Sebtomato
Letting Go
ONE
Maynard KY
Bobby rubs the back of his neck. It is slick with sweat. He’s a long way from home.
It’s one of the nicer houses he’s worked on. Driving into Maynard, he hadn’t thought much of the town. One horse, one stoplight.
But he can’t go home. You make your choices. You storm out, storm off and then you’re on your own, point made. He can’t go back.
He started in Bowling Green, Kentucky. Referrals, word-of-mouth about his attention to detail (his good Canadian manners) got him the attention of Mrs. Parker his biggest job so far; a new deck to go with her new house.
“I asked the ladies, who do you know that’s good with his hands and good with his manners, too. Your name came top of the list!”
Bobby had blushed, even on the phone. Praise from older woman had always had this effect on him; always left him wanting to be even better, to do whatever he was told, so he could wallow in their good graces.
He takes off his Redwings cap (from his Detroit pit-stop; he really needs something more attuned to his southern location, and besides, hockey? They don’t even know what that is here) long enough to run his hands through hair and wipe his face.
He can feel sweat trickle down his back, his chest, his legs. This is stupidly hot. He is 22 and in his prime, he is young, hot property, a little on the short side but so what? (he arrived for work in crisp white T-shirt and clean denim shortalls—he sensed the ladies peeking through the curtains as he strolled up the house) but come on, this is way too hot for carpentry.
Bobby peers through the back door window into the sparkling clean kitchen. Doesn’t Mrs. Turner cook?
Her body looks like she does. At least, she looks like she eats. A plump woman, told Bobby she was 48 years young (but doesn’t she look older at times, doesn’t she look just like she could be a grandma? This vibe is reinforced by her syrupy southern tones and sweet words of wide-eyed joy at the world) with breasts she’s not afraid to show off. A widowed nurse, she’s got money to burn on new houses and decks to go with them.
“Don’t need to work, not really, but what would I do all day, Bobby, if I didn’t have anyone to look after, hmm? I do a little babysitting on the side, but that wouldn’t ever be enough for me. I’m a full-timer, you know, I like to have responsibilities around the clock. Keeps me young.”
She had laughed and her chest had heaved with her giggles; the laughter of a younger woman and Bobby had known right away that this was a strong woman, a woman who knew her own mind. He’d met a few women like this in Kentucky, woman oozing with frilly femininity and southern hospitality, but they can be hard as his decking nails and screws if the situation warrants it. If you steal their parking space. If you play your ‘ghetto’ music too loud. He’d wondered at Mrs. Turner’s dead husband; had he been strong to match her or had he been a little mouse, a complementary little boy instead of a man, someone who adored and worshipped her.
Bobby turns away from the window (imagine being caught gawking inside like that, like an orphan pressing his nose against the window of a family home). What does he expect, that she’s going to leave an apple pie cooling on the window sill? That she’s going to invite him in for a slice and a glass of chocolate milk? He has a sudden vision of her sitting him at the table, tying a bib around his neck and spoon-feeding him.
What a silly idea.
The house is brand, spanking new. A property that fills the gap between two existing homes in Tennyson Drive.
The name of an English poet, Bobby knows that. Charge for the guns and all that. How did Lord Alfred Tennyson make his way to Kentucky? His name, at least? Maybe the same way as Bobby. Perhaps in a door-slamming, cell phone disconnecting burst for independence from those determined to protect and control him.
Bobby is without family here, he is completely remade. No one to tell him what to do, what to be.
And for six weeks, what bliss, to be anyone he wants.
But truth be told, you take your baggage with you. We all reveal ourselves, our inner selves, eventually.
TWO
The truck is huge. It’s a perfect size for Kentucky. A battered but reliable F-350, plenty of room for Bobby’s tools. Four trips to and from Lowe’s and the lumber is in place. Ready to assemble, ready to hammer and drill.
Bobby surveys his decking progress and then makes his next trip back to his red Coleman 16-quart cooler for a drink. The bag of ice he’d bought from Kroger the night before has stayed true and kept his Gatorade tightly chilled.
“Sun’s no problem, Mrs. Turner.”
It’s 97 degrees in the shade, with a RealFeel of 104. It’s Kentucky at the beginning of August and the red wasps are in their prime (but don’t they seem pissed to be alive, don’t they seem to resent life itself?) and the cicadas are singing their high-pitched song from the land behind the property.
Scritch-scritch-scritch. Bobby sips his Gatorade, spies the empty bottles in the bed of the truck. He doesn’t chug, knows drinking this stuff too fast is a recipe for puking over the two-by-fours.
He sips, but he’s still getting through it and despite the blasting heat (too damn hot for this job, but he was keeping a promise) his bladder is sending urgent messages to his brain.
