"Oh God," James sighed, collapsing into Michael's arms. It was a long time before Michael could speak.
"That was real," he said at last.
"Yes."
"We came at the same time."
"I didn't think it was possible," James admitted. He kissed Michael then, long and wet, his missing teeth occurring to him only as an afterthought. "You really don't mind?"
Michael was confused.
"How I look," James said, pointing toward his mouth.
"Of course not. I love you," Michael said, fingers in James's hair and kissing him hard. But after that they soon parted, Michael getting dressed again to ride the tube to Brixton, James taking refuge in his small bedroom, each pretending the words had never been said at all.
***
The rest of the week was nice. Michael enjoyed leaving Frannie each morning, supposedly to go to his office, only to turn up at his flat and work from there. James was invested in his literacy program, spending three hours a day in class and the rest of the time trying to make sense of his homework. Michael didn't interfere or offer advice. He didn't know much about dyslexia, but he knew the sort of reading encouragement he'd once offered Edward and Viv would be completely inappropriate, even counterproductive, to an adult learner. So he worked until four or so, they had dinner together, watched movies and fucked. Then Michael took the tube home. Except on Friday, when they fucked midafternoon, because at four o'clock Michael was due to head back to Brixton for the weekend.
"Maybe I'll come out there and take a walk round the park," James teased.
"Please don't. God only knows how many other repressed family men stalk that place at night."
"Not sure you really qualify as repressed anymore." James lifted onto his toes to kiss Michael's lips. His normally pale skin was still rosy with a post-orgasm flush. Seeing it made Michael want to tear off his clothes and steer James right back to the bedroom. But Frannie seemed increasingly suspicious. If Michael didn't turn up for dinner on time, there was sure to be a confrontation.
Michael arrived home in a good mood, sat down in the kitchen to await his supper and achieved a state of irritation in less than five minutes. Frannie always wanted him to sit down at the table and listen to her daily monologue—terrible queues at the grocer's, outrageous things her friends said, upcoming TV programs she was sure to enjoy. The kids were also required to be present, at least within earshot in the living room.
Edward was sprawled on the sofa texting a mate. He looked more like Michael with every passing year. There were even glimmers of ginger in Edward's hair, though his adoring mother pretended not to notice. Pretty Viv was on the computer, her attention wavering between Facebook and the telly.
"I feel sorry for Freddie and Sharon. He's retired now and doesn't know what to do with himself," Frannie said, giving the sauce a taste. "And Sharon's finally found a good GP to help with the fibromyalgia and the chronic fatigue. She wants to get back in the game and enjoy her grandchildren."
"She has no grandchildren," Michael said.
Frannie shot him a look. "Oh, for heaven's sake, Sharon's been married to Freddie for almost thirty years. You're just being pedantic."
"Sharon is no relation to me, Edward or Viv." Michael fought to keep his voice level, especially since the kids were listening. "We've talked about this, Frannie."
"She's your father's wife. Whatever grudges you've held against her since childhood, it's high time you gave them up. I still can't believe you didn't invite them to our wedding or send birth announcements when the kids were born. If Sharon hadn't found me online, I suppose the estrangement would have gone on forever, and it's ridiculous. I'm tired of making excuses for why we never ask them round."
"No need for excuses. Tell them I said they're not welcome."
Frannie took the sauce off the cooker and dumped the pasta in a colander. "I've been a good little peacemaker for a long time, picking out Christmas and birthday cards and signing your name, but I'm done. Sharon's quite nice and mad to get you and your father talking again. So I took the first step. I went round to see them today."
The same sensation Michael felt in Peter's office was rising against, faster and wider in scope. He couldn't locate the words to answer.
Frannie transferred the pasta into a bowl and carried it to the table. Four places were already set with the Maguires' second-best china and silver. The crystal water glasses gleamed. Sometimes Frannie had wine and the kids had milk, but Michael always drank plain water.
"Freddie didn't have much to say. Just sat in a chair working his crossword, nodding and smiling. But he's quite the gardener. I went out back to admire," Frannie said, pouring the sauce into a separate bowl as the oven timer dinged. "There's the bread." She drew out two halves of a French loaf, each covered with melted butter and garlic. "But Sharon talked and talked like she was starved for attention. Made a fuss over Viv's lovely blonde hair."
