyed flax pouring over her shoulders. The black crepe dress fit her well; she had lost twelve pounds in two months, and now she was satisfied that she had a perfect body, though she wished her breasts weren't quite so impressive. She congratulated herself on the crowning touch – the absence of a brassiere – and wondered why someone who resented men so much could take such pleasure in arousing them. Sadism, maybe, she told herself, recalling a bit of Freud from night school; but she had never knowingly inflicted pain on any woman – or any man, for that matter.
The dress was short – two inches above the knee. Her thighs were firm now, and when she walked, only her breasts would move. Her ass was too small for a woman's really, but she liked the way she looked in jeans.
The bar was in the San Fernando Valley, a well-known singles' hangout. It was a Friday, and the narrow aisles that led from the counter to the tables were filled with flesh, male and female. The men seemed to be posing; elbows on the surface of the bar and drinks in hand, their other arms dangling at their sides, cigarettes between forefinger and index. A surprising number of the men appeared to be successful.
She was self-conscious, and so she especially noticed the eyes that stirred to focus on her when she entered. A slim middle-aged man, gray-flannel suit and Brooks Brothers shirt, retreated on his heels when his out thrust hand with burning cigarette almost brushed against her. Irene plunged through the mass of humanity and felt the heat of the bodies. She lost the scent of her perfume in the odor of sweating men and women.
There was an empty stool at the bar. She sat down, and less than a minute passed before she felt the pressure of a hand on the roundness of her shoulder. "Hello," started a young man, sandy-haired and thin, with an angular face and imperfect teeth. "Can I buy you a drink?"