“I’ll work an hour or so then make lemonade. It’s all that I’m eating. I’m trying to drop a few pounds.” She patted her perfect butt as if it were overweight.
“Don’t lose an ounce. Your butt is perfect.”
“How do you know? You’ve never seen it. Maybe it’s covered with acne,” she said with a teasing grin.
“I’d appreciate a glance,” he mumbled.
“I have to deal with my conscience. You don’t. A divorced man is asking to see my ass. It seems harmless.”
“It’s an aesthetic exercise,” he interjected.
“Oh well, Mr. Sunderson needs help.” She turned and bent slightly, pulled down her shorts speedily, no undies, and then back up. “First you see it, then you don’t,” she laughed.
He had concentrated on taking an imaginary photo with his eyes. The butt was superb and he felt breathless with his heart pounding. “Once more, please.”
“Not a chance. Maybe after my lemonade when I take my shower. I’m going sailing this afternoon.” She was holding a pair of knee pads for weeding. “Let’s make a deal. You get another look at the butt if you squeeze the lemons, and if you can help me with something I’m doing for a friend.”
“Fair enough,” he said as she hurriedly left the kitchen and went out the back door. Through the screen it was fetching when she bent over to put on her knee pads. A cautionary note flickered in his brain but failed to shine brightly. Toward the end of his relationship with Monica he had a drink with the prosecutor to discuss a case of vandalism at the local marina, where he’d done several big investigations in his time, and toward the end of the meeting the prosecutor had used the old expression “a word to the wise” which meant a bomb of some sort would drop. The upshot was the prosecutor claimed that he had received several complaints about Sunderson living with an underage girl. Her parents were both dead and that was why the case raised suspicion with local busybodies. Monica was actually nineteen, so there was no crime, but the prosecutor seemed to keep an eye on him after that.
Now here he was looking out his bedroom window at Barbara through binoculars. She was on her knees in the dahlias with her butt arched up like a beautiful house cat. He recalled that stupid song “Yummy Yummy Yummy (I got love in my tummy).” He felt suitably absurd. He recently had a lovely dinner with the new librarian for the solid pleasure of talking about books as he used to do with Diane. Now like a feeb he was waiting for another possible bare-butt viewing of Barbara when she had her lemonade. He felt a trace of shame. Act your age, he thought, but simply enough he didn’t want to. He was an old boy on the loose again.
He called Mona in Ann Arbor, didn’t get her, and left a long message until her voice mail lost its patience and cut out. Could they really howl like monkeys? He supposed he’d find out soon enough. Mona would enjoy snooping into this case.
The librarian hadn’t excited him except for her mind. Of course she would be a far wiser seduction then Barbara. If he had been warned about Monica they were ready for his next misstep. He suspected a junior member of the police force of possibly stirring up trouble. He was known as the “Kid” because he looked very young and had been hired as liaison to the area’s young people, something which he had trained for in college. The Kid had told Sunderson that his own thirteen-year-old sister had been sexually abused. Sunderson was curious because the Kid was obsessed with sexual abuse where there didn’t seem to be any suggestion of it, much less evidence. He called a friend on the force in Saginaw from which the Kid hailed and found out there was in fact no sister. There was an early complaint against the Kid in high school from the mother of a neighbor girl who claimed that the Kid had tampered with her daughter. Sunderson’s friend remembered this though no charges had been filed. He said that the Kid weepingly denied everything and although he was cleared he entered a long depression afterward. The Kid’s father was a sergeant on the local force and not above beating the shit out of his son. Sunderson had no conclusions, only suspicions, but found ironic the Kid’s zeal on sex cases and he had to be reprimanded for bringing so many cases with a very low conviction record.
Right now Sunderson was in a race against time. His fishing gear was packed near the front door and Marion was due in less than a half hour to go steelhead fishing on the Saint Marys River over in Sault Sainte Marie. Meanwhile, he had quickly squeezed the lemons and was aching to hear the downstairs shower shut off which would mean he was closer to another view. The thing she’d needed his help with was a hundred-dollar contribution to her friend’s abortion fund. They were poor folks but her friends were raising the money so the mother could take her daughter down to Mount Pleasant in central Michigan for the procedure. Suddenly the shower went off and she was at the counter mixing her lemonade. He boldly reached out and palmed a buttock. His cell phone rang obnoxiously. He turned it off noting it was Mona in Ann Arbor whom he could call back. Barbara drank deeply and went into the living room, sitting down in a big red T-shirt she’d borrowed which came all the way down to mid-thigh. He knelt before her confidently pushing the shirt up to her waist. This was the world peace he was thinking about and he was right there when it was happening. He put his hands behind her knees and pushed them toward her chest. He put a big wet kiss on her vagina boring in with his tongue until she made a small squeak and said, “Oh my goodness” over and over. And then they heard the steps on the front porch and Marion called out for Sunderson. Marion later admitted that the sight of the girl’s bicycle in the yard slowed him down a bit. Sunderson jumped up and nearly lost his balance falling backward. She deftly turned on the clicker tuning in one of many Saturday college football games. She pulled down the shirt and tried vainly to tidy herself.
“Hello, Barbara!” Marion practically exploded. Then he turned to Sunderson. “Barbara helped out in my office as a sixth grader. Now here she is almost all grown up.”
Sunderson noted that Marion put an emphasis on “almost” then glared at him.
Barbara seemed nearly frozen in place. She smiled at Marion. “I took a shower after working in the garden. Now I’m getting dressed so I can go sailing with my friends.”
Marion was polite enough to go into the kitchen and Sunderson followed after noting a wet spot on the back of Barbara’s T-shirt. She rushed off while they stood in the kitchen drinking some of her lemonade.
“Let’s go. We’re burning up the day. I packed some pot roast sandwiches for a late lunch.” While they loaded Sunderson’s fishing gear Barbara said goodbye, throwing a lovely leg over the bicycle seat. Sunderson winced at his coitus interruptus.
In the car headed east toward the Soo Marion seemed a bit cool and critical. He had graduated from college in psychology and of course had been a teacher and principal for decades. Sunderson expected a lecture. They were barely out of Marquette on Route 28 when it began.
“Monica was one thing. Everyone found it scandalous but she was nineteen so you slid under the wire. Barbara is a totally different matter. She’s fifteen. You’re my oldest friend and I want you to exercise care so you don’t end up in jail. There’s no fishing in jail. She’s a good kid and has no business wearing nothing but your T-shirt on the sofa. I can only guess what you were up to.” Sunderson hurriedly told the story of his contribution to the abortion fund which made Barbara innocently affectionate to him.
“Oh bullshit,” Marion exploded. “All the years I’ve known you you’ve had an eye out for young stuff. If I find out there’s anything going on my next call is Barbara’s parents and you’re headed for the slammer. May I remind you they relate your syndrome to the unlived life? I know that in high school you were a wrestler and a bone-crunching linebacker. All the pretty girls like quarterbacks, running backs, and nice clean basketball players. You were left out by the pretty ones and even late in life you’re hot on their track. Stop it. Period. Pursue Diane for Christ’s sake. Or the neighbor lady. I don’t care. Just don’t let your dick lead you to jail or more likely prison.”