Rain Berry flavor. His favorite and now the name seems like a prayer, a plea for a cooling off, a dampening of his progress. If it rains, he can stop. That’s only sensible. He can throw a tarp over his work and hang inside the truck, ignoring the FM country radio (“They’d burn down this town, if they made matches from fears”) borrowing Mrs. Turner’s unsecured Wi-Fi on his phone (4G hasn’t come to Maynard, 4G isn’t talked about, but the old nurse’s connection is a treat.
Bobby can put in his ear-buds play with YouTube, he can take a blissful moment of relaxation as the rain patters his windshield. He has discovered the delectably titled Autonomous sensory meridian response. The girls (No, show some respect, the women) whisper to him, they talk so sweetly that they put him right to sleep, or at least in a delightful daze. And what has he found but a woman with a southern accent to rival anyone he’s met in Kentucky whose role-play videos include such soothing interludes as Putting Baby to Sleep and Nursing a Sick Child.
It brings back memories, some of which he came to Kentucky to get away from, but in truth hasn’t he always been dominated and treated like a little kid by his family, even his girlfriends? The whispered role-plays transport Bobby back to the simplest, gentlest of times. It transcends.
Bobby looks up to into the blue sky for just a moment, shielding his eyes against the elements. The blazing sun.
The Weather Channel app tells the story he can already see from the sky; no thunderstorms on the horizon. No pop-ups. He’s stuck out here. He’s going to roast.
The sun isn’t going anywhere. The sun has settled in for the day. Bobby wants to laugh out loud sometimes at the heat; what is the point, what’s the high reason for these numbers? In Canada he thought it got hot in the summer, but he’d been kidding himself all these years.
How can he be so hot and so eager for a bathroom at the same time?
He tosses the empty Gatorade bottle back into the truck bed, getting a plastic rattle and roll for his efforts. He closes the cooler and walks back around the garage.
THREE
If he was inside, it would be a cool sixty-eight degrees. Must cost Mrs. Turner a fortune but she likes it cool and crisp, like the nurse’s uniform he saw her wearing yesterday. (What does it feel like, to be her patient, to be at her sweet mercy?)
He looks over his progress, at the tools waiting for his renewed attention. He’s looking at six more hours before he can call it a day, before his efforts appear respectable, before the heat calms down but the mosquitoes move in, finding his slick skin irresistible. His blood must be delicious and unique; the locals don’t get eaten alive like he does.
Wasps are nothing by comparison; just watch where you’re putting your fingers and your ass, keep your gloves on. Same rule applies for the funky spiders he’s spied here, the Brown Recluse and the Black Widow. Both like to hide in dark spaces, liking nothing better than to lurk in crawl spaces or where Bobby needs to rootle around in a tool-box or a wood-pile.
The reward for staying until after dusk is the lightning bug. Fireflies aren’t just a delight missing from his own, cooler childhood; they’re also a clear signal for home-time.
Bobby taps his level against his palm and knows three things for sure:
One; it’s too damn hot.
Two; he needs to keep drinking fluids.
Three; he absolutely needs to take a leak.
Imagine how cool it will be inside! Maybe there is a pie, perhaps Mrs. Turner will invite him to stay with her in the sun room for an hour, keep her company as she watches her ‘stories’, General Hospital or Days of Our Lives. He can swap his Gatorade for a glass of sweet tea.
But now is not the time to be thinking of liquids.
He raps on the back door. Tap-tap-tap.
The servants entrance. No, that’s not fair; Mrs. Turner hasn’t made him feel anything but welcome.
Bobby waits for thirty seconds and then knocks again.
Nothing.
He could walk around to the front of the house, try the doorbell, but really, hadn’t she said, Don’t stand on ceremony, if you need to use the bathroom or the ice-maker, come on in.
She had said exactly those things.
Bobby opens the screen-door and finds the back door unlocked. He scuffs off his shoes and enters the kitchen.
The air conditioning feels chilly in comparison, starts to dry the sweat on his skin as soon as he walks inside.
The kitchen counters are spotless. No pies, no crumbs. She is a methodical woman, she likes order. That’s what makes her a good nurse, Bobby thinks, and then he blushes; he has no evidence as to whether she’s a good nurse or not. Just his imagination, running away.
“Mrs. Turner?”
He calls out at the exact same time the freezer produces a crash of fresh ice-cubes.
Bobby calls the name again, feeling shy, feeling like an intruder standing in his bare feet on the tiled floor.
Bare-footed like a toddler. And what about his shortalls? They make sense when he’s working, but just standing here, sweaty and desperate for the bathroom. He presses on his crotch; he must look like an overgrown little boy.
He takes off his cap, holds it at his side and then folds it into his back pocket.
