Here’s Looking at You, Kid

an accidental romance in fifteen parts

by Douglas

Chapter 14 – ‘It Seems That Fate Has Taken A Hand’

I pressed the doorbell – the doorbell to Cole’s house – feeling like I’d fallen into a dream. Everything around me, everything I was seeing, slightly surreal.

Not a calm dream. My heart was pounding, like I’d done a sprint in the pool; and I was sweating in all the wrong places, I could feel it wet under my arms. I was so, so afraid.

And then the door opened, and light flooded out.

“You must be Jeremy,” came a bright, brittle, mock-cheerful voice. “Come in, please; oh, good, you’re right on time. Come in. Oh, I’m so glad you could join us!”

It was like walking into a lion’s den.

“I’m Jeannine,” said Cole’s mom, holding her hand out in my direction; and when I took her hand, she added her other hand, holding on to me, not quite letting me go. “You have to call me ‘Jeannine’; that’s what my son calls me, after all. Don’t you, dear?”

“Yes, Mother.”

I barely registered her, she was just a shape in the bright light, after the darkness; then my eyes slid over to Cole, standing off to one side, radiating a mix of fear and worry and hostility.

It was a preview of what the whole, gruesome evening was going to be about; Cole’s patented Cole-irony versus his mom’s own mocking, perfect-homemaker irony; a barely concealed clash between two of the strongest-willed people I’d ever met.

And I was very much in the crossfire.

“Cole, dear, perhaps you could take Jeremy’s coat? And if you’ll excuse me, I was just about to go wash the lettuce. Maybe you could show Jeremy around, dear, give him a little tour?” Then an arched eyebrow, perfectly timed, and an older, brittle version of Cole’s own half-smile. “Unless, of course, you’ve already given him one - ?”

“No,” went Cole. “I haven’t.” With a look at her that would have frozen my balls, if it’d been aimed in my direction. Then he turned to me. “Come on, I’ll show you my room.”

Down a hallway, through a beautiful, old wood door – the house reminded me of Jim & Greg’s, up in the hills; an old, small, bungalow – and then we were inside, and Cole was squeezing me, fiercely, and then he was giving me a hard, desperate kiss.

And then he held me back, at arm’s length, looking me up and down. “What the fuck were you THINKING?”, he hissed.

I made a face, and shrugged.

For once in my life, I’d dressed myself.

Derrick had watched, sitting pale-faced and unhappy on my bed, as I did it. He’d wanted me to dress young, like a younger teen; like a high-schooler. Like a non-threatening high school boy, closer to Cole’s age.

But I knew it was way, way too late, for that.

And even more, beyond the practicalities, I was sick beyond words of the dishonesty, the evasions, the whole apparatus of dating over the line of the age of consent; The Dance. I was sick of it years ago, and I’d been sick of it with Cole for months, now; I was just, thoroughly, sick of it.

So I dressed up.

Like an adult, actually. With my best corduroy jacket, and a dress shirt, and dark slacks and dress shoes, and everything; Derrick’d said I looked good, even if he didn’t think it was smart.

Yeah; perverse. I don’t even know why I did it. But I did.

Cole was still on about how I’d dressed. “Why did you DO that? You look – ”

I shut him up, by kissing him deep, a kiss backed up by my own desperation, and the fear of what was going to happen, tonight.

I’d brought a change of clothes, in my car. A whole suitcase full of clothes, actually, and travel stuff, in the little cargo area of my Mini Cooper. In case.

“Sorry, baby,” I whispered, eventually; looking down into his eyes. Then; “so this is your room?”

“Yeah.” He let me go, still radiating fear and unhappiness at the whole situation. “Here; give me your coat.”

I looked around, as he took my coat, and smoothed it out, and laid it out on his bed; fascinated, even through the fog of unreality and my own fear . . . and sadness, I realized.

I mean, it was so hugely interesting, to see this piece of Cole, this whole side of him I didn’t know anything about – the multiple servers and desktop systems, and his laptop, the books and the prints on his walls, the neat bedspread –

But it wasn’t the way I’d wanted to see all this. And we both knew, it was all too late.

“She still didn’t call the police.” Cole was back to hissing, under his breath. “She didn’t have time, we’ve both been here all day, I barely had time to call you, before.”

He’d called me, to give me the okay to come over. We were reduced to that; Cole as my lookout, for the police.

“But she won’t let me out of her sight!” His face was scrunched up, again. “I didn’t have a chance to look around. If she really does have a copy of our video, it’s got to be here. I can find it if I get a chance!”

