December, The Taylor Residence, North Wilmington, Delaware.
Russell Taylor looked out of his bedroom window at the street crammed with parked cars. It was the week before Christmas and Trolley Square was full of office workers heading for parties in the local bars and restaurants.
He watched a Lexus pull forward, carefully positioning itself for a reverse into the tight spot right outside Russell's house. It was getting dark and a few snowflakes were drifting down, but the 'Homewrecker' on Channel 6 said it was nothing to worry about. The road was narrow, standard for North Wilmington row-homes. Russell watched as the Lexus driver took a little bit too long to get himself lined up.
Just as his reversing lights came on, a tiny orange Fiat drove up the street and swung in behind it, right into the space, claiming the spot. A dark haired attractive woman dressed in a black suit got out, clicked the car locked, and without a backward glance headed onto the sidewalk. The Lexus sat there for a minute and Russell watched with interest, wondering what would happen. He heard the front door bang. His mom the Fiat owner was home. The Lexus eventually moved off in search of another spot.
Christmas had come around so fast. He looked south along the street to the 4-way. Six months ago, almost to the day, his father had been knocked down there and killed by a drunk driver. Russell moved away from the window and flung himself down on his bed. He looked around the room at his high school graduation photos, his awards, and his University of Delaware posters. The Fighting Blue Hens mascot stared down at him. Go Hens.
Then there were the pictures his Mom had put up. He had no say in the matter. Martin Luther was screwed into the wall. He was an old stalwart. Dr. Luther was so familiar, Russell did not even bother putting a towel over him when he was jacking off. A more recent addition, his deceased dad frowning at him in a dark suit was a different matter. Dad got the towel over him on those frequent occasions.
Russell had wept along with his mother at the funeral. He grieved. More than he expected. But his relationship with his father had not been easy, or particularly affectionate. Now he did not know what to feel.
As he grew up he had often sneaked along the passageway and listened right outside his parent's door, heard their bed creak and his mom's quiet cries of pleasure. She would be mortified to know he had ever heard her. And now they were alone together in the house. But he had outgrown his lust for his mom a long time ago. You grow up and you get over it. He had girlfriends, of course, more than his mom knew about. But no-one right now. No one since dad died, in fact.
So why did he keep old pictures of her in his scrapbooks? And yes, on occasion, flick through them with his hand in his pants. Possibly it was because she was still a beautiful woman. His mother looked Italian, but she was actually from Irish stock. In his favorite picture of her she looked like an actress or model on the beach in her black one piece swimsuit. Perhaps a little like Eva Longoria, slim, petite, desirable. She had the religious devotion of the Irish, too. The Northern Irish. Cold on the outside, a raging furnace on the inside.
Breakfast With Uncle Gilbert
It was three days to Christmas. Russell was out of school for the holidays, while his mom was using up vacation in her job as a secretary at DuPont. She'd lose it otherwise.
Russell and his mom were enjoying a moment of quiet at the breakfast table, his mother reading The Covenant, her church newsletter, while Russell was catching up with the sports news on his IPad when the front door burst open and Uncle Gilbert was there.
"Good Morning! Can't stay long. Everyone wants their cars fixed before the holidays. Is that coffee I smell?"
Uncle Gilbert worked at one of the big car dealerships on Route 52 and often dropped in on the way to work for a coffee. He had started this habit after Russell's dad died, just to make sure things were OK in the household. Both Russell and his mom appreciated the gesture, but it was becoming a little wearying after six months. "Good morning, Gilbert," said Hannah smiling at her brother-in-law. "Here it is," she said, waggling the coffee pot at him as he put down his bag and briefcase on the table.
"Thank you, Hannah. Excuse me, I just need to check something for an eight o'clock appointment. Make sure the parts are in."
Hannah poured him coffee and he opened up his IPad. Hannah was now flanked by two men in her family who had their faces glued to mobile media and were ignoring her. She did not think it was very polite.
"Please, both of you. Can't we take a moment to talk. Otherwise what is the point of breakfast together?"
Uncle Gilbert and Russell both lifted their eyes from their IPads and looked at one another.
"Of course, Hannah. We are being unsociable, aren't we Russell?"
Russell nodded. They both picked up their bags and IPads and books and put them over on the kitchen countertop in a big pile, leaving the table free of everything except coffee, toast, and muffins.
"Much better," smiled Hannah at both of them. "Now, how are you Gilbert, and how is Juliet getting on with her quilt?"
Ten minutes later, Uncle Gilbert had collected his things and was gone. Russell was getting ready to go out for a run. Hannah hated him running around the city. That was how her husband had died.
"Take your stuff upstairs before you go, please," she snapped at him as he put on his trainers.
She watched as he collected his stuff and walked up the stairs to his room. His trim athletic ass disappeared from her sight. He looked so like his father, more so with every day. Better looking, even. She felt an ache in her that was not entirely maternal. She missed her husband so much. She missed the nights most of all.
Russell knew she hated his running, knew why. But he was not prepared to be a prisoner in the house. He went up to his room and dumped his things on the bed. Then he left.
Hannah had a routine. Although it was her day off, the place still needed to be cleaned. Russell did it when she nagged him, but he never did it quite right. His heart was not in it. Hers was. She enjoyed cleaning. She started with Russell's room.
Hoover. Tidy. Wipe. Dust. Inspect. That was the best bit. She looked at the things he had left on the bed. She picked up his IPad, not for the first time. But it was always locked and she did not know his password. She flipped it open anyway and pressed the button.
Bingo.
It was fourteen minutes since Uncle Gilbert had left the house mistakenly with Russell's IPad instead of his own. Uncle Gilbert's IPad was now lying on Russell's bed. The auto-shutdown was set to fifteen minutes. His password was not needed. Hannah was right in to her brother-in-law's darkest secrets.
Eyes wide, she clicked on favorites and found herself in a website maze. She clicked on one and found herself looking at a video clip. Her eyes widened as she discovered what she assumed her son was watching for his entertainment. Good heavens.