Maybe she’s upstairs. Maybe she’s in the shower, or taking the most luxurious of bubble baths.
Bobby walks through the kitchen and through to the hallway. The house is huge, this is not the single-wide he’s currently renting.
Bobby checks a couple of rooms. What looks like a study or home office, with humming old desktop computer (he can imagine the old-fashioned questions that come with it—“It’s telling me to defragment the hard drive. Should I do that, Bobby, can you show me how?") and printer, and a filing cabinet and chaise lounge. A set of books on shelves, academic-looking and Bobby takes a couple of wasted seconds to see they’re mostly on pediatric medicine before his bladder reminds him; there’s no toilet in here, champ. Let’s go find that, hmm?
The dining room is empty, the dark mahogany table polished like a new pin. Does she entertain, does she use this impressive table more than once in a blue moon? She hadn’t struck him as the dinner party type, but sometimes he gets his first impressions wrong and now he flashes a thought of her entertaining friends from church (which church? Any denomination. Baptist, Methodist, it doesn’t matter, as long as you’re Protestant, as long as you have something to do on Sunday mornings. The question in Kentucky is not Do you go to church? but Have you found a church? Because you must be looking for one. You’re in the Bible Belt, after all.).
If he really thinks about it, Bobby can picture Mrs. Turner as evangelical. Yes, Bobby can see her having young missionaries for dinner, stuffing them with potato salad and pecan pie.
The bathroom? Shall we? Before you make a puddle on her shiny floor?
She’s in the living room, or the ‘sun room’ as she’d called it yesterday, promising to give him a tour of the house he hadn’t asked for or needed for his work.
“That won’t be necessary, thank you Ma’am,” he’d said (the “Ma’am” is important down here, essential, advice from his first landlady that had been worth gold). Now Bobby wishes he’d taken her up on the offer. How hard can it be to find the bathroom? In a house this big, there must be one on the ground floor.
If he wants to ask Mrs. Turner for directions now, he’ll have to wake her up.
No stories, no ABC or CBS.
Fast asleep, gently snoring, a paperback novel in her lap.
He clears his throat.
Mrs. Turner sleeps on. It’s going to take more than a polite cough to interrupt her dreams.
But is he really going to wake her up? He couldn’t find the bathroom himself? He’ll sound even utterly childish and he wouldn’t blame her for giving him an impatient nod and then taking his hand as she leads him to the bathroom, except she’ll call it the potty.
He can see her bra more than peeking out of her low-cut white dress. Yes, she needs a bra, she needs support because those breasts are mountains. She must complain about her sore back sometimes, but Bobby supposes those breasts must be an asset at work. Just standing here now, looking down at them, the rise and fall as Mrs. Turner sleeps, makes Bobby want to sit down beside her and put his head on her chest, to take the sweetest of naps along with her.
Hey, bathroom, remember? Keep your eyes on the prize, keep your head in the game. Think about Tennyson, think about anything other than the hot band pressing down on your inadequate bladder. Squeezing.
Forward the Light Brigade, Bobby thinks to himself. He should write his own poetry, something about his cursed small bladder and the laser piss he’s going to enjoy as soon as he can find the bathroom.
He stands in the hallway, looking up the stairs. If he finds her bedroom, there will surely be an en suite.
But it’s no good. He knows the danger signs. He’s wasted his buffer with that meandering tour of the first floor. He’s out of time, no seconds left to zip around the house looking for a bathroom. He’ll have to get outside, find a tree (in broad daylight) to relieve himself behind, which is what he might have done in the first place if the neighborhood didn’t seem to cry out, “Yes, there’s some land behind our houses, but this is not the part of town where people take a whizz against a tree.”
He gets as far as the back door, fumbling with the handle—it’s locked, there’s a latch, which way does it go? Who would design a door handle that works like this? So unfair! Tears of frustration and disbelief prick his eyes before he has a bigger wetness issue, something that, when he recognizes it has begun, has no reason to try and stop.
That’s a lot of pee, he thinks childishly as he wets himself. That’s a waterfall.
He is almost hypnotized by the growing wet patch on the crotch of his shortalls—why not just stand here forever, looking down at the puddle around your feet—what could be more fun than admiring the piss between your toes?—and despite everything, despite this surely being rock-bottom, a part of him can’t help feeling the relief of letting go, of giving up and giving in to the most basic of needs.
He can’t resist pressing on his crotch, smiling faintly despite everything at the squelch. That’s a silly thing to do. Silly, silly boy.
It’s only a moment. After that, relief is replaced by self-disgust and dismay. This is the opposite of professional, the other end of the spectrum from adult.
