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Man of the House © 2011 by Selena Kitt
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Man of the House
By Selena Kitt
When Patrick's father went off to war in 1944, he told his eighteen-year-old son, you’re the “man of the house” now. Patrick’s stepmother has struggled to keep them afloat, and he does what he can to help. He knows she’s tired, sad and very lonely, but when circumstance brings a young woman into their lives for a brief time, it alters everything between he and his stepmother forever. Will Patrick become the real “man of the house” before his father returns from the war?
Table of Contents
Man of the House
There are three things I remember clearly about 1944, the year my father went off to war and left me alone with my stepmother.
I remember her crying at the docks as we watched the steamer pull away. She tried to hold out and put on a brave face for my father, although we could only have been pinpricks of color to his eyes by then, because the sailors on the ship were a blur of navy and white to me across the deck as they waved their goodbyes. Still, she tried—she was so brave to try—but in the end, she turned to me and sobbed in my arms, burying her hot, wet face against my neck. That was the first time I’d ever seen that completely open, vulnerable side of my stepmother, but it wouldn’t be the last.
I remember his words to me, the firm handshake and quick one-armed hug, “You’re the man of the house now, Patrick. You take good care of your mother.”
I vacillated between both relief and guilt—at just nineteen years old, I should have been sailing off on that ship. My father was a veteran and going back for more. It was the brave and courageous thing to do, and a part of me thought so, and wanted to do the right thing too. The decision had been taken out of my hands though, not only because I was still a student, but also because my real mother had given birth to me in Canada and died of childbed fever just a few days later while she was staying with relatives, and I was technically a dual-citizen. I always felt like I lived in two worlds, and that irony was never lost on me.
On the surface, it seemed life went on after he was gone. Our routines moved us through our days. My stepmother did loads of volunteer work during the war years, and she ran to the mailbox every day, looking for a letter. The days when one came, I could usually find her upstairs soaking in a hot bath, her hair pulled up, cheeks pink from the heat, the bubbles dissipated enough so I could see the tops of her breasts and their dark nipples floating in the water.
Sometimes I would go in and sit on the edge of the tub and talk to her. She was always bubbling over with news—where he was, how he was, that he loved us and missed us, that was all a given—the biggest news, though, was that he was safe. For that moment, in the instant when pen touched paper, he was still alive and moving in the world. That was enough for her to hold onto until the next letter.
I loved those days too, when she took down her long, dark hair and asked me to wash it. I can still see the water spilling down her back and over her shoulders, beading on her skin before I poured another deluge over her head. There was something so trusting and vulnerable about her posture, the way she tilted her head back, eyes closed, that took my breath away.
There were times when I poured warm water over her hair long after any remnants of soap had been washed away. With her eyes closed, I could look freely on her body, at the soft, rounded curves of her waist and hips and thighs as my gaze moved in and out and around the bends. The dark triangle between her legs was just barely visible in that position, and I strained to see, wanting more, but was never satisfied. Even when she stepped out of the tub and motioned for me to hand her the towel, the dark mat of hair covered her flesh like a shroud.
Days when she wanted to be alone, I was met with the gentle closing of her bedroom door. It was never forceful or abrupt, although it often felt that way to me, standing on the other side and listening to the sound of her opening drawers and shuffling through her clothes. If the news was particularly good though, and she was still brimming with it, she would allow me to accompany her to the bedroom. I would sit quietly on the edge of the bed and watch her dress.
My stepmother was a methodical woman, and I am much like her now, in the slow, deliberate way I do things. Every part of her was rubbed dry, from top to bottom. She was much rougher over her sleek, soft skin than I would have been, dragging the towel over her breasts and belly, tugging it between her legs. I loved watching her dry her calves, seeing her breasts swaying and getting a brief peek at the dark patch between her legs as she bent over.
Then she would open her drawer and pull out a pair of panties. Back then, almost all panties were made out of silk, still hand-sewn, and they fastened with buttons up one side. Most had some sort of lace or decoration on them. My stepmother’s underwear was exquisite. I often wondered if my father bought it for her—or if she bought it for him. The pair I still have is soft-as-butter silk, almost a flesh-color, with two mother-of-pearl buttons that fasten on each side.
To me, there’s nothing more feminine than panties, and women are never more feminine than in the sublime moment when they’re sliding a pair on. She would bend over, giving me another glimpse between her legs as she wiggled the shimmering fabric up over her hips. I would trace the scalloped lace edges with my gaze, over her thighs, toward the apex between and, if the light was just right, I could see the dark hair underneath showing through them. The buttons were my favorite part, seeing her twist around to do them up, one on each side. The first one was always the easiest, but the second sometimes gave her trouble.
I would wait in great anticipation on the edge of the bed to see if she would sigh and walk toward me, turning her exposed hip in my direction and asking, “Patrick, would you mind?”
Those moments lasted years, when my fingers worked that tiny button, feeling the silk of the panties covering the velvet of her skin. She would smile a thank you, sometimes tousling my hair or chucking me under the chin as if I was still a boy.
