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From: Incest Man <familyincestfamilyincest@yahoo.com>
Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories,alt.sex.stories.hetero,alt.sex.stories.d
Subject: story: "The Adventures of Me and Martha Jane" (bf mF mF+) Part 5B
Date: Fri, 11 Aug 2006 14:26:20 -0700
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===================
http://www.incesttabooo.com/mathaj.html
The Adventures of Me and Martha Jane
Part 5B
In December 1953 my Mom married and my stepfather moved
into the apartment temporarily while they searched for a
new house. The ceremony was little more than a small tea
party in a room in the reception house at St. Mary's
Church. This being my mother's second marriage, she didn't
think a large wedding would be appropriate, and my
conservative step-dad agreed. They took over the old
bedroom, and I slept on the pullout sofa in the living room
(which, I did not realize until that time, had a bed inside
it!).
Problems with finding a new home caused them to postpone
their honeymoon. But near Easter, 1954, they announced
that a house had been found and purchased, and before
moving in they were going to take their honeymoon week in
St. Louis. The concept of a honeymoon was rather a vague
one for me. Mom said it was just a "vacation" people take
when they marry (even with my limited knowledge of the
marriage state, I knew better than that! My relationship
with Mom certainly had not improved).
I came home from school one day shortly afterward, on the
last day before the start of the Easter school holidays.
There in the kitchen with my mother sat Martha Jane,
sipping coffee and chatting merrily away.
"Well, Hi!" she said as my eyes bulged out of my head.
I could tell-- -immediately-- -that her Southern accent had
only thickened. It was still the same musical voice, a bit
rambunctious now, a little louder and more confident. But
the same eyes; a more slender neck and arms, and definitely
an older and more adult figure. She was 20. Her hair was
the same, maybe a little more blonde.
"Well, hotshot, are you going to speak?"
I did, but don't remember what I said. I was dumbstruck.
It was Martha Jane but it wasn't Martha Jane. It was the
same person but it wasn't. She was not a teenager anymore.
And she smoked cigarettes. One dangled lazily from her
finger as she sat cross-legged at the kitchen table with
Mom.
"Say hello to Martha Jane," Mom said, and laughed. "You
forget about her already?"
"I did say hello, didn't I?" I asked, dazed. They both
shook their heads and waited for me, amused. I said
falteringly, "Well, then, uh-- -" I shrugged helplessly--
"Hi."
Martha Jane rose from the chair. "Oh, what kind of welcome
is that?" She walked across the room-- -on noisy
high-heeled shoes! -- -and came straight to me, moving the
cigarette from one hand to another so she would be able to
give a great big hug without burning me with the thing. I
was grateful for the hug. Deeply grateful. But my
feelings were so firmly entrenched, especially when I was
around my mother, that I denied myself the luxury of any
response at all.
"Let me look at YOU!" Martha Jane exclaimed. "You're only
an inch taller than me now! Can't you grow any faster than
that?"
I shrugged and blushed. "I'm only 12 years old," I said.
"Well, that won't last forever, hon, don't worry." She
took my hand and leaned closer to me. "How are you,
Speedy? Did you forget all about me, after all I had to
put up with from you?"
"I didn't forget," I smiled. I was overcome by a blush
attack that I strongly resisted. She saw my problem, and
immediately she gave a sympathetic "Aawwww, c'mere," and
putting her arms around me she gave a stronger, more
affectionate hug.
"How are you, hon? I haven't seen you in so long."
I saw my mother watching us, pleased. But not trusting
myself, I pulled back and simply gave Martha Jane an
appreciative nod.
My mother announced: "Martha Jane lost her job."
Martha Jane shrugged. "Laid off, hon." She shrugged.
"What the heck! At least I'm still getting the GI Bill
money because of my father. All I have to say is, 'Thank
you, Uncle Sam!'"
My Mom went on, greatly amused. "Martha Jane showed up
just in time. While your daddy and I are in St. Louis on
our honeymoon next week, your Aunt Yvonne was supposed to
drop by here and check up once a while so you wouldn't be
here all by yourself. Well, guess who showed up just in
time to take her place?"
I didn't answer. I was afraid to.
My mother nudged her head toward Martha Jane. "Your old
neighbor over there."
I looked at Martha Jane.
She pointed her thumb at herself. "The old supervisor
herself, honey. Yvonne got fired, I got hired. Gonna be
next store again anyway, so why should she have to traipse
all the way over here?" She moved closer to me again and
pointed a finger into my chest. "Gonna be checkin' on you,
buster. Better clean up your act."
My act, considering how little I revealed of myself at that
instant, couldn't have been more antiseptic. My feelings
were jumbled. She didn't seem the same. She moved and
spoke with an aggressiveness I found difficult to accept.
