MY SISTER JEAN
Chapter 12 -- Surprise Under the Pillow
After our last near-hit-near-miss encounter, my sister
and I had almost no time to consider our lives much less our
sexual attraction. The demands of school and our otherwise
busy social lives grabbed all our energy and attention. The
glances and poignant smiles served to remind us frequently
of the pull we'd come to acknowledge but our natural
cautiousness coupled with our jam-packed lives served to
buffer our lusty appetites. Yet we had opened a door of
intimacy that was never to close for all the days of our
lives. In a dozen small ways, we were more affectionately
connected, open and trusting than we even knew.
Our mother, sensitive to the moods in our family, had
not failed to notice that our one-time sibling abrasiveness
and competitiveness had given way to a softer connection. I
suspect she was relieved. I wondered if she might see
anything beyond the surface. She did so often.
Pouring orange juice one morning at breakfast, Mom
commented, "I want to tell you kids that it's so much more
peaceful around here since you two became friends. My
brother Jim and I did the same thing when we were about your
age."
The same thing. What'd she mean?
Mom chatted on about her teenage life. Jean and I
looked at each other, then she glanced at Mom and, looking
again at me, raised an eyebrow as if to ask, "Do you suppose
Mom and...?"
For a moment I was shocked. Mom? Then remembering the
lusty sounds we sometimes heard coming from my parent's
bedroom, I smiled to myself. Jean and I had then decided
that our parents probably had done "it" more than twice.
Shrugging my mental shoulders, I thought, "Why not?"
Returning to the present, I became more aware of my
mother, of her dress. She was wearing a light robe and
several times as she was gesturing I'd seen her breasts move
under it. I thought, "Christ, Billy, you are a real perv.
Your own mother!"
In a silent mime, Jean's eyes opened in astonishment
and she put her finger tips across the surprised "Oh" of her
open mouth...just as Mom looked up.
"What?" Mom asked.
Quick to recover, Jean replied, "Oh, I just remembered
that I forgot my French book at school."
Jumping in, attempting to divert Mom's attention, I
asked, "Did you and your brother fight a lot, Mom?" I
wasn't interested in their fighting as much as the
possibility of their connection. Not that I expected she'd
tell us much, but perhaps we could beat around the bushes a
little.
Laughing, she remembered, "Sure. Just like most
brothers and sisters I guess -- but you know, we really
loved each other."
Jean and I looked at each other again. You know, that
silent "look" that says, "Hmmmm." Then I looked at Mom's
breasts. Jean glanced at Mom and then slowly shook her head
in silent remonstration.
Continuing, Mom added, "You know your Uncle Jim. He's
a strong, take-charge kinda guy now, but he was a little
younger than me when we were kids. Still is for that
matter. Why, there was a time when I could beat him up."
Then, looking off into some unfocused middle distance, she
shook her head and added ruefully, "That didn't last long.
He grew up fast!"
Jean snorted her juice through her nose, remembering, I
supposed, the play on words we'd often used, about my
"growing UP." Picking up her napkin, she dabbed her face
and fake sneezed to cover her embarrassment. "And then what
happened?" she asked.
"Oh, you know. I used to bully him and then he grew
up, more than just physically. He matured and became a man,
like over night, and then he started to tease me, even
though he was younger."
"Did it bother you? That change I mean?" I asked,
thinking of how my relationship with Jean had changed in a
similar way and wondering just what *had* gone on in Mom's
younger life. The truth was, I'd ceased to think of her as
a chaste, puritanical person sometime ago. I *knew* she was
sexual with our Dad but I suppose I thought he had been the
first and the last, her only. That limited view of my
mother's humanness was slowly giving way to a more realistic
acceptance of her as she probably was. The thing was, I
didn't know how she *was*. I was more than casually
interested...more than I wanted to admit to myself.
Mom continued, "Well, at the time I didn't want your
Uncle Jim to know, but secretly, I was pleased. I mean, he
was so strong and so smart. He could just *fix* things and
he began to take care of me. I liked that." She paused,
buttering her toast. "Once there was this guy -- a real
jerk, obnoxious and mean, who was always teasing the girls
-- saying dirty things about them. Well, this guy said
something about me once -- in front of a bunch of guys --
something dirty I think. Jim heard about it and walked
right up to the guy -- who was bigger than him by the way --
and said, Don't *ever* talk about my sister,' and without
another word, smashed him right in the nose."
Jean gasped, "Really, Mom? Uncle Jim?"
"Yep. I was there. Saw it all. The guy fell back.
