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From: Incest Man <familyincest@graffiti.net>
Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.incest,alt.sex.incest,alt.sex.stories,alt.stories.incest
Subject: Story "The Adventures of Me and Martha Jane" part 5B
Date: Sat, 02 Jul 2005 14:02:24 -0700
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http://www.incesttabooo.com/taboo.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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