He feels the urine cool in his crotch and on his legs. The puddle on the floor smells; a dog would be chased outside for this, and Bobby can almost feel the sensation of a rolled up newspaper tapping his nose. A little boy would be scolded for this; and Bobby imagines, just for an instant, Mrs. Turner’s hand making increasingly stinging contact with his bare bottom.
No, that’s not who he is or wants to be. He has a new life, he has a reputation. He won’t give that up. He comes to his senses and looks up at the kitchen sink. He needs to clean this up. It’s floor tiles, not carpet, he can make this go away, he can-
The clucking sound behind him makes his shoulders hunch in response.
Just a cluck, just a tutting.
Bobby turns around, managing somehow to keep from slipping in his own mess, to find Mrs. Turner looking at him from the kitchen doorway, arms folded in front of her prodigious bosom.
FOUR
The humiliation is complete, the day and his job ruined. What’s the word-of-mouth now? He won’t just build your deck—he’ll piss on your floor too, and that’s included in the price!
Mrs. Turner is disgusted. The look on her face is enough to make Bobby want to dissolve into his own puddle. Life could end right now. If he had a lever to make that happen, he’d pull it in a heartbeat.
“I’m so sorry,” Bobby says. “I’ve got a really small bladder and I...” Really? Is he really going to try and explain this?
He trails off, looks down at the damning evidence and then back up at Mrs. Turner, his cheeks blazing. There are tears in his eyes; he might just start blubbering. Wouldn’t that just make this day perfect?
And that’s when the woman’s expression softens. She doesn’t look delighted but she’s a nurse, she’s see worse than this. She’s seen much, much worse.
“We need to get you cleaned up,” she says simply.
Bobby nods. “I know,” he says, grateful for the lack of cursing, for the absence of a speed-dialed call for help. “I’ll fix the mess,” he says.
Mrs. Turner walks around the kitchen island and takes a towel from beside the stove. “Dry your feet,” she says calmly, passing Bobby the towel, stopping short of the puddle. And then, “I don’t want pee-pee on my carpets.”
The childish term is distracting and it almost stops Bobby from considering the full impact of the woman’s comment.
Almost. Why is he going to walk on her carpet? Doesn’t she just want him to get in his truck and leave?
He dumbly examines the dish towel; it is decorated with a southern parody of the 12 days of Christmas. 5 golden hushpuppies. it’s way too adorable for the job. Still, he uses it to pat his feet and legs, steps out of the puddle.
“Thanks,” he says shyly. He holds the dish towel out as if Mrs. Turner was likely to take it with delight, but she doesn’t and Bobby’s hand falls back to his side.
“Bring that with you,” she says and she walks out of the kitchen.
Bobby stays rooted to the spot. It’s only when she turns, holds her hands out and raises an eyebrow that Bobby gets the message.
He follows her along the hall and upstairs and as envisaged, there is a generous en suite connected the master bedroom.
Mrs. Turner points to the corner by the sink and Bobby stands where directed. The woman returns with a laundry basket. “Towel,” she says simply, and Bobby tosses the Christmas dish towel (a gift from her kids? It occurs to Bobby that he knows nothing about the woman’s family aside from the late husband) in the basket.
“Clothes,” Mrs. Turner says.
“Excuse me?” Bobby asks dimly and then he blushes anew as he realizes the woman expects him to strip. “Um, I don’t have anything else to wear.” He looks to the bathroom door. “Look, I should just go, I—”
Mrs. Turner smiles. “You’re in no condition to go anywhere. You’re clearly not well.” She cocks her head at him. “What other reason is there for you peeing your pants like a two year old?”
Bobby didn’t know his cheeks could get any redder. “I’m so—”
“You had an accident,” Mrs. Turner says. “You’re not the first person I’ve met with a bladder issue.” She smiles at him. “I’m a nurse.” She rubs her chin. “Although I’m surprised you weren’t wearing protection. It’s clear you’re a very heavy wetter.”
Bobby shakes his head. “No, seriously, this was a...it’s never happened before!”
Mrs. Turner puts her hands on her hips. “I’m going to clean you up and wash your clothes. If you do as you’re told, then there’s no story to tell. If you misbehave, then I’ll have to let my neighbors know. They’re not used to such things and I couldn’t in all conscience keep it to myself.” She holds her hands up, shrugs. “Do we have a deal, young man?” My final offer. Take it or leave it.
And with that, Bobby remembers how he’d felt outside in the sun, imaging the neighbors seeing him, maybe the ladies enjoying him, wanting a piece. That earlier confidence was veneer thick and with Mrs. Turner’s words, her honeyed promise (threat?), the confidence breaks apart as if had been held together with old tape.
He takes a deep breath, something that threatens to turn into a hitching gulp. But he’s not going to cry, he’s not going to add fuel to the flames. Just take his medicine, get cleaned up. She’s seen worse, this is just an accident like she said.