Nor was it so easy for me to switch emotional gears after
two years of not seeing her, having spent that time
surrounded by people in whom I had so little trust
emotionally.
The next day, a Saturday, Mom and my new dad left Union
Station for their honeymoon. At the grandiose Victorian
building a number of people were present to see them off.
Most of them were my step-dad's folks. They were friendly,
earthy people, But the thought of the sheer size of his
family was intimidating: he alone had fourteen brothers and
sisters. The day he married my mother, I gained over three
hundred new cousins and an undetermined number of uncles
and aunts. I had yet to meet most of them, a task I
estimated would take years.
I spent Saturday with my grandparents, the Ricci's.
Grandpa Joe Ricci, my father's father, packed me into his
Oldsmobile on Sunday morning to give me a ride back to the
project.
As he drove he griped, "Don't see why you can't spend the
rest of the week with me and your Grandma Rose."
"I have too many things to do at home, Grandpa Joe. I got
a dozen library books over there to go through while my
Mama and Daddy are gone."
"Your 'Daddy'!" Grandpa Joe swore mildly in his slightly
gravelly voice. "He ain't your daddy. Your daddy was
Steven Joseph, Senior. And he's dead."
"My step-daddy, then."
"That's better."
I didn't know if I really wanted to see Martha Jane or not.
She called from a friend's place and told me she was
packing the last of her things to move back to the project,
then she had to change and go to a funeral. She said she
would be job hunting all day Monday. But she'd come over
tonight, Sunday, and the next night as well, and fix dinner
for me. I was on Easter vacation, a dubious advantage of
being in a Catholic grammar school. I had no friends and
nothing I particularly wanted to do. I spent most of
Sunday rummaging around the apartment, which seemed
relatively large with no one home but me. Over the years I
had spent so much time alone that I began to realize and
appreciate that it did have certain advantages: I had
absolute freedom of movement, and freedom from being
hassled by the foibles and demands of others.
But as Sunday evening neared, I was considering whether or
not to be home at the time Martha Jane was due to fix
dinner. I did not trust my feelings at all. I could
always hop a bus and go back to my godparents or
grandparents for the whole week...
In my mind she had changed. She was not the primal, simple
child I knew. She wore high heels. She smoked. She
talked loud.
She showed up shortly before six. She greeted me with a
hug, and when she saw I appeared numb she insisted that I
give her cheek a hello kiss, after which she set her purse
down on a table in the living room and went into the
kitchen to make dinner.
I stared at her purse. It was one of the slick black
patent leather purses that adult women carried around. It
seemed she moved faster, too, or maybe it was an illusion
created by her seemingly longer legs and the heels. From
the kitchen she asked what I wanted to eat. I told her I
didn't care. As she prepared to cook in that tiny kitchen
with the obsolete refrigerator and the two-burner gas
stove, she kept joking and seemed in fine humor.
"Won't you be tickled pink to get out of this tiny place
and into that big house out on Macon Road? Got a nice big
kitchen in there, I saw it. Your mom drove me out there
last week."
"Last week?" I asked, confused. I didn't know she had
been around for almost a whole week before seeing me.
"Yes, hon, last weekend, you know? I *missed* you, I asked
them where you were, and you were at your grandmother's all
weekend."
"My mom didn't call me," I muttered. Betrayed by mom
again!
"Well, she couldn't, I couldn't stay long anyway. Rent
Overdue, Speedy, I had to move out of that apartment.
Heck, I sure collected a ton of junk in there." She was
setting the table but she stopped to grin at me. "You're
gonna love that house. It's new, all *new*, not a scratch
on it! Even the grass is new. And three bedrooms, hon.
See this?" She held up three fingers. "Three bedrooms!
You'll have your own room, and to heck with that sofa bed
in there."
I was not overly pleased. "I guess it'll be okay," I
muttered, moving to take my seat at the small table. "I
could learn to like it."
She came over to me. She bent down. I became very aware
of her breasts-- -not her pert teen girl titties, but her
adult female breasts under the white blouse and under the
white bra. She hugged me from one side and her voice
softened. She said earnestly, "You need your own room,
hon. You need your...own... room." She emphasized the
last three words. She pulled back and looked at me. "My
lord! How old are you now, about forty-five?"
"Umpteen," I answered blandly.
She laughed. "Does it really feel that way?"
"And you?" I asked as she sat in the chair before me.
"Umpteen," she answered, giving a muffled laugh. "Closer
to twenty, really. Speedy, you look wonderful. You're
getting so cute. I thought you'd be a little taller,
though. Don't you eat your spinach?"
I didn't answer.
"You look like your daddy's picture."
"I know," I said.