He grabbed his nose. It was bleeding all over the place. He
was crying and saying he was going to kill my brother. Jim
walked up to him again and again, without another word,
punched him right in the stomach. Down he went. Stayed
there too, cryin', slobberin' and cursin'. But he didn't
get up. Your uncle said, Yeah, yeah. You'll *shit* too, if
you're well fed. Get up if you want some more, asshole.'"
Then hearing the words of her own account, Mom reddened
and glancing at us, added, "Oops. Pardon my French."
"Far out," I said, even more impressed with my uncle.
"Oh, my...I never heard that story," said Jean.
"That's really something." And then turning to me with a
smile, she asked, "Would you fight for me, little brother?"
"I guess. I mean, I *might*," and then turning to Mom
added, "If she wasn't so darn strong and mean already!"
Jean threw her napkin at me and yelled, "You shit! I
am not! MOM, make him stop!"
Covering my head with one arm, I held up the peace sign
with the other hand and quickly said, "Sor-ry. Didn't mean
it. Honest. Peace. Peace?" Then, turning to my mother, I
added in a stage whisper, "She's cute when she's mad, isn't
she?"
Mom leaned back in her chair and folded her hands in
her lap. Her eyes and voice softened. "You two remind me
*so* much of me and Jim, I can't get over it." Her nipples
were poking through her robe. I tried not to stare. I
failed.
The voice in my head asked, "Did you and Uncle Jim fool
around, Mom?" But the voice that came *out* of my head
asked, "You guys ever double date, Mom?"
She smiled that special smile of remembrance. "Sure.
Lots. We'd share all our stuff with each other. He always
had an opinion of the guys who'd ask me out. Some were okay
and some were not. And he'd always ask me about the girls
*he* dated. Things like..." and then she suddenly stopped
talking, seemingly embarrassed.
Stepping into the embarrassed silence, I said, "That
hasn't changed. If it wasn't for *my* wise counsel, Jean'd
date some real weirdos, I can tell you that."
Jean surprised me, for she didn't argue. "Yeah, Billy
knows a lot about the guys that I don't...that girls don't
in general." Turning to me, she added, "I appreciate your
caring, Bro."
Jean was picking up on the direction this was taking.
We worked well together that way. But we knew Mom was no
patsy and we didn't want to be too obvious. We just knew
she'd shut up like a clam if she picked up on what was in
our heads -- my head anyway.
"Mom, could you talk to Uncle Jim about...uh...about
your feelings and..." she finished lamely, "and...things?"
Mom, sensing Jean's discomfort, forgot her own and laid
a hand on her arm. "Sure, baby. We could talk about
everything. That's why it was so special."
Uncertainly, Jean asked, "Really? Everything?"
Glancing at me a moment, Mom answered Jean, "Yep,
everything."
"Even sex?" I asked, trying not to sound too eager yet
knowing I was edging into new ground.
Mom hesitated. I could tell that she felt she'd been
accidentally pulled into this self revelation but couldn't
cop out now. "Yes. Even that." Then, putting her napkin
on the table with a gesture of firmness, she leaned forward
a bit and added, "Sometimes, *especially* that. I mean, if
you can't talk to your own brother..." and then she made a
dismissive gesture with her hand and looked upward, as if
for confirmation from above.
"Yeah," I agreed.
"Yeah," Jean echoed, "Your own brother..." and then she
tailed off, not quite sure just what she was agreeing with.
She looked at me and wrinkled her nose as she cocked her
head...her sign language that asks, What are we talking
about, anyway?'
"Sex, Jean. We're talking about sex. Remember?"
Mom, suddenly seeing our discordant thinking, threw her
head back and laughed. "You two..." she began and then
wiped a laugh tear from her eye, "you two are like Abbot and
Costello."
"Who" I asked.
"Who's on first," Jean prompted.
"What's on second, " Mom continued and they both
laughed at each other. At my expense, I was certain.
"Come on, ladies. What is this, geriatric week? We
were talking about sex, remember? How'd we start talkin'
about baseball of all things?"
Placing her hand on my arm, Mom said, "I'm sorry,
Billy. You guys started it. You just got me giggling. I'm
a little embarrassed, you know. I'm not used to talking,
well...so frankly with you two." And then, as if to cope
with her uncomfortable position, she added quickly,
"Anyway...anyway, I must go down to the 'flatlands'." This
was our name for any part of the surrounding area not in the
foothills where we lived.
This conversation was over I knew, at least for now. I
was disappointed and relieved at the same time. On the one
hand, it was kind of thrilling to hear something of our
Mom's early life, but on the other, it was so foreign as to
be strange and a little uncomfortable. We were just becoming
comfortable with our own sexuality. Considering Mom's was
almost too great a stretch.