And part of me was grateful to be still that, to her—allowed into her room, to be a part of this, to help her bathe and dress. There were men off fighting a war in conditions I couldn’t even begin to imagine, my own father among them, and yet I was here, in my stepmother’s boudoir, getting a glimpse into a world that would hold much more power over me, then and for the rest of my life, than any other battle could. I was privileged to be there, and I knew it.
I suppose I should confess that my erection was present throughout this entire process, and I sat in a way which would allow me to hide it as much as I possibly could. She never looked or asked or even indicated I might be in the least excited by what she was doing. To her, I was simply her boy, keeping her company and helping her get dressed. For me, it was a descent into hell and a glimpse towards heaven.
I knew I should’ve felt guilty or ashamed in those accidentally intimate times I spent with my stepmother, but I didn’t. You see, my father had entrusted me with her care when he left—“You’re the man of the house now, Patrick.” Perhaps I simply rationalized that he had given me his permission. But nothing happened. Not then. I was still a boy to my stepmother, and thought I would remain so forever.
But something changed. And that was the last and most bittersweet thing I remember about that year—Naomi, who changed the course of everything in just one night.
* * * *
“You have to help me!”
I wasn’t paying much attention to the impassioned plea on the other side of the glass. My shift selling tickets at the bus station was over and I had a book of ration stamps to cash in—my mouth watered just thinking about eating a few ounces of meat. Old Mr. Howard, sliding into the seat I’d just vacated, would have to deal with the soldier who needed help.
“Where do you need to go, sonny?”
“No, it isn’t me, it’s my wife.” The soldier was young—my age, a little older maybe. He had a wife? The thought was a mystery to me. What must it be like to have a wife?
“All right, where does she need to go?” Mr. Howard asked.
“No, you don’t understand.” The soldier pressed his palm to the glass, as if he could reach one of us. “She’s coming. She’s coming all the way from Washington—Washington State!”
I checked to make sure the ration book was still safe in my coat pocket—the lines would be long, although maybe not too long, I thought, glancing out at the gray New England sky. No one liked to stand out in the cold, and it would be even better if it started to snow.
“What can I do for you, Sonny?” Mr. Howard was getting impatient with the piecemeal information the soldier was providing and I was impatient, too—to be gone. I shrugged on my coat, already anticipating the possibility of beef or lamb.
“She’s coming to visit me. Her mother sent her on the bus, gave her the money to come, because I had a two week furlough, and we hadn’t seen each other since I shipped out.” The soldier just kept talking, looking as if he knew he was making a long story even longer but he seemed unable to stop himself as Mr. Howard tapped his fingers on the ticket counter and I wrapped a gray scarf—my stepmother had knitted it for me that Christmas—around my neck.
“Sonny, I’ve got other customers.” Mr. Howard nodded to the soldier standing behind him. “Unless you’re buying a ticket…”
“You have to help me!” He was digging in his pockets, and I thought I recognized the look on his face. He looked like he was going to cry. It made me want to look away, but I was somehow transfixed by his frantic motion and I continued to watch the drama as I slipped on my gloves.
He found what he wanted, his eyes glowing with an “ah-hah!” as he opened his wallet and pulled out a twenty dollar bill. That was enough to make Mr. Howard and I both pay attention. “I’ll pay you! All you have to do is meet her bus and tell her what’s happened.”
“And what, exactly, has happened?” Mr. Howard asked.
I should have slipped out the door, but instead I took another step toward the glass as the soldier slid something else out of his wallet, slapping it up to the glass so we could see.
“This is her—this is my girl, Naomi. She’s coming on the five o’clock bus, and I won’t be here to meet her. Please, you have to help.”
“I’ll do it.”
It wasn’t the money—although twenty dollars was a fortune. I only made fifty cents an hour selling tickets at the bus station, and my stepmother made a little more at the factory, making widgets—that’s what she liked to call the parts they made for the war planes.
It was the photo. The girl in the photo was the most beautiful I’d ever seen. It was clearly her senior portrait, one of those posed pictures, but she didn’t get all dolled up like I’d seen so many do. She was completely natural, her hair like a long, dark curtain, looking as soft as silk against her velvet cheek, her big, dark eyes bright and full of promise. She was thinking about something or someone she loved, I was sure of it, and I burned with jealousy when I glanced at the soldier and realized it was probably him.
I didn’t realize until later, much later, how much Naomi resembled my stepmother.
“Which bus?” I asked, seeing relief and gratitude flood the soldier’s face. So I would be late getting the rations, late getting home. I knew my stepmother would understand, when I told her the circumstances—and showed her the twenty dollar bill.
“Thank you!”
I nodded, barely hearing the soldier’s words as he took the picture down from the glass. I wanted to ask for it, to keep it, and I thought of a way it might be possible as he went on talking. “We got new orders, we’re shipping out in an hour—less than an hour now.” He glanced at his watch and I opened the side door to the booth, stepping out into the bus terminal. The soldier held out his hand and I shook it. “Name’s Jerry.”