"Bet every aunt and uncle you know tells you that at least
once every fifteen minutes, don't they?"
"Yep," I said, aware of the dull tone in my voice.
"Not everybody that flew a B-17 won a Silver Star, hon."
She chewed her food and swallowed, and her face and voice
became more serious, more leveled. "Doesn't mean you have
to win a Silver Star too, Speedy."
I didn't know what to say to her. I didn't know exactly
what she meant, but I did feel that she knew so very much
more about me than I did.
She said, with a mouth half full of spinach, "You didn't
say you missed me."
"Well," I said, "I did. I'm not as talkative as I used to
be."
"Tell me something I hadn't noticed," she chuckled. "You
don't smile as much, either. Of course, you also don't
clown or blush or shuffle around. Those are improvements,
anyway. You're getting to be too nice-looking a young man
to be that painfully shy. You're growin' up. Guess we all
have to grow up sooner or later."
"I guess."
"So how do you like it?"
"Like what?" I asked.
"This growing-up business."
"It's okay."
"Holy smokes, what an answer." She shook her head.
"You're right, it's not all it's cracked up to be." Then
she changed the subject. "I'm going out right after we eat
dinner, I might buy a used typewriter from somebody across
the driveway. I really need one."
"I have a typewriter," I offered.
"The old Underwood? No, Speedy, you need that. I need a
small one. Portable." She chewed her food quickly and
checked her wrist watch. "But I'll be back later, about
eight or eight-thirty."
I swallowed. "Okay."
She would eat, chew, look at me, eat, and chew. Then look
at me. She went rapidly from one subject to another. She
sounded like one of my curious aunts. But her constant
effort at searching me out left me feeling that she was
almost as uncomfortable as I was.
She left after dinner. I sat and played with the Philco,
going from one radio show to the next. Bored, I took a
bath. I got all dressed again in jeans and a plaid shirt
and sat listening to the records and going through the
record albums. Just before 8:30, Martha Jane showed up.
She looked tired now, and didn't move around as quickly.
She plopped down on the sofa and gave a loud moan. "Whew!
How are you, hon?"
I ignored her question. "How's your typewriter?"
"I just left it at home, next door. It'll do." She
slumped into the cushions and caught her breath. She used
each foot to push the high heels off. "I hate these!
Hate, hate, hate."
"They make a lot of noise when you walk."
"Yeah, don't they?"
She looked at me for a long time. "What's the matter, hon?
Do you just go off into nowhere when you get to be 12 years
old? It is 12 now, isn't it?"
"It's 12," I said, not looking up from the records. I
sighed. "Just tired, I guess."
"Your mom and your brand-new daddy won't be back until next
Friday night. So you can make as big a mess as you want,
you're getting too old for a baby-sitter. But I'll check
in. Just be sure to clean the place up before mommy and
daddy day on Friday."
"He's not my daddy," I said flatly, not looking up from the
album.
"Of course he's your daddy. What do you mean?"
"My daddy's dead," I said without emotion, recalling
Grandpa Joe.
"Speedy...what a morbid thing to say."
"That's what Grandpa Joe told me to say."
"I met your Grandpa Joe and he's a very nice man who's done
a lot for you and your mom. But he's an unhappy man who
lives in the past and likes to make others think the same
way he does. You have to mind him and do as he says, but
he doesn't have to tell you how to think."
"Okay," I said, paging the record album.
For a long minute she didn't say anything. I could feel
her, above and behind me, looking at me from the sofa. In
a moment she said, "Would you like to go to a movie with me
this week? I mean, what are you gonna do all week?"
I looked up at her, rather blankly. "Okay," I said. "I
like movies, I know every inch of every theater in
Memphis."
"Oh, yes? You must spend a lot of time there."
"Every weekend."
She moved from the sofa and sat down on the floor next to
me. She began removing bobby pins from her hair. "You
still spend a lot of time alone, don't you? That hasn't
changed, has it?"
"No," I said.
She leaned toward me. "Give me your face," she said.
I leaned toward her. She kissed my two eyes, lightly, and
then my nose. "I've been running around like a chicken
with my head cut off since six o'clock this morning. Do
you promise not to run away from home while I take a bath?"
"I promise," I said.
She studied me, her face close to mine. She put an arm
around my shoulder. She smiled. "What's been happening to
you?"
I looked at her and asked, coldly casual, "You have a
boyfriend yet?"
Her grin disappeared. "Yes," she said. After a pause, she
added. "He's a schmuck. You know what a schmuck is?"
I shook my head.
She leaned back on her ankles and took out one more bobby
pin. "It's some kind of Jewish word, I think. From my New
York. A gal from New York who's in one of my classes keeps
using that word."
"What's a schmuck?" I asked.