“Well?” Mrs. Turner asks.
He nods. “Yes, ma’am,” he says softly.
“Good,” Mrs. Turner replies. And when Bobby doesn’t immediately start taking off his shortalls, she points at the straps and asks blandly, “Need some help?”
Bobby shakes his head vigorously, making the woman smile.
Bobby un-fastens the shoulder straps and lets his shortalls slide down, the bib front falling forward. He steps out of them and adds them to the laundry basket.
“Everything?”
“Lock, stock and barrel,” Mrs. Turner replies.
Bobby sighs and pulls off his T-shirt and then his wet briefs, adding them to the basket.
“Good job,” says Mrs. Turner and her voice is brighter now. She clearly likes being obeyed. “Lie down on the floor for me, sweetie.”
The name is nice but the direction is confusing.
Bobby frowns and Mrs. Turner makes one of her clucking sounds. “I’m gonna clean you up, remember?”
She wrings a pale green terry washcloth under warm water.
Bobby has a choice. He can resist, he can grab his clothes and run naked out of the house. He can kiss his business goodbye.
Or he can do as he’s told.
He chooses the latter, lying down on the tiled floor.
It’s hard and cool, but when Mrs. Turn knees down beside him and runs the cloth along his legs and feet, he feels warmer.
Not aroused; there’s no sense that he’s going to embarrass himself with an erection, even as Mrs. Turner methodically makes her way up his thighs.
No, it’s a warmth that’s inside his mind. He doesn’t need to screw his eyes shut; on the contrary, it feels better to watch, catching the finest views of Mrs. Turner’s cleavage as she bends over him.
It couldn’t be clearer from her humming and competent work that this is going nowhere sexual. Perhaps Bobby ceased to look like a man to Mrs. Turner as soon as she found him by the back door in his infantile puddle.
“There we go,” Mrs. Turner says lightly, “Good as new.”
Bobby’s idea of how he’s now perceived is confirmed when Mrs. Turner brings a folded item from the bathroom cupboard.
“What’s that?” he asks with a dry mouth. But he knows exactly what it is.
“It’s what you need, silly boy,” Mrs. Turner says with an indulgent smile, as if Bobby had asked the strangest of questions. “You’re lucky I had some of these, my husband had a similar problem and I didn’t think to throw them away after he passed.”
She unfolds the diaper, motioning for Bobby to lift his bottom long enough for her to slide it underneath.
Bobby looks at her, wide-eyed, and then does as he’s told.
She tapes the diaper closed, gives his crotch a gentle pat. “Good boy.”
Is that too much? The language, more than the thick diaper between his legs, suggests to Bobby that the balance of power has shifted much too far. Does Mrs. Turner use words like that for all her patients? Are they all sweeties and darlin’s?
“Come on,” Mrs. Turner says with a satisfied nod, getting to her feet. “You can sit with me in the sun room while your laundry’s done. Help me keep an eye on you.” She tilts her face at him with a playful expression. “Unless you want to work outside in your diaper?”
Bobby’s face reddens again. “No thanks,” he says, and is rewarded with a giggle from the older woman. “Clever boy,” she says, and the warmth in Bobby’s head returns.
He doesn’t protest when Mrs. Turner takes his hand and leads him downstairs to the sun room.
Does it feel strange to hold the old lady’s hand? Does it feel ridiculous to pad down the carpeted hallway in nothing but the thickest of diapers crinkling between his legs, forcing him to waddle like a toddler?
It feels absurd and almost natural at the same time. There’s something about this woman, something that makes Bobby want to earn her approval. And she has been the opposite of him, the collected calm to his unraveling mess.
How would another customer have reacted to his accident? Would they be holding his hand?
No. With each step, Bobby feels more lucky than embarrassed. As they walk down the hallway, Bobby’s head is up, not down and he has time to look at the framed photos on the walls. Mrs. Turner and a man, surely her late husband. Other people, friends and relatives, but no babies or young children.
It doesn’t feel right that Mrs. Turner didn’t have children, that she’s not surrounded by little grandchildren now. But as they make their way into the sun room, Mrs. Turner settling Bobby on the couch, it occurs to Bobby that the woman’s patients have been her children all these years. Maybe even her husband.
The thought jars a little, but it smoothes out soon enough with the help of TV and a snack.
Bobby doesn’t think he’s that hungry but Mrs. Turner won’t take no for an answer and they share a plate of cookies as the soap operas make way for Doctors Phil and Oz.
How content, how fine Bobby feels, to sit beside Mrs. Turner and eat his snack. There’s even a glass of lemonade that Mrs. Turner tells him to hold with both hands. “I don’t normally let guests eat in here, this is a special treat.”