Michael had been staring at his distorted face in the water glass, thinking he looked like an alien, a bad imitation of a human being. Suddenly he turned in his chair, reflection forgotten. "You took the kids?"
"Of course." Frannie shot him another look. "That was really the point, wasn't it? Viv! Our visit was nice, wasn't it? You liked Gran and Grandpa, didn't you?"
Viv shrugged, flashed a smile and went back to Facebook.
"I didn't like them," Edward said, not looking up from his phone.
Something inside Michael stopped. He felt nothing, or everything. He had no idea which. "Why?" he asked.
"I suppose the old man's okay." Edward's green eyes flicked up to meet Michael's. "But Sharon's weird."
During dinner Frannie attempted to drive the conversation like she always did, raising topics and calling on each of them by name to comment. This time, Michael ignored her so pointedly she became flustered. The kids gave one another quick glances and the meal finished in absolute silence.
Michael was sitting on Edward's bed when the boy finished his pre-bedtime shower. One towel slung around his narrow hips and another over his shoulders, Edward entered humming and almost jumped out of his towel when he saw Michael.
"Christ! Dad! Little warning next time!"
"Sorry." Michael stood up. "I don't mean to ambush you. But I need to ask you something, and you have to tell me the truth. The absolute truth." He paused, holding Edward's gaze, trying to drill that imperative into his son's head. "You called Sharon weird. Why?"
Edward grimaced. "I asked her where the loo was. She told me. I went in for a piss and she walked in while I was finishing. I mean, there was no lock on the door, but she knew I was in there." Edward shook his head. "And anyone else would have been all, blimey, sorry love, and ducked out again, but she stayed right there as I turned my back and zipped up. Then she said..." He stopped.
"Said what?"
Edward rolled his eyes. "Said I was big for my age. It was just weird. Maybe I should take it as a compliment. Maybe most guys would like to be told—"
"No," Michael said. "It wasn't a compliment. And most guys would feel exactly the way you did. Revolted." Michael thought he was completely calm, well controlled, but he must have hit a false note because his son placed gentle fingers on his forearm.
"Dad. I'm okay. I just don't want to visit her again."
"You won't have to. I promise." Impulsively Michael gathered Edward in his arms and held him tight. "If anyone ever tries to hurt you, you have to tell me. Right away. Don't wait."
"I know." Edward pulled back. "But, Dad. Are you sure you're okay?"
"Fine." Michael forced his mouth into an approximation of a smile. Then he went to his office, locked the door and ignored Frannie until she went away for the night.
***
Michael never really slept that night, just dozed. Usually he refused to let his thoughts track backward, but after what Edward had told him, resisting the memories was impossible.
Michael's father, Freddie Maguire, had married Sharon when Michael was six. From the start Michael found his stepmother both mentally and physically intimidating. Freddie was rather short, only five six, and slim as a whip. He had a thing for taller women—Michael's mum had been almost six feet tall—and Sharon, at six one, was right up Freddie's alley. She was huge, not so much fat as massive—broad shoulders, thick arms, thighs like tree trunks. Her voice was deep, her laugh obnoxious, her gaze sharp and knowing.
Even in his preteen years, Michael feared Sharon. Often she drank too much and hounded Freddie from morning to night. But every so often she trundled down to the Baptist church, got saved and cleared the house of alcohol, trashy novels and pulp magazines. Michael rather liked Sharon's religious stretches, even if he found himself rousted out of bed each Sunday morning. When Sharon was right with the Lord, she rarely cursed and never hit. She even had her fags outside on the porch, since she and the Lord had yet to occupy the same page when it came to nicotine. All in all, her religious periods were pleasant intervals until the day she caught thirteen-year-old Michael hunched over the toilet, masturbating.
"I knew it!" Sharon had put on a show of disgust, but those sharp eyes, always rimmed in pale blue eyeliner, had gleamed with a different emotion. Michael hadn't even paused to zip up. He'd just pushed past her, fled to his room and locked the door. Sharon had pounded on it, promising dire consequences if Michael didn't let her in, but he'd stayed in bed with a pillow over his face, wondering if she'd been listening at the bathroom door. She'd burst in just as he ejaculated. Humiliated to the marrow, Michael had wept quietly, unable to imagine anything worse.