Maybe she hid it better than she hides her cigarettes, I didn’t say. “And if she made more than one copy?” I could see him about to argue, so I leaned in and kissed him, quick. “Doesn’t matter. Doesn’t matter. Let’s just see what happens tonight; okay?”

“You’re not going anywhere without me,” he said again.

Except maybe prison. “No.” I kissed him, again. “No. Now we better get back, before she comes looking for us.”

*

“Jeremy, you’re the guest, you sit over her on my right. Cole, dear, you can sit over there.”

Still her mocking cheerfulness, over the barely-suppressed rage; it made Cole totally uncomfortable, I could tell, it was really getting to him, and he smoldered silently back at her as we sat down around the table.

“Would you like some salad, Jeremy?” She turned her terrible smile on me.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Jeannine; please, Jeannine.” And she started spooning some salad from a bowl onto my plate, with concentrated ferocity.

It was the first chance I’d had to really look at her.

And it was weird . . . she was so much LIKE Cole, but still, so different.

Younger than I expected; less than forty, easily. Brown eyes, like him, and brown, straight hair parted in the middle, even if it looked expensively cut . . . and I could so see the resemblance. In her face; in the way she held her head, as she spooned, and spooned, until I had an enormous heap on my plate, more than I could possibly eat, and I had to tell her to please stop.

But she was still a woman, a grown woman, with lines around her mouth – they didn’t strike me as happy lines – and makeup, maybe too much makeup, even if it did look expensive, and she was wearing what looked to me like a business suit, and it made me glad, actually, that I’d dressed up for this meeting, myself.

“Cole, dear?”

“Thank you, I’ll get it myself, Jeannine.” That tilt of his head, and then a quick flicker of suppressed reaction from his mother, as he took the bowl from her.

“Ah,” she said, looking back from her son. She reached for an open bottle of red wine, on the table, and lifted it. “For you, dear.” She carefully poured into a glass in front of Cole – just a half glass; I could see her measuring – and then she turned to me. “Cole’s allowed a half glass of wine with dinner. Aren’t you, dear? It’s in honor of our Italian heritage.” She turned to me. “Would you like some wine too, Jeremy?”

I hesitated, choosing my words. “Thank you, ma’am – ”

“Jeannine. I told you, Jeannine. Please, let me pour you a little . . . ”

“Thank you, but no. I’m in my car tonight – ”

And my eyes slid towards Cole, involuntarily; I could see a flash of fear cross his face, as I said it.

“ – and the police have a zero-tolerance policy for drivers under twenty-one. If I were stopped, and they found any alcohol in my blood at all, I’d lose my license.”

And under the circumstances, I could hear how absurd it sounded, as soon as it was out of my mouth.

“Oh. Well, then.” Cole’s mom smiled at me, the way a lioness would smile at prey. “I completely understand. It’s always best to avoid legal troubles, isn’t it?”

“Yes, ma’am.” I looked down, and tried not to wince.

“Jeannine.”

“Yes, Jeannine.”

The rest of the dinner went pretty much the same way.

To this day, I don’t remember what we ate. It could just as well have been cardboard, as far as I was concerned.

I do remember getting quizzed by Cole’s mom, about where I grew up, my family, my major, all that sort of stuff.

Pointedly – on her part – not including Cole in the conversation; except for an occasional, predatory smile at him, a barbed little comment, here and there.

Some of the barbs were aimed at me, too.

“I understand you’ve been tutoring my son, Jeremy?” That tilt to her head, that was like Cole’s but wasn’t.

“Yes . . . Jeannine.” I pushed some of my food around on the plate.

“And I believe you’re responsible for his history paper, last term? The paper on the English Civil War, that turned out more like a doctoral dissertation.” She fixed me with a sharp eye.

“I helped.” I shrugged. “I helped with the research, and suggestions; but Cole did all the original writing. He really does deserve all of the credit.”

“I’m sure you’re being too modest, Jeremy,” she said, brightly. “I’ve been trying to encourage Cole in his academic work for years, now, and I haven’t had nearly as much success.” She smiled, and cocked her head at me. “Tell me, do you tutor any other high school boys - ?”

“Jeannine – ” from Cole, sharp. I looked at him, fast, for a second.

“No, ma’am, “ I went; turning back to her. Quietly. “I don’t. Just Cole.”

