Mantua Bay (3)

3

It was from Jake Lesko's garage window that she first noticed Jeff and Sara Fowler in their yard. Delanie Turner had seen his photo on the back of her mother's library copy of Sundays with Alexander. It was a popular book that had also been adapted into an equally well-known Netflix series. While she hadn’t read the book, Delanie had eagerly tuned in to the show after her friend Gabby pointed out that Penn Badgely was naked in most episodes.

The realization of the Fowlers from the window caught her more off guard than it otherwise would have because Delanie had been completely naked herself. Jake’s mom caught them on the couch moments before, under a thin spring blanket that failed to fully conceal the act Delanie had been performing on her son. 

She slid back into the legs of a linen jumpsuit and listened to her summer fling get read the riot act from the other side of the garage door. ("I'm sorry, but does she have any respect for herself?") 

At least, that's what she hoped he was. All Delanie knew for sure was that it was only the second day of summer, and the hottest guy on the lifeguard patrol had invited her back to his place after the season-opening kegger. They were making out as early as the party, but at that time she still wasn’t sure how much she was going to let happen.

Then he had brought her to the garage, when she surprised even herself by shoving a hand down his pants. It wasn’t her first choice, being laid down to have sex on a sofa bed in the middle of bicycles, beach chairs, and basketballs, but the guy looked great naked. Maybe even Penn Badgely-great. He might have finished a minute or so ahead of her own would-be orgasm, but that wasn’t going to stop her from wanting repeat business.

Even so, Delanie wasn't sure exactly what she wanted from Jake Lesko. She'd liked his hands on her, enjoyed his being inside her, and had been delighted by how he responded to her blowjob technique. Which up until that morning had been pretty out of practice. But it was avoiding his mother that summer morning which overrode all of her foregoing wants; she needed an exit strategy bad.

Her gaze returned to the window. Jeff Fowler was strolling back across his yard toward the house. If she was quick she could exit through the rear garage door and make her escape. She'd cut across the Fowler yard, run down Bay Avenue, round the Lesko’s block, and back to their front yard. Then grab the rusty Schwinn that was (praying to God) still leaning against the side of their house, before hightailing the fuck out of there. It was a bit of a hassle, but that was just the best it was going to get. 

With that in mind, she took the rear garage door, stepped outside. She could still hear mother and son arguing over her right shoulder, somewhere closer to the house. With one last look in their direction, she mounted the wood fence separating the Lesko and Fowler yards.

She stayed low to avoid being hit in the face by some low-level pines, zipping gazelle-like through the Fowler yard and safely away from the yelling Mrs. Lesko. A small tool shed came up on her right, hiding a dense patch of weeds winking out at her. Delanie stopped running at the sight of them. A mirrored glare grew and dissipated from the dug-up earth like a heart beat, reminding her of the cover of a certain Isaac Asimov paperback her grandfather read to her ages ago. A moment later she found herself kneeling at the weeds, watching the surge and regression of light, and considered its purpose in the Fowler's yard. Maybe a solar energy thing only rich people could afford. Looking back up at the house, she found Jeff Fowler at the kitchen window now. Managing to get back onto sweaty flip-flopped feet, she continued on, ignoring his wave as she fled.

Bay Avenue between eight and nine in the morning was already busy with runners, cyclists, rollerbladers, and mothers power-walking with strollers. Some registered her with amusement, some with more disgust. Delanie wondered if they were also considering her lack of self-respect like Mrs. Lesko.

*****

Barb Turner was sitting at the kitchen hightop, Excedrin bottle in hand, eyes still half-closed and crusted with yesterday’s mascara, when her daughter crept through the front door. She remained still for a beat, quietly allowing Delanie to savor the false relief that came with returning home after dawn unscathed. This wasn’t the first time she’d done this, Barb knew. But it was going to be the first time she’d get called out. Delanie made for the stairs, and Barb brought the Excedrin down on the table with an attention-getting bang. Even at the moment Barb was unsure as to whether she’d really planned on trying to discipline an eighteen-year-old that morning.

“Well then,” Barb said.

Delanie glowered at her mother and folded her arms. She wasn’t in the mood for pleading guilty. Not after that ordeal in the Lesko garage, and its subsequent escape route. She decided it best to not walk away and see what happened if she just sat with her mother. Perhaps the courage to simply remain in the room would mollify what looked like a good scolding to come. So she took a seat at the hightop table opposite Barb, and tried to not look hungover. She didn't know how to tell her mother what she'd been up to, was not very interested in trying, so she said the first thing that came to mind. "Jeff Fowler lives in Mantua."

“The writer?”

"Yup."

“You sure?"

"I'm sure."

"Where?"

"North Carolina Avenue.”

Barb mulled it over, finally extracting the pair of Excedrin tablets she needed, and kicked them back dry. "It's a shame he's not single. I'd have a mind to march over to North Carolina and ask him out for a date." She leaned forward to get a whiff of her teenage daughter. "Traditionally speaking, I don’t think lifeguards are supposed to sweat vodka.”

“Not even expensive vodka?” Delanie said, reaching across the table for her mother's Excedrin. 

“He did a nice number on your shoulder, whoever he is.”

Delanie eyed the hickey for the first time and buried her face in her hands. "In a nutshell, you’re caught. You better be protecting yourself. Now get a shower and put some makeup on that damn thing. Lifeguard sweatshirt on your bed is clean.” With that, she shuffled off back toward the stairs, yanking at the zipper of the wrinkled jumpsuit as she did. 

Barb had seen the sex face on her daughter before and fought against a tinge of envy. She hadn’t been that excited about sex since before Delanie was born. Probably even before she met Delanie’s father. The way she saw it, just as long as she wasn’t becoming a grandmother at forty-seven, there was no reason to be difficult. Growing up, it seemed to Barb that the friends and classmates whose parents tried to prevent the sex were often the same ones who got knocked up in high school, or got picked up for doing it in an empty parking lot. It was better to not sanction, and allow her daughter to feel like she could actually explore sex, albeit with precaution and common sense. Hadn’t her own mother let her do the same? And that was the eighties.

The hickey on her shoulder was a liable catalyst for at least a week’s worth of fun lifeguard banter and gossip. Delanie anticipated a morning filled with excited questions from her friends Amber and Carolyn. Mercifully, there were still thirty minutes before she'd be spilling the deets to the girls. She ditched the jumpsuit and stepped into the shower, the smells of sweat, sex, and party rolling off her body in the hot water. Closing her eyes, Delanie relived her night with Jake Lesko from start to finish.