A grown man, sitting in the thickest of diapers, earning a good-natured cluck from Mrs. Turner when he spills cookie crumbs on his stomach and diaper.
These are terrible TV shows, but it’s what Mrs. Turner wants to watch and there’s no question of her asking him if he’d want to watch something else (and a flicker in Bobby’s mind tells him the other option would be PBS and children’s programming, so he puts up with pop psychology and snake oil presented with the whitest of smiles).
Besides, Mrs. Turner is nice to sit beside. She’s all round and squidgy like a comfy cushion. He sneaks a peek at Mrs. Turner’s cleavage from time to time, as if checking it’s still there, as sensational as ever, and idly thinks how safe he feels, how right it is to sit here with Mrs. Turner, feeling so relaxed, so relaxed he might just fall asleep, listening to the soporific hum of the ceiling fan. He doesn’t even think of resisting or flinching when Mrs. Turner begins to stroke the back of his neck.
“There you go, sleepy boy,” says Mrs. Turner softly, “What a sleepy, good boy.”
And because he is a good boy, Bobby lets his eyes drift shut, and the cookies and lemonade go away, replaced by the feeling of Mrs. Turner’s chest against his face as the nurse strokes his hair and sends him off to sleep.
FIVE
He’s covered by a pastel blue blanket. It’s the softest of blankets and smells of lavender-scented fabric softener.
Bobby runs his fingers along the fuzzy softness and smiles.
And then he remembers—everything? No, not everything. But he feels like he has suddenly remembered a lot.
He pushes the blanket off to reveal that he is still wearing just a diaper. He looks around the room. He is still in the lady’s home.
A sick feeling of muddled anxiety. Did he...? Bobby moves his hips, presses with his fingers. No, the diaper is dry. What a thought, what an idea.
He gets off the couch and walks over to the window, distractedly taking the blanket with him, not to protect his modesty but just because it feels so nice against his skin.
It’s grown dark outside, and yes, the smallest sparks of light, fireflies and Bobby surprises himself by letting out a delighted giggle. He likes fireflies, he likes cool stuff like that.
“Well, look who’s up at last!”
Bobby turns to see the lady in the doorway. Yes, this is her house. He’s just a guest, a visitor. Why did he come here? He turns the question over in his mind.
“What a big nap you had! You musta been plum tuckered out!”
The lady smiles and Bobby smiles back, just to be polite.
The lady seems to know it’s not a real smile. She walks over to the window and after closing the drapes, she tousles his hair, making him frown. She must know him well, to be so friendly, to touch him so easily. Why can’t he remember her name?
“Are you okay, sweetie?” asks the lady. “Do you need a change?”
Bobby gazes at her, beyond confused and then follows her line of sight to realize she’s talking about his diaper.
He shakes his head. “I’m a...” He shakes his head again.
“A big boy?” the lady offers.
Bobby nods, relieved. That’s it, he’s a big boy. The lady is a little taller than him, but only a little. So why is he wearing a silly diaper? He should ask to go potty, his bladder and bowels both feel full. He needs to do a big poop and the idea of going potty in his diaper is unthinkable.
He looks at the lady’s cheerful expression. He has a difficult question but maybe she knows the answer. He feels silly for having to ask, but he’s probably just still tired after his nap.
He rubs the top of his head. “Why am I here?”
The lady gives a tinkling laugh and Bobby thinks at first she’s laughing at him, but there’s no bad-feeling in the sound. If anything, the lady’s laugh is contagious and Bobby feels a giggle bubbling in his throat, ready to burst out, even though he isn’t at all clear on what the joke is.
“You’re here because you were all sleepy and you had a lovely nap on the couch, remember?” the lady says, nodding her head encouragingly.
Bobby looks back at the couch and something clicks in his head. It’s true; he did get so sleepy and they were watching TV but he couldn’t keep his eyes open.
“I had cookies,” Bobby says, a flash of happiness shooting through his mind. He likes cookies! He can still feel remnants when he runs his tongue over his back teeth.
The lady smiles. “That’s right!” You had so many cookies, you were full as a tick!” And she pokes his tummy playfully, making him giggle.
But that wasn’t the right answer, or perhaps he hadn’t asked the right question. He gives his head another shake, trying to clear his muddling thoughts. “I mean...why do I got a diaper?” The words have come out clumsily, and he looks down at his outfit with a glum expression. “Big boy,” he says, although his voice has a hint of uncertainty.
“Yes, you are a big boy,” says the lady, and the warmth Bobby had experienced in his head returns with the reassurance. “But you had a little accident, sweetie. You went tinkles in your pants and so you said you’d wear a diaper for me.” She gives him the sweetest of smiles. “Remember?”
