The Arrangement
by Liza Sharpe
Copyright 2022 A Likely Story Publishing
Author's Note: All characters portrayed in this fictional work are aged 18 or older and are products of the author's dirty imagination.
"James Michael Dugan!" I hollered, really annoyed now. "I told you to put your dirty dishes in the sink to rinse. Get out here!"
"I said I'll get them!" I heard my son's voice roar from his bedroom. "I'm working right now, ma!"
I stormed down the hall and threw open his door.
My son was sitting in his gaming chair, his headset on and a game controller in his hands. I looked at the big TV mounted on the wall. One of his hyper-violent multiplayer games was showing.
"This is you working?! Get your ass up and put those dishes in the sink. No, you know what? In fact, you're on dishes duty for the next week. Wash them, now!"
"Fuck!" he exclaimed, then said into his headset, "Dug-Mar out." He swung his long legs off his bed and pushed past me, muttering under his breath.
I stood in his doorway, taking deep breaths to get my rage under control. I was shaking from the adrenaline coursing through my body. "I am so tired of this shit," I said, tears of frustration in my eyes.
Jimmy was in the kitchen now, angrily washing the dishes. The sound of them rattling loudly in the sink put my hackles up. I felt the tension building in my neck and shoulders.
"Be calm, Sandy," I muttered. "Don't make things worse." I focused on my breathing, just like the government-sponsored YouTube videos suggested. I visualized my stress and anger leaving my body with each exhale. It sounds stupid, but it worked for me. Little by little, I felt myself relax.
"Overreact much, Sandy?" I said wryly. "He's 18. He left a plate and a glass on the coffee table. Like you didn't do worse at his age."
It wasn't Jimmy's fault; it wasn't mine, either. Two people kept in close quarters - and our little 2-bed, 1-bath, 450 square foot apartment definitely qualified as that - are bound to have conflicts. My only son and I were no different.
I crossed to Jimmy's bedroom window and looked down the six floors to the street. A National Guard patrol was on the road, one of their large trucks flanked by soldiers at each corner moved at a snail's pace. The soldiers all word hazmat suits, just as they had since the "lock down". The news never called it what it was: martial law.
We live in Riverton; yes, that Riverton. The epicenter of the weird hybrid of COVID and... I don't even know. The CDC had been working on it for months, trying to determine - honestly, I don't know. I can't follow most of what they tell us.
All we know for certain is that some kind of mutation occurred, that the affected area stretches for an untold distance around our town, and that it is deadly. Like, more than one of every two people who get it die. Young, old, sick, healthy, it doesn't matter.
It only took days for the military to be called in; mostly men and women not much older than Jimmy, people I'm sure would rather be in their own hometowns with the people they love. I don't bear them any ill will.
But we are basically prisoners in our own homes. You don't leave your home, or if in a building, like us, your apartment. Not to the hall, not to the roof. It's not recommended, but you can open your windows - they know the virus doesn't live long airborne. But when it comes to person-to-person transmission? It's just better to stay indoors.
They were optimistic at first.
"We anticipate no longer than three to five weeks," they'd said. That was nine months ago.
You can't go to a job outside of your home, so the government is providing food and supplies. All health care, with the exception of necessary surgeries, is tele-health. Rent and mortgage payments for those who can't work from home are taken care of by the government.
That, I've thought, was the real reason we were locked down. What if someone managed to escape, and carried the disease? It can be undetectable for up to a month. It would spread like something out of a Stephen King novel.
Jimmy was still 17 when we were locked down. He's been drawing graphic novels and comic books as long as I can remember, and he started making a little money at it when he was just 14. Since he was a minor when we went on lock down, they don't consider his income, and we get our full rations paid. I make him put most of his money aside; it's not like he has a lot of options for spending, anyway. I just want him to someday have a better life than we have now.
But there are all these hours to fill, and as much as my son and I love each other, sometimes we get tired of seeing each other's faces.
I went out to the kitchen. Jimmy was wiping the counter, the dishes all dried and put away. I put my hand on his shoulder, and he shrugged it off.
"I'm sorry, Jimmy," I said. "I guess I went a little batshit."
"Hmph."
"Hey, kiddo. Look at me." I put my hand firmly on his shoulders and turned him toward me. I'm not short - 5'-8", most of it legs, my ex used to joke in better days - but my son towers over me. He's got a good 7" on me, all long legs and arms like his dad. He was always skinny but, these days he uses his energy to work out several hours a day and has put on a lot of muscle. He's such a cutie, especially since he finally relented and let me start cutting his hair so he looks presentable. "I was wrong. I take back your punishment. No dish duty."
He sighed. "I don't care about doing the dishes, mom. I'm sorry I forgot to take care of them."
"Hey, don't sweat it. I'm sorry your mom's got cabin fever." I hugged him tightly, pressing my head to his shoulder. His arms went around my upper back, his strong hands giving me a squeeze.
"How long, mom? How long is this going to last?"
"I don't know, Jimmy," I said into his chest. "I really don't."
"This whole thing is so unreal," he said, rubbing his hands up and down either side of my spine. I closed my eyes; the kid could make a good living by giving massages.
"Mmmm," I grunted, more from the feeling of his hands than agreeing with him. I pulled back. Frankly, it had been a long time since I'd been touched, aside from my several daily masturbation sessions, and a part of me was willing to give myself over to these sensations, despite knowing how wrong it was.
"So," I said quickly, "are you actually doing any work today? I need to know when to start supper."
"I actually had been working. I had finished up not 10 minutes before you..." He shrugged, tilting his head and grinning.
"Gotcha. So, you have a choice of entrees for dinner." I opened an upper cabinet, looking over our rations. "There's canned beef, canned chicken, canned tuna, or Spam."
"Mmm. No vegetarian option?" Jimmy laughed.
"All the finest canned veggies," I said, reaching into the cabinet for a jar. "And white asparagus."
"What could we do with beef, mom?"