Next day, he'd come home from school to find all the locks off the house's inner doors. Sharon had gone round with a screwdriver and removed them all. Except for his bedroom. In that case, the door itself was gone. She'd taken it off its hinges.
Michael, by then accustomed to Sharon's scorched-earth approach, wasn't surprised to also find three church pamphlets on his bed. One was about God's plan for human sexuality. Another was about using prayer to overcome bad habits. The last was a story about a boy who masturbated so much he fell into drink, drugs, free love and suicide. It ended with the boy burning in Hell, which even thirteen-year-old Michael found an excessive punishment for wanking.
After catching him masturbating, Sharon began making unannounced loo inspections. Twice she peeked in through the shower curtain and almost startled him to death. Another time she surprised him while he was sitting on the toilet. Michael started planning his showers around her favorite TV shows. He relied on public toilets whenever possible. At first he'd been relieved, almost grateful, that Sharon hadn't told Freddie about what she'd seen. Then, gradually, Michael began wishing his quiet, peace-loving father would take his eyes off the crossword long enough to notice Sharon's harassment. Michael's father was demonstrative to him in ways Sharon derided, quick with a hug for Michael or a kiss on the forehead. Freddie put on his best suit for all of Michael's school events, clapping loudest when Michael earned a ribbon or certificate. Every goodbye ended with, "Love you, son." Yet when it came to Sharon's new obsession with Michael, Freddie seemed completely unaware.
Finally Sharon's walk with the Lord once again went on hiatus. Crown Royal reappeared in the kitchen. Fags were smoked indoors. She dragged in a pile of well-thumbed paperback romances and read one a day.
Then one night Michael woke to find Sharon sitting beside him on his bed.
"You're so big for your age," she said. "Bigger than your dad. That's why you can't keep your hands off it. You have a man's cock."
Rooting around under the covers, she'd found his shorts and yanked them down, exposing him. Michael had cried out and Sharon slapped him so hard he saw lights.
"You have no door. Your father is just down the hall," she whispered in Michael's ear, smelling of her favorite combination: Crown Royal and Coca-Cola. "If you wake him and he sees this, it will kill him. Do you want to kill your old dad?"
Too shocked to cry, Michael had shaken his head. When Sharon started stroking him, he pressed his hand in his mouth and closed his eyes. It was over in a few seconds—the humiliation was almost unbearable, she'd seen him come twice now—but to his surprise she started stroking him again, and before long he was as hard as before.
After awhile she stopped. Daring to open his eyes, Michael saw Sharon pull off her top and unfasten her white bra. Her breasts were huge, torpedo-shaped, nipples pointing at her waist. Then off came the rest of her clothes. Beneath the roles of belly fat her vulva was thick with dark hair. Michael closed his eyes again, sure this was only a nightmare, that it couldn't be happening. When her vagina enveloped him, he bit his hand again. That was the worst part, how good it felt, even if seeing her naked made him want to vomit. She rocked a little and he couldn't stop himself from coming inside her.
"And that, little boy, is how men fuck," she'd slurred, kissing him and wiping away his tears.
It went on like that, on and off, for three years. When Sharon was right with the Lord, she didn't visit him, though she still monitored his loo activities closely. When she and the Lord were at odds, Michael never knew when he'd wake to find Sharon naked and wet with anticipation. Skinny as he was, she continued to overpower him easily even when he finally equaled her in height. It always happened the same way. She stroked him till he was hard, then rode him. Sometimes she kissed him afterward, which he hated more than anything. Quite often it led to slaps because he wouldn't kiss back.
"Don't play coy," Sharon huffed, infuriated. "If you didn't enjoy it, you wouldn't come off like a firecracker every time. You want it worse than I do. Men can't be raped. Their peckers only pop up when they're game."
He'd tortured himself wondering if she were right. He hated her, he hated the visits, he hated himself for coming. Yet from a purely physical standpoint, being ridden by Sharon always brought on orgasm. One night she was bobbing up and down, lips pressed together even as Michael stifled an involuntary moan with his hand. As his gaze shifted from the cracked ceiling to the doorway, he saw his father standing there, watching.