Beyond Nostalgia by Tom Winton Read Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Tom Winton
whispered to her that this wasn't going to be any big deal, to relax.
Still, she looked so grave in the dim light, like a war-weary soldier preparing once again to do battle. Without saying anything, she emptied the ashtray for me then came back and took the wine glasses into the kitchen.
Tapping a long ash off my cigarette, I said sure, when she asked from the kitchen if I wanted a Coke. I heard her open the refrigerator and then her mother's cough as she stepped from the bathroom into the kitchen.
"Where the hell you been?" her rough voice demanded to know, her speech loud, deceitful, wobbly from drink.
The music on the stereo ended. The sax quit its weary moaning. There were two clicks as the music machine shut itself off. The place became dead quiet. Then I heard Theresa whisper a desperate plea, "Shhh, please, Mom. Dean's in the living room … I don't want to fight now."
"Who the hell is Dean?" Mrs. Wayman asked in a mildly interested tone. The fridge opened again and I heard a whooshhh as she pulled the tab from a can of beer. "Shhhit, Goddamned beer all over my hand."
"Here's the dishtowel, Mom, wipe it off."
"Who's … who's this Dave character?
"Dean, Mom … Dean Cassidy. He's the boy I told you about."
"Oh yeah, I think I remember now. Well, let's get a look at him, see what you got."
"Please, Mom. He's very special to me."
A moment later they appeared side by side in the archway. From where I sat in the dim living room, the bright light from the kitchen behind them, they looked like cloned silhouettes. About the same height, Theresa maybe a wee bit shorter. Both of them slim with good curves in the same places. But Mrs. Wayman was thinner, too thin, bordering on skinny. Nevertheless, at a distant glance, you'd swear they were sisters.
"Mom, I'd like you to meet Dean." She beamed when she said my name, then completed the introduction gesturing with a nervous hand, "Dean, this is my mom."
I rose from the sofa, tucking in the tail of my shirt as I stepped across the narrow room, then clumsily extended my hand, "How do you do … Mrs. Wayman?"
"Whooa, honey … " she said to Theresa as she switched her Pabst to her left hand then took my right, " … this here's a good one!" Her thin hand was cold and still damp from the spilled beer. I felt awkward shaking it and weirder yet when she wouldn't release it. Closer to her now, I noticed her body was rocking slightly, a slow, rhythmic shift of her weight from her heels to her toes and back again. She was pretty well snockered.
Nevertheless, she was undeniably Theresa's mother. Face-to-face with her, I could see their likenesses went far beyond just stature. She had passed on to Theresa a dark, subtle, exotic beauty, and skin pigment, that could only have originated somewhere along the shores of the Mediterranean, the same place her surname originated, a name that surely ended in a, o, or some other vowel.
She may have relinquished that name, whatever it was, for 'Wayman' but her physical traits had easily dominated those of her fair-haired, fair-skinned English husband when Theresa was conceived. Looking at her face now, was like looking at Theresa's template. She had also passed on to her daughter her dark intriguing eyes, though her own had settled deeper within their sockets. Webs of thin lines networked from her temples despite her efforts to hide them with heavy make-up. Like her daughter's black hair, hers hung long, but it wasn't as thick or as lustrous, and more than a few contrasting gray strands were clearly visible.
Mrs. Wayman inspected me, up and down very slowly and, while she did, her cherry-red lips pulled tight into a vixen's smile. She said to Theresa, "If you don't want `im, Terry, I'll take `im."
Again, her gaze swept slowly down the front of my body but this time it rested just below the buckle of my madras belt. She acted as if she and I
Still, she looked so grave in the dim light, like a war-weary soldier preparing once again to do battle. Without saying anything, she emptied the ashtray for me then came back and took the wine glasses into the kitchen.
Tapping a long ash off my cigarette, I said sure, when she asked from the kitchen if I wanted a Coke. I heard her open the refrigerator and then her mother's cough as she stepped from the bathroom into the kitchen.
"Where the hell you been?" her rough voice demanded to know, her speech loud, deceitful, wobbly from drink.
The music on the stereo ended. The sax quit its weary moaning. There were two clicks as the music machine shut itself off. The place became dead quiet. Then I heard Theresa whisper a desperate plea, "Shhh, please, Mom. Dean's in the living room … I don't want to fight now."
"Who the hell is Dean?" Mrs. Wayman asked in a mildly interested tone. The fridge opened again and I heard a whooshhh as she pulled the tab from a can of beer. "Shhhit, Goddamned beer all over my hand."
"Here's the dishtowel, Mom, wipe it off."
"Who's … who's this Dave character?
"Dean, Mom … Dean Cassidy. He's the boy I told you about."
"Oh yeah, I think I remember now. Well, let's get a look at him, see what you got."
"Please, Mom. He's very special to me."
A moment later they appeared side by side in the archway. From where I sat in the dim living room, the bright light from the kitchen behind them, they looked like cloned silhouettes. About the same height, Theresa maybe a wee bit shorter. Both of them slim with good curves in the same places. But Mrs. Wayman was thinner, too thin, bordering on skinny. Nevertheless, at a distant glance, you'd swear they were sisters.
"Mom, I'd like you to meet Dean." She beamed when she said my name, then completed the introduction gesturing with a nervous hand, "Dean, this is my mom."
I rose from the sofa, tucking in the tail of my shirt as I stepped across the narrow room, then clumsily extended my hand, "How do you do … Mrs. Wayman?"
"Whooa, honey … " she said to Theresa as she switched her Pabst to her left hand then took my right, " … this here's a good one!" Her thin hand was cold and still damp from the spilled beer. I felt awkward shaking it and weirder yet when she wouldn't release it. Closer to her now, I noticed her body was rocking slightly, a slow, rhythmic shift of her weight from her heels to her toes and back again. She was pretty well snockered.
Nevertheless, she was undeniably Theresa's mother. Face-to-face with her, I could see their likenesses went far beyond just stature. She had passed on to Theresa a dark, subtle, exotic beauty, and skin pigment, that could only have originated somewhere along the shores of the Mediterranean, the same place her surname originated, a name that surely ended in a, o, or some other vowel.
She may have relinquished that name, whatever it was, for 'Wayman' but her physical traits had easily dominated those of her fair-haired, fair-skinned English husband when Theresa was conceived. Looking at her face now, was like looking at Theresa's template. She had also passed on to her daughter her dark intriguing eyes, though her own had settled deeper within their sockets. Webs of thin lines networked from her temples despite her efforts to hide them with heavy make-up. Like her daughter's black hair, hers hung long, but it wasn't as thick or as lustrous, and more than a few contrasting gray strands were clearly visible.
Mrs. Wayman inspected me, up and down very slowly and, while she did, her cherry-red lips pulled tight into a vixen's smile. She said to Theresa, "If you don't want `im, Terry, I'll take `im."
Again, her gaze swept slowly down the front of my body but this time it rested just below the buckle of my madras belt. She acted as if she and I
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