Tales from Brooklyn: Short Stories About Love (Actually Sex): Part 2

by T. J. Clarke

“You have sex with my mother.”

His tone is flat. He could have said, “I have a dog.” Or, “I ate burritos for lunch.”

I can feel my cheeks burning. It is idiotic, but I sincerely believed, all these weeks that Nan and I had spent together, pretending to go to the movies but instead ending up in my apartment, fucking each other madly like teenagers, that Devon didn’t know, didn’t even have a clue. But he knew all along.

“I am sorry” is all I know to say.

A smirk flits across his lips and is quickly gone. He shoots me a look that confirms his superiority. He is the man of this household. He knows its secrets. I want to go back into the kitchen and tell Nan that it is all over. I am not ready for this. It was foolish to think that I could have been.

It is nighttime. Nan is inside the house cooking dinner. I tried to help, but was sent outside to “check if Devon wants a salad.” I understood that Nan wanted me to talk to Devon more. Not necessarily to become fast friends, but to get to know each other so we could have something to talk about during dinner. Our outings are becoming less frequent. We only had sex once this past week. I sense that she wants to get back into her old routine: work, groceries, then dinner with Devon, when they catch each other up on their lives. She has lived this way for the last 15 years. Who am I to change it?

Nan had Devon young. I am twenty-seven. Devon is seventeen, still a child. But at this moment, Devon has all of the power. Warm light streams out onto the deck from the dining room windows. Devon dribbles the basketball to the far corner of the yard. A crisp, hollow twang springs up from the ground every time the ball hits the concrete. He turns and aims. The ball traces an arc and lands directly in the hoop. He is full of confidence, the grace of youth.

He is alone on the court, but he plays as if surrounded by fierce opponents. He moves quickly against a first defender, looks for a teammate, sees no openings. So he goes for it alone. He jumps. Layup. He scores.

“Great shot.” I can try.

The neighbor’s porch light had come on. But Devon’s face is still half hidden in the evening darkness. I can’t see but I know the smirk is back. Like a warrior collecting his weapon after a victorious battle, he runs to the yard’s edge to retrieve the ball.

“Do you want a salad?” I haven’t forgotten my purpose for coming out here.

He isn’t listening to me. Or at least he is pretending not to hear. He throws another perfect arc. The ball spins twice around the rim of the hoop and then falls in.

In the kitchen Nan is making beef rendang. Three plates are set out on the dining room table. The tangy, warm scent of tamarind and cardamom brings my mind back to the first time we had sex. She was warm and sweet. Nan sees me walk in and gestures me toward the stove. She hands me a small plate full of potatoes and beef, all carefully cut into small pieces.

“Try the wine with this,” she says.

I eat a pice of the beef. “Devon knows.”

“What does Devon know?” Her mind is focused on the multiple, bubbling pots on the stove.

“Devon knows that we are having sex.” I am surprised at how sharp and squeaky my voice sounds. I am no match for this kid.

“Oh, of course he does. I told him.” Nan says this without looking up.

“What?” Hot steam rises from the pot containing the rendang. The sauce has almost completely evaporated. Dinner will be ready in no time. “When?” I managed to squeak out another word.

She is looking at me now. “I don’t remember, a couple of weeks ago, when we first started. Why are you so surprised? He is not a kid.”

Of course. Of course she would have told him. The powers have shifted again. Now I am the child, the fool who thought lies are the best alternatives to truth.

“Look, I didn’t tell him anything else. But he has to know what your role in my life is.” She knows she is right. “Can you let Devon know that dinner is ready? And check your phone, it rang a couple of times.”

There is a text message from Dree: I think Jason and I broke up.

Previously: Part 1

T. J. Clarke is the pen name of a struggling writer. She lives in Brooklyn.