Bobby rubs his cheek with the blanket. There’s something about the lady’s explanation that makes him feel confused. If he could put a finger in his mouth, he’d be able to concentrate better, but only babies do that. Only silly babies suck on things and he’s a big boy.
He’s not on equal terms. He’s supposed to be a big boy but isn’t the lady treating him like a little kid? He sticks out his bottom lip; he doesn’t even know her name!
His sulking expression is rewarded with the lady coming beside him and patting his diapered bottom.
“What’s the matter, honey-bun?” she asks. “You look confused.”
Bobby likes the feeling of having his bottom patted, but he still needs an answer to his question. Even though he blushes as he asks it, because he should know, surely he should know, Bobby clutches the blanket for comfort and whispers, “What you called?”
The woman blinks in surprise. “My name?”
Bobby nods.
“You silly goose,” the lady says with another of her tinkling laughs, and she gives Bobby’s behind an extra firm pat. “I’m Mommy.”
Bobby’s eyes widen. The news is astonishing, yet a large part of his mind, a part that can’t simply be ignored, declares it true. Of course she’s Mommy.
But then Bobby thinks of his truck. The really big truck he has outside and even though the idea of driving it seems impossible, he knows it belongs to him, even if it’s only to play with. He opens his mouth to tell the lady about his truck when she says brightly, “You like your blankie,” the woman says brightly. “Isn’t it soft, perfect for snuggling.”
Bobby nods, distracted, stroking the material again, the tactile pleasure tugging his lips into a smile.
“Aww,” the lady says, “Look at you, in your chunky diaper and holding your blankie. You look cuter than a sack fulla puppies.”
Bobby giggles. Mommy...the lady is being silly, saying he’s like a puppy. He’s not a puppy, he’s a boy!
And with that, she pulls him in for a hug, pressing his face against her chest.
He pushes away, although only half-heartedly and the lady laughs.
“Not too old for cuddles, I hope!”
Bobby looks at the woman. Is she Mommy? She looks a little different than before but what is it? And then, looking at her chest, Bobby catches the difference. She’s not wearing a bra anymore and her breasts look so heavy behind the material of her white dress. Straining, ready to pop out.
It’s okay; Mommy...Bobby shakes his head with frustration, the lady can wear, or not wear, what she wants. It’s her house and she’s a grown-up, she’s in charge. But he realizes he can see the lady’s nipples and the knowledge makes him want to suck on his fingers all over again.
He looks away. Boobies aren’t for big boys, only for babies. He picks at the waistband of his diaper and is reminded of the pressure on his bladder and in his bottom. He really needs to go.
He steps from one foot to another. “I gotta go potty,” he whispers.
The lady nods. “What a big boy you are!” She takes his hand. “Let’s go to the bathroom so you can do your tinkles.”
He walks with her and as they walk upstairs, he says urgently, as if this was crucial information to share, “Gotta do poopy and tinkles.”
The lady starts to laugh but then stops. “You’re going to be a very busy boy!”
They walk into the lady’s bedroom but instead of going directly into the en suite, the lady goes to her bed and lies down on the yellow comforter.
Bobby lets go of her hand and stands by the bed. He points at the bathroom. “Potty,” he says abruptly. Has the lady forgotten?
The lady nods. “I know, sweetie, but you gotta have your num-nums first.”
Bobby blinks, filled with confusion. He points again. “Potty.” The idea of simply heading to the bathroom by himself doesn’t occur to him. “Pleez.”
The woman pats the comforter and says, “Come on up, Bobby, and then you can go potty.”
Bobby presses on his crotch and whimpers in frustration. He knows he has to do as he’s told but he’s desperate to empty his bladder and bowels.
The lady waits until Bobby is lying down and facing her before she says, “There, much better. Now I can tell you’re feeling all confused, but once you’ve had your num-nums you’re going to be clear as a bell.”
Bobby looks at the woman’s face. “Num-nums?”
The lady laughs her tinkling laugh. “Mommy’s special num-nums,” she replies and un-buttons the top of her dress, letting her sensational breasts spill out.
Bobby gazes with fascination at the lady’s chest. Her breasts are so full and inviting, and her nipples look perfect for latching onto, for guzzling all her milk.
Bobby wrinkles his nose. “I don’t dink...drink num-nums. Big boy. Gotta twuck.”
The lady just smiles. “A lovely truck, yes. But just ’cause a cat has kittens in the oven, that don’t make them biscuits.”
Bobby frowns in utter confusion. First the lady thinks he’s a puppy, and now a kitten. He’s about to protest when the lady curls her hand around the back of his head and pulls him towards her right breast.
“No,” Bobby whispers, although the word is much more about what he shouldn’t do, opposed to what he wants to do.
