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T-shirt, socks, jeans. All went into a heap. Benny stared at them. Millie banged on the door. "If you're that bashful, just open the door and toss them out. Or would you prefer I come in after them." She grinned, and it wasn't pleasant, not after raising four hellion teens of her own.
Tempted to jerk open the door and show her just how bashful his li'l bro wasn't, Benny glared in cold fury at the door. And didn't. Mom would kill him if- When she found out. Benny still wasn't convinced mothers, his especially, couldn't read minds and tell the future. The People of Light loved mothers, right?
Millie opened the door a crack. Catching the glass knob before she could make good her threat, Benny stuffed his clothes through with undo haste.
The door slammed shut on gales of laughter.
"My oh my," she gasped, hand pressed to her chest. "A shy biker, imagine that. I just bet they pull your club card for this one, Benny." Millie grinned and plucked the clothes from the golden wood of the floor.
Making noises of pity deep in her throat, she looked through them. "What ever is this?" Millie held it up by one string. "A black jock strap?" she said, making a wry face. "Looks kind of skimpy, even for a northern boy."
Her eyes widened.
"Oh good heavens. It's an eye patch." She chuckled to herself and tapped on the door.
"Yeah?"
"Where are your undergarments, Benny?" Millie chuckled. "You can trust me. I've raised three hellion sons, you know. I won't starch them. Though once at the height of an argument with Ron, I confess to adding a little itching powder to his." A wicked gleam came to her eyes. "But I'd never do it to a guest, so don't believe anything that man o' mine tells you."
Dull silence answered her. Millie raised her fist to knock again and the sound of running water came through the door.
With a bemused glance out the window at the reflecting pond, she muttered, "Guess the horses ate them, too. Mother Donnelly's
koi will never live this down." She laughed. "God, but I hate those fish. Too bad I can't talk Ron into stocking bass. Now there's something that likes goldfish."
Inch by sweating inch he sank into a steaming tub. Every muscle clenched tight, Benny sucked in a breath through locked teeth. His buttocks hit the water, then more sensitive flesh. The bitch warden would scream. Hot water made the sperm count go down. Benny whispered a ghost of a laugh.
He let the water take him. Benny floated in a dragon claw tub that seemed almost as big as the pond, but infinitely more preferable. Taking a foot long luffa sponge, then with near reverence a bar of soap, he held them up.
What did Giovani Russo used to say? Yeah, "Yo, bae-be. Es la Para-dice, capice?" Man, gladiator school, what a pedophiliac wet dream, all those little boys just handed to the perverts. Benny shuddered. He turned from the memories, memories that reminded him of stories about Carlisle Indian School. Benny forced a smile.
"Yo, . . . baby. Hot water and real soap. Heaven."
From outside the window, Two Swords glared at Benny.
"Rat fink."
He sighed.
Benny scrubbed at hard days and layers of dirt. Down in the pantry, Millie paused at the washing machine. Her face puzzled until she recognized the hoarse rasp was Benny's voice, not Mother Donnelly's ancient washer ready to gasped its last. The tune was, almost, recognizable as Rubba dub dub, three men in a tub. No, not men, she realized and burst into laughter. Three babes. And Benny.
"Teenage boys, my, my." Millie sighed. It was good to have company in this rattling old house. Five children, and all lived miles away, some thousands of miles. Lonely for her family during this time of tribulation, Millie stared at the washer. Benny hit a note a little high and the sadness fled.
It was good to have a child in the house again.
Had he killed the Longs?
A towel barely secured around his middle, Benny cracked open the bathroom door. Wary of Millie and her unnatural, for a history teacher, sense of humor, he peered out.
"Miz Donnelly? Yo, Miz Donnelly? Hey. Miz Don-nellee." He stuck his head out a little further.
"Are you done, Benny?"
The door slammed shut on peels of feminine laughter.
Millie shook her head. He was well mannered, in a rough sort of way. The woman shoved a stack of clothes through the crack.
Suspicious, Benny glared at the clothes and took them with reluctance. He tried first a gleaming white tee shirt. The bottom ended somewhere about his knees. "Do I curtsy now?" He tried the underpants. Benny sucked in a breath and they dropped to his ankles. He tossed them out the door.
"Don't fit."
"What size do you wear? These are Boone's. That's my youngest son."
"I . . . donno, Mrs. Donnelly. Honest," he added, just in case she didn't believe him.
Looking over the clothing, Millie snorted in disgust. "Just like my Ron. Every time that man sees a tag he gets itchy fingers."
Benny listened to her light foot steps retreat from the door and then return. A cloth tape was shoved in.
It fell to the floor and unrolled a few feet. The worn canary yellow measuring tape had inches on one side and pound weights on the other. His mother had one. You were supposed to be able to estimate the weight of livestock with the pound side. Uncle Charlie said it was hogwash, they never even came close.
Benny glared at the door. Millie was up to something. In the back of his mind Benny heard Grandfather Wya mutter, 'Ever know a woman that weren't?' Benny snatched up the tape.
"Twenty-nine inches."
"Leg?"
"No, ma'am, my waist."
"I'll require your leg-length as well, Benny."
Being raised by the State was being raised to distrust people who 'only want to he'p you.' There was always a catch. Ron's babe was def'netly up to no good.
"Why?"
"So I can pick up some clothing in Moyock."
Growling at the door, Benny whipped off the tee shirt.
"I do not take charity." The clothing was tossed out the door and Benny wrapped the beach towel around his shoulders like the wise Old-Men of the People. Pride burned in his eye, radiated in a fierce heat from his body.
"Now, Benny. I certainly didn't mean it like that."
He jerked open the door and stared down at her from his four-inch advantage.
The iron gray head bobbed with no little stiff-necked reluctance. "Have it your way, young man. But when one person helps you, and you help that person, it most certainly is not charity, merely sharing good fortune."
His lips barely moved but the heat in his hiss could have scorched paint on the door.
"No charity."
©2003 StoriesByEmail.com
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