"A schmuck," she said slowly and distinctly,
"is...a...schmuck! A creep. A jerk." She shook her head.
"You'll figure it out." Then she said firmly, "Being a
schmuck is what your Grandpa Joe was being when he said
that horrible thing about your daddy."
She got up and kissed me on the forehead. "I'll be back.
Stay here."
Into the bathroom she went. She was in there for quite a
long time, bathing away. I was getting sleepy and started
putting the records away. It was not so bad, I thought.
She does slow down after a while, and obviously she was
warming up to me like a long-lost friend. She wasn't
*that* old, certainly. Not *that* different. Obviously we
were still buddies. But she had a boyfriend!
A little voice in me said: of course she has a boyfriend,
stupid. She's twenty years old. When you're twenty years
old, you can have a girlfriend. She deserves to have a
boyfriend.
I put away the record album, sat on the floor, and watched
the closed bathroom door. Water running furiously in
there. No change in the way she kept herself, she always
hated being clammy or sweaty.
During the rest of her stay behind the door I worked up the
courage to apologize. I stood waiting in the middle of the
living room with my hands in my pockets. I still had my
pride, of course. I didn't want to seem as dejected and
desolate as I really was, that would be giving too much
away.
I heard the bathroom door open, saw the light go out. She
came into the doorway of the living room. She was in light
pink, floppy silk pajamas. She was drying her hair with a
towel and saw me standing with my hands still in my
pockets.
She asked, "What are doing, just standing there?"
I asked, "Is a schmuck just being rude, or a party pooper,
and stuff like that?"
"Yes, I'd say...that qualifies as fairly schmuck-like."
She fluffed her head with the towel.
"Is it, like...being snotty?"
"Yep."
I searched for words a second. "Acting like you're always
right and everybody else is wrong?"
"Yep."
"...like...the way I was acting today?"
"Yep. That's a schmuck, all right."
"So I was bein' a schmuck."
"That's one of a great many things that schmucks do." She
put away the towel and came to me and grabbed me by the
hand, leading me toward the bedroom. "C'mon. Beddy-bye.
It's ten o'clock."
I resisted. "I thought this was supposed to be a
vacation!"
"A vacation doesn't mean you stay up all night. Anyway,
young man-- -my young schmuck-- -you've been pretty cranky
all day, and if you want to have a good time with me this
week and keep up with me, you better rest while you can."
I stood near the bed as she rapidly pulled back the
bedclothes.
"Okay, okay, but I *am* twelve years old. I can get myself
in and out of the bed."
"Right," she said. "Well, you're not all that old.
Besides, I want to ask you about something before you turn
in." She came to me and began removing my shirt. "Your
mother told me, schmuck, that you went to Woolworth's
looking for me one day and you couldn't find me."
"She told you that? Here, I can unbutton my shirt myself.
Is a schmuck somebody who can't unbutton their own shirt,
too?"
She stood eyeing me sternly with her hands on her hips.
"Anyway," I said, "that was months ago."
She nodded. "She told me. She said you were very
disappointed. She said you were down in the dumps.
All...day...long."
"Sure, I was disappointed. What's wrong with being
disappointed?"
"No no no, schmuck. Not just disappointed. She said you
were down in the dumps for a week."
I raised my eyes to the ceiling. Didn't mothers know when
to shut up? I removed my shirt and started on my jeans,
not saying anything, avoiding her gaze.
"It so happens," she continued, "I wasn't there that day.
So was she correct about that? What's your version of the
story?"
I blushed. I made a what-the-hell shrug. She started to
help me with the belt. "Look," I said, "I can do this."
She stepped back. "Okay. Take charge. But get into bed.
It's late."
"I thought I could just stay up all week. It's Easter
vacation."
She eyed me with a comic, bug-eyed sternness, firmed her
lips, and pointed dramatically at the bed.
I did an aw shucks and got down to my underwear. I was
taller and more developed than I was when I had last seen
her. I had a little hair on my legs, not much, but
visible. I also had under my jockeys a healthily
burgeoning patch of pubic hair that had replaced the light
blond fuzz and which, I suddenly realized, might be dimly
visible through the thin cloth. Hurrying into bed, I also
realized with even greater embarrassment that I had
developed in another area as well, which must surely have
been noticeable, not as the thimble-shaped white bulb near
the slit of my jockeys that she had seen in the past, but
as a definitely larger and more shapeless bulge.
Quickly, I lay on my side and pulled the sheet to my waist.
Looking officially satisfied, she reached to turn out the
bedside lamp. But instead, she changed her mind. Leaving
the light on, she got into bed with me and shoved me
farther to the other side. She lay next to me, facing me,
on her side with her head propped on one arm.
"Wanna talk?" she asked.
Continued...
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