The lady doesn’t force Bobby’s mouth onto the nipple. She just keeps his head there, so all he can see is her mountainous chest, it fills his vision. He’s so close, so on the edge, that his skin tingles along with his mind.
“You know what a wet nurse is?” the lady asks casually.
Bobby doesn’t answer, transfixed by the sight before his eyes. He curls up beside her and is rewarded with more pats on his diapered bottom.
The lady says, “A wet nurse is like a nanny who breast feeds someone else’s baby. Maybe the real mommy doesn’t want to use her booby milk, or maybe she can’t. So the wet nurse does it instead.”
Bobby watches as if hypnotized as the lady squeeze her breast just enough to let a single tear of milk emerge from the nipple.
“I’ve been a wet nurse many times.” the lady goes on, telling her story with the pitch normally reserved for toddlers at story-time of the mentally handicapped, “Just recently, in fact. But those babies get older and then they don’t need me anymore.” She sighs. “And they weren’t my babies anyway.”
She strokes Bobby’s hair, keeping his head in front of her chest.
“But when I found you in the kitchen, sweetie, I just knew.”
Bobby understands the story; his mind is filled with confusing, cloying thoughts but he knows that the lady wants to be his mommy. He continues to stare at her breasts, his mouth open, breathing warm air on the nipple and whispers, “Notta bay-bee.”
He can hear the woman’s smile in her voice. “There’s a reason you were drawn to Maynard. There’s a lot of special people here, a lot like you. Big boys and girls who find it too hard to be grown-ups, who try so hard but can’t handle the challenges of adult life.”
It’s not true. He’s a big boy. Bobby manages to turn his head away and there’s a chance to collect his thoughts.
“You see, people like you, they never should’ve grown up. They’re much better as sweet, innocent babies.”
The lady strokes his cheek and the touch is irresistible. Bobby turns back and it’s half the lady pushing her chest forward and half Bobby accepting the most wonderful invitation. He has to taste it and he latches onto the nipple and the reaction in his mind is instantaneous.
“Mmm.” The lady strokes his hair. “Good boy. And then there’s people like me, people who just love taking care of babies like you. Isn’t that wonderful?”
Even if Bobby’s mouth wasn’t full of breast, he couldn’t answer. With every suck and gulp, his mind stretches, getting wider and taller, filling with nothing but space until, with the gentlest and firmest of pops, Bobby’s mind breaks.
When can their glory fade?
O the wild charge they made!
Overwhelmed by the infantile treatment and sensations, his already-fragile adult confidence and competence shattered, Bobby’s remaining adult thoughts, his education and problem-solving skills, his ability to consider anything beyond the here and now, fizzle out, a ticklish feeling that makes him smile around the nipple as he continues to drink.
“There’s Mommy’s hungry boy!”
As the lady...Mommy holds his head and pats his bottom, Bobby’s adult mind is replaced with the intelligence and awareness of a toddler. So too his potty-training, as he empties his bladder and bowels into his nappy without a thought.
It’s only when he is satisfied, nipple leaving his mouth with the most babyish of popping sounds, milk dribbling down his chin, that Bobby notices the squishy wetness and stickiness between his legs and around his bottom.
He’s so sleepy but he manages to grin his happiness at Mommy, who rewards his sweet innocence with a kiss on his nose.
Bobby chortles in response and the giggles continue as Mommy leads him toddling back into the bathroom to change him, the diaper drooping heavily between his legs.
Lying on his back, Bobby babbles his adoration for Mommy as she cleans up his stinky mess and tapes him into a fresh diaper.
“Gonna run to Kroger tomorrow, honey-bun,” Mommy says brightly. “Need all kinds of things for my baby.”
Bobby looks up at her, saliva dribbling down his chin as he babbles at her. “Moh-yee!” he says, waving his arms and legs, his sounds turning to delighted squeals as Mommy blows raspberries on his tummy.
“Ain’t you funny,” Mommy says indulgently. “Ain’t you hilarious.” She reaches into the cupboard. “Well I don’t have any special outfits or toys for you yet, even though I’ll fix that tomorrow, but I do have this.” She pulls out a blue pacifier and pops it into Bobby’s mouth.
He kicks his legs with excitement and when Mommy helps him to his feet and says, “Gimme some sugar,” Bobby is happy to oblige, hugging her tightly and giggling anew as Mommy pats his diapered bottom.
“I’m going to take such good care of you,” Mommy says, leading him back downstairs to watch something age-appropriate on TV while she makes some phone calls. “I’m going to be such a good Mommy and you’re gonna be such a good little boy.”
“Goo-boh Moh-mee!” Bobby agrees, sitting on his bottom in front of the TV, forgetting all about the couch, happy to sit there engrossed with Curious George’s antics and suck on his Binky while Mommy talks on the phone about her wonderful surprise.