*

And the dinner – if you could call it that – sputtered on. The questions from Cole’s mom came less frequently, after a time; the awkward silences between them grew longer, and longer.

Under the circumstances, I wasn’t really up for light conversation.

And finally, at last, even Cole’s mom put down her fork, and pushed her plate away. She’d been only pretending to eat for at least half an hour, now.

“I think I need a cigarette,” she announced, blankly, to the middle of the table. Her eyes moved to me; locked on mine. “Jeremy, would you join me outside? I believe we need to talk.”

No brittle cheerfulness, now. Grim seriousness. I swallowed.

“Of course.”

“Cole, perhaps you could clear the table.” It didn’t come out as a request. “You can do the rest of the washing up tomorrow morning, if you want.”

“‘I never make plans that far ahead’,” he went, pointedly. Another ‘Casablanca’ quote. A pointed one; fraught with meaning, here.

And for just an instant, mother and son stared at each other, silently, implacably, as I blinked, not saying anything.

It was cold outside, on the back steps outside the kitchen door. And dark; I could barely see Cole’s mom, as I sat down on a jutting corner of the tiny little deck, half-facing her, the gloomy, overgrown back yard looming around us.

She’d refilled her wine glass – all the way up – and brought it with her, along with the cigarettes and the lighter.

I listened, as she slowly shook out a cigarette; then, a tinkle of her bracelet, as she picked up her lighter; and then a rasp, and a flare of light in the dark.

My heart pounding so hard, my chest hurt.

She drew in the smoke quickly, harshly, the tip of her cigarette bright red; then raised her chin with a jerk, and exhaled in an impatient stream.

“Young man, I could get you into a great deal of trouble.”

Another quick, compulsive, jerky puff.

“Yes, ma’am.” The light from the kitchen window glinted on her hair. I could hear a click of dishes being scraped and put into the sink, inside.

“More trouble than I think you could imagine.”

“I don’t know, I can imagine a lot,” I said, looking down. It just came out of me.

“Do you think this is funny? Do you think this is a joke?” She looked over at me, sharply. “I assure you, young man, it is not.”

“No, ma’am. I know it’s not a joke. Believe me.”

“Good,” she said; “good.” She raised her wineglass, took a deep sip, and put it down with a thump of glass on wood.

“Ma’am – ”

She cut me off, staring sideways at me. “Tell me, young man, what is it exactly about my son that attracts adult lovers? Adult male lovers? Is there some quality or attribute in him that people like you find particularly attractive, something that people like you look for, in underage boys?” Her glare was angry, and sardonic, at the same time. “‘Or are you not the kind that tells?’”

I could feel myself flushing, bright red in the darkness. “It’s not like that – ”

“It isn’t? Are you telling me you’re not one of those people who specializes in the very young? That there isn’t something about high school boys that particularly attracts you? Some sort of immaturity, or susceptibility – ” she stopped a second, and her face hardened – “or is it perhaps something more physical than that?”

“No! I mean, no, ma’am.” My heart still pounding loud enough for me to hear it, in my ears; my mouth tasted foul. “It just . . . happened, with Cole and me. By accident. For both of us. I swear.” I swallowed. “I’ve never dated anyone younger than me – ”

“Until now,” she interrupted, harshly.

“Until now.” I looked at her; and I could see she didn’t believe me.

Another hard, angry pull on her cigarette; another stream of smoke exhaled.

“My son has informed me that if I were to go to the police with my evidence – ” a quick, sardonic flash of her eyes in my direction, as she emphasized the word, ‘evidence’ – “he would cease to consider me his mother.” A pause, for a heartbeat; then another, and another. “He means it. He does not make idle threats.”

“I’m – ”

“I still haven’t decided what to do. Whether I’ll take that risk.” Another pull on her cigarette, not looking at me; then she turned, and held my eyes, with a hard stare. “Tell me, Mr. Pederssen, have you and my son been safe? Have you been having safe sex?”

Another lurch, of my stomach. I felt a little sick. “Yes, ma’am . . . ”

The hard stare continued, pinning me. Furious. Unbelieving. Seeing through me. I looked down, again.

“We’re exclusive.” I swallowed, again. My voice sounded feeble, even to me. “We’re exclusive, to each other. We did do safe sex, all the time, and then we went to the clinic and got tested again, for everything. And – ”  I groped for the words –  “we’re exclusive.”

And so, I didn’t say, now I’m having unprotected anal intercourse with your son. I’m ejaculating inside him, without a condom. And if you haven’t already seen it, on video, now you’ve heard it from me.