“Patrick,” I replied in kind. “Which bus is she coming on?”
He opened his wallet again, taking out a slip of white paper and shoving it into my hand. “I wrote it all down here. I can’t tell you how grateful I am. What rotten luck, eh? We barely had a honeymoon before I was shipped out, and here I am, being shipped out again on my first furlough in six months, and I won’t even get to see her!”
The soldier—Jerry—was holding the picture again, and I took it this time, wanting to touch it. The woman in the photo smiled at me, just for me, her eyes saying the most delicious things.
“Here’s the twenty I promised you.” He pressed that into my hand too, but I didn’t pay much attention. I was still staring at the photo. “You tell her…tell her what happened. Tell her I got shipped out. She’ll have to get her ticket changed so she can turn right around and go home to her mother. I—” Something clicked in Jerry’s throat and I glanced up, seeing that look on his face again, like he was going to cry.
“That shouldn’t be a problem,” I said, holding fast to the photo as he reached for it. “I’ll help her. I promise.” He looked both confused at my refusal to let go of the picture and relieved at my willingness to help. “Listen, can I hang onto this? I’d hate to go up to the wrong girl and tell her that her guy’s been shipped back off to war…”
Jerry frowned, blinked, then slowly let go. “Sure. Sure, okay. But will you give it back to her, so she can mail it to me? It’s the only one I have.”
That made me wince with guilt, but I didn’t change my mind. “Of course.” I slipped the twenty, the picture, and the slip of paper into my pocket next to the ration book. “I’m really sorry this happened to you.” That was true but I felt like I shouldn’t have said it. I actually saw tears brimming in his eyes and this time, I did look away, glancing up at the clock. “What time are you shipping out?”
“That reminds me.” I pretended not to notice him wiping at his eyes with the back of his hand as he reached into his coat pocket with the other. “Will you give her this?” He handed me an envelope. It had her name on it—Naomi. I thought I’d never heard such a beautiful, exotic name and I said it in my head, savoring the flavor. Naomi. Naomi. “Tell her…tell her…” He gripped my arm, squeezing. “I love her. And please, take…take good care of her for me.”
I nodded, flashing suddenly to the moment my father had left, his eyes grave. “You’re the man of the house now, Patrick.” Now two women had been entrusted to my care.
“You can count on me.” I said it with as much conviction as I could muster, and it seemed to satisfy Jerry. He nodded, giving me a short salute before turning to go. It was a strange but poignant gesture, and for some reason, it made my chest burn.
“Can I ask you something?” He turned back for a moment, his gaze sweeping over me, and I knew what he was looking for—some sort of deformity, some logical reason a seemingly able-bodied man wasn’t wearing a uniform, like he was.
“I was born in Canada.” I’d explained this fact a hundred times, a thousand. “Uncle Sam says I have to be a U.S. citizen to go to war.”
He nodded. “Well, I’m glad. I’m glad you’re here. I know you’ll take good care of Naomi for me.”
I agreed I would, and then he shook my hand, thanked me again, and was gone, weaving his way through the crowd and pushing out through the glass doors. I saw it was starting to snow, my wish coming true, although I didn’t even know if I was going to make it to stand in line for our weekly rations at this rate.
I killed the hour and a half waiting for Naomi’s bus by sitting on a bench in the cold and warming myself by looking at her picture. I was under an overhang, and the snow was falling in fat, drifting flakes, but I didn’t pay much attention to it. Instead, I memorized her face, every soft curve, gentle slope and delicate line. What did her voice sound like? Her laugh? How did she look when she was happy? Excited? Sad?
That last, I had a feeling I was going to get the chance to see, and I didn’t relish the thought. I could sit and moon and fantasize about this beautiful girl, but the reality was she was married, and her husband had entrusted me to tell her some horrible news, something that was likely to make her cry. That made my stomach lurch, and I stood in front of the bench, glancing at the clock and beginning to pace.
Up until that moment, I’d been so transfixed with the thought of meeting the beauty in the picture, I hadn’t fully considered the weight of my message to her. We all lived our lives now with some measure of anxiety, like a constant hum in our ears, the possibility of disappointment, depravation, destruction, even death, around us all time. I didn’t want to be the one to drop the bomb on this poor young girl’s hopes, but I had volunteered. I’d taken the money, the information, the photo. I felt suddenly like I’d made a deal with some devil.
It was then that the bus showed up, right on time. Of course. Greyhound always ran late, but this one had to be right on time. I knew they’d cut their schedule because of gas rationing, and there were only eight busses a day now. This was number seven. I stood, filled with a sick anticipation, glancing at the photo again before tucking it into my coat pocket to watch the steady stream of people coming off the bus.
I saw bus riders every day, and there was always one thing they had in common—they looked tired. Everyone who came off a bus looked as if they’d been put through my stepmother’s wringer, some of them twice. To me, they looked like people who had been going to their worst fate, who had resigned themselves to it, only to be reprieved at the eleventh hour. Most came off the bus and breathed as if they’d never had air in their lungs before.