Dabbing her lips again, Jean started to get up and then
paused, looking at Mom. "Remember I said I was going to
stay with Aunt Peg sometime?" Without waiting for a reply,
she went on, "Well, she's invited me over for tonight. It's
okay for me to go over, isn't it?"
Moving toward the kitchen door and hardly pausing, Mom
answered, almost absently, "Sure, baby. Say hello for me,
won't you?" And then she was gone.
"Oh crap!" I grumped with no little disappointment. "I
was looking forward to us watching a movie or something. We
haven't spent *any* time together. We never even talk any
more." My tone was almost petulant.
Jean was unmoved. Laughing, she said, "Oh Billy, don't
worry. We'll talk again...promise. In fact, I'll call you
tonight from Aunt Peg's house. About eleven?"
A phone call wasn't what I had in mind, but it was
clear that was all I was going to get, so I tried on a
little gracious acceptance. I tried, but it didn't fit
well.
Jean left a short while later and I moped around,
trying to stay busy. The late morning and afternoon were
taken up with self-appointed chores that helped me stay out
of a dangerous place, my mind. Years later someone was to
tell me, "Bill, *your* mind should be used for amusement
purposes only."
Still, I spent the early evening feeling sorry for
myself, convinced that I was unloved and largely unlovable.
I've always been struck by my capacity to move from joy one
moment to self-pity the next. When I'm in a good place,
those extremes amuse me, but when I'm in some self-centered
dark hole perched firmly on the pity pot, it seems decidedly
not funny. Moreover, I am quick to assume that not only is
it a bad situation, but that I'll be stuck there forever.
No half measures in my thinking!
Holing up in my room, I put on an Enya CD and sank into
the luxuriant and mystical sounds that reminded me so much
of Jean. Enya's lyrics, woven into the tapestry of her
sound, washed over me:
"If only I could stay with you, my train moves on,
you're gone from view,..."
Whatever loving and aesthetic side I might have had,
the side that loved the *spirit* of Jean, was simply pushed
aside by the power of my erotic imagery. Somehow, fueled
and driven by the haunting melodies of Enya, I sank into the
sensual torpor of my reminiscence.
If I had thought my images might somehow be visible to
others, I'd have been embarrassed. But safe within that
secret place in my mind, I reveled in the richness of my
erotic recall. As if etched in stone, the picture of Jean,
standing with her back to me, flashing her pantied butt,
came and went as a subliminal image. The curve of her back,
the soft roundness of her womanly hips, the dimples above
her gluteal muscles and the shadowed nether regions where
the thin strap of her panties cupped her mons...these mental
pictures rolled through the interstices of "Shepherd Moons."
The one time I'd had the opportunity to *really* look
at Jean's nude body, it had registered and imprinted in my
memory with extraordinary detail. The filtered afternoon
light in her bedroom had slanted across her torso, seeming
to pronounce and deepen the natural shadows. Her breasts
were somehow fuller, heavier, the nipples even more
prominent. Refracting the already diffused light, the almost
invisible, downy hairs on her belly were highlighted and
became a penumbral shadow above the soft, curly down of her
pubic hair. Without the jutting prominence of a pubic
ledge, her belly curved smoothly in a soft arc to the
darkened region between her thighs. In my mind's eye, I
could see that her rich auburn pubic hair, while not
extensive, was thick and full and curly. I knew what was
hidden there, between her long, slender thighs. I'd seen it
once, close up as she had urinated on a dusty Sierra trail,
facing me, in broad daylight. My mind's images flashed back
and forth as a lens snaps into near- and then far-focus.
First one. Then the other.
I was delighted and tormented and excited, all at once.
We'd agreed we would have a "limited sexual connection."
We'd abandoned any pretense that we weren't attracted to
each other, but under the lash of our own sense of propriety
and some nameless fear of doing wrong, we'd agreed that
whatever else we did, we wouldn't go all the way. Yet, that
remained so tantalizingly ill-defined. Hanging in that
ether of vague boundaries, I found myself almost agitated
with desire.
The hours passed, despite my intolerance for delayed
gratification. A few minutes before 11 P.M. Jean called.
"Hi, dude! Miss me?"
"Naw," I lied, "I forgot all about you. What's up,
woman?"
Her laughter picked me up. "You lyin' sack a'....Your
nose is growing!"
"That's not all that's growin'."
"Well, big boy," she began in her Mae West imitation,
"if you'll check under your pillow, we'll see if we can help
it grow a little more."
"What..." I began. But she interjected: "I left you a
little present. Check it out and I'll call you back in a
little while." Click. The line went dead.
Still holding the dead phone to my ear, I pushed up and
turned back, looking under my pillow. There was a pair of
Jean's panties. They'd been worn. Under them was a note.