Dad's Hunting Trip
Marcy Cee sat quietly in her SUV, parked in their driveway, desperately trying to think of something she could say to Mark to make him feel better. She'd just returned from taking Don, her husband, and John, her oldest son, to the airport. They'd just departed for a month long hunting and fishing trip to Alaska. Mark, her youngest son, was devastated that he hadn't been asked to go, for the date coincided with his first week in college.
"I can start a week late," he'd pleaded.
"Not this time, son," her husband had said, "You need to be here to start your first semester in college. Don't worry though, John and I'll bring home the meat."
That was his justification for going on this trip. Bring home the meat. If they brought home a ton of meat it would only have cost them eight dollars a pound. She flipped her head, pushing her long blond hair back over her ears as she did, exasperated, but still not knowing how to approach Mark's feelings. Opening the door, she slid her long, tanned legs to the ground, and slammed the door. That might at least let Mark know she was home.
She walked toward the door, the length of her well-toned legs accentuated by the shortness of the cut-offs she'd worn this morning. Her sleeveless white blouse was a lovely contrast to the tan of her arms. The bra, constraining the bouncing globes of her breasts, could be plainly seen. She opened the kitchen door and went inside.
"Mark, honey," I'm home she yelled up the stairs. "How about some breakfast? C'mon down, I'll make French toast and link sausage." His favorite breakfast, she thought, which may get him into at least a decent mood. She rattled around in the kitchen, setting a bowl on the counter for the eggs, and got out the grill and plugged it in, turning the heat to high. Setting a loaf of bread on the counter, next to the eggs, she went to the fridge and got out the link sausage and butter.
"Damn," she muttered to herself, "syrup's on the top shelf again." The stool she stood on was old, and wobbly. The syrup just out of her reach. One more try, she thought, then I'll get Mark to get it down. She stretched. The stool tipped. She fell, both hands landing palms down on the red-hot grill. Her screech echoed throughout the house.
Mark bounded down the stairs, taking them three or four at a time.
"What's wrong Mom? What happened?"
She held out her burned hands toward him.
"I slipped and landed on the grill." Tears streamed from her eyes.
He quickly helped her up, started cold water running in the sink, and held her hands under it for a few seconds. "Keep them under the cold water for a few more minutes," he said, "I'll get some ice and a towel."
It was only a second before he returned with the ice and towel. Wrapping the ice in the wet towel, he then wrapped her hands inside it.
"C'mon," he said, "I'm taking you to the hospital. It's only a few blocks away and I can drive you there."
They rushed to the car and he drove her to the emergency room.
Two hours later, coming out of the hospital, Marcy was weak-kneed and staggering slightly. The pain medication the doctor had given her was plainly working.
"I feel like a mummy," she giggled, holding out both hands, covered with bandages and wrapped with gauze clear above her wrist. "The doctor said they'd have been a lot worse if you hadn't put ice on them right away."
She'd still received some bad third degree burns, but most of the burns were just second degree. They were going to keep her in the hospital for a few days, but she'd told them that she could get along just fine at home, with his help.
"You will help me, won't you Mark?"
"Of course, Mom. We'll manage just fine." He didn't realize what he was saying.
When they'd arrived home, he'd helped her into the house, got her settled on the couch, then went to clean up the mess they'd made in the kitchen.
"Guess we'd best get something to eat, hadn't we, Mom?" Mark called from the kitchen. "Still want French toast and sausage?"
"That sounds great, hon." She'd called back.
She could hear Mark banging around in the kitchen, cleaning up and preparing breakfast. It wasn't long before he carried in a tray and set it on the coffee table in front of the couch.
"I didn't know how to make coffee, so I just brought a glass of orange juice. Hope that's okay."
"That'll be fine, hon." she said, straightening up on the couch and reaching for her fork. It slipped through her heavily bandaged hands and fell on the floor. She reached for it, but couldn't pick it up. The doctor had put something in the bandages so she couldn't bend her fingers.
"Mark, we've got a problem. I can't bend my fingers to grip anything. I guess you're going to have to feed me. Do you mind."
"Of course not, Mom," he replied, coming over and cutting the French toast into pieces. He fed her, piece by piece, until she'd finished it, then held up a sausage between his fingers. She took it between pursed lips, sucking it right out of his fingers into her mouth. He watched in rapt attention. When she'd finished that one, he handed her another. This time her tongue came from between her full, luscious lips, licking the sausage seductively, before letting it slide between her parted lips.
"What's the matter, baby? Haven't you seen anyone suck a sausage before?" Her eyes twinkled with suppressed merriment. The medication had really taken hold.