“I see.” She crushed out her cigarette in the little ceramic bowl to her right, that was already filled with old butts; and went through the process of shaking out another cigarette, putting it up to her lips, lighting it. “So you’re being almost safe. So my son’s health and safety and his life depend on your honesty and good behavior.”

I didn’t say anything.

Another stream of smoke, from her pursed lips; and she shook her head, staring at nothing, for second after second. The silence was deep.

And then she began speaking, quietly; more to the garden, than to me.

“The last time my son was abused by an adult male – a promiscuous, dishonest, unfaithful adult male – I spent the next several months taking him to the clinic, having him tested for life-threatening diseases, coming back to hear the results, dreading to hear the results, and then taking him back again a few weeks later for followup tests, always waiting to hear the worst.” She paused, for another furious, obsessive pull on her cigarette. “Do you have any idea what that’s like?”

“A little.”

Derrick did; he’d been the one to go through it all, with me.

Cole’s mother glanced at me sharply, again. “At the time, my son promised me that he’d be honest with me, about his future relationships.” Her eyes stayed locked on mine. “And I promised myself that I would never go through anything remotely like that hell, ever again.” She let my eyes go, turned back to the dark garden, her smoldering cigarette sending up a lace of smoke. “My son has seen fit to break his promise to me. I’m not inclined to break my promise to myself.”

I breathed in the cold air, my guts clenched up in a knot.

“So, Mister Pederssen, tell me, how exactly are we going to resolve this situation?” Another furious puff on her cigarette; her face was rigid, in the light that leaked from the window. “What am I going to do about you?”

I still didn’t say anything; I just listened to the pounding of my heart, felt the ache in my chest.

“I could send Cole to live with his father, for the next year or so – ”

“Oh, no,” I breathed.

“What?” She glared at me sideways, again.

“I . . . I don’t think that would be good for him.” I thought about Cole in Santa Monica; in exile, away from Trevor, miserable, alone with his absentee father.

Her eyes on mine were sardonic, again. “Well. We agree on something, anyway.”

Another long, deep puff, and she turned back to the garden.

“Or we could do it a little more simply. I could strongly suggest that you transfer to UC San Diego as soon as possible; although a school on the East Coast might be better.” She nodded to herself, briefly. “Yes; it might. You could withdraw now, the semester here hasn’t started yet, and you could transfer somewhere else this summer or fall. Or maybe I shouldn’t even settle for just that; maybe I should follow that up, just for good measure, by filing a formal complaint against you with the Student Learning Center – ” she paused, a second to glance at me – “what in the WORLD were you thinking, by becoming Cole’s tutor? Do you have any idea at all how that would look in court? How much worse that would make your case look, to a jury, or a sentencing judge? Abusing a position of trust, a teacher-student relationship?”

“It was the only reason we had to spend so much time together.” I was hugging my arms around myself, now. Not quite looking at her.

A long beat of silence, between us. Feeling her eyes on me.

“A complaint with the Student Learning Center,” she went on, evenly; “And possibly even a lawsuit; that would be amusing, filing a civil lawsuit for negligence against my own employer.” Another deep, jerky puff; and exhalation. “And then there’s always the possibility of a civil restraining order. And then, there is the Berkeley Police Department. This may be a very liberal city, as cities go, Mr. Pederssen, but believe me, the police here take statutory rape and the production of child pornography very seriously.” Her voice was lower now, with a note of savagery in it. “Tell me, Mr. Pederssen, can you give me one good reason why I shouldn’t do just that? Why I shouldn’t start all of the processes that would see you out of this school, out of this city, and perhaps locked up and out of my son’s life?”

There was only one answer. And I already knew how it would sound.

“We love each other,” I said; looking at my feet. “I love Cole. And he loves me.”

I heard her exhale.

“’Love’”, she repeated. “Yes. Love. Tell me, young man, how many children have you given birth to?” Her voice was acid. “How many children have you spent your life raising? How many years have you spent, trying to keep your child from self-immolation, by one method or another? How would you define ‘love’, in this situation, this context?”

I thought about my car, so close by. I thought about Mexico; I thought about Cole following me there.

I thought about choices.

“Maybe love means putting somebody else’s best interests ahead of your own,” I said, hollowly. “Even when it’s really hard to do.”

I glanced up at her; and all at once I could tell, she’d taken it wrong, her eyes were wide, surprised and furious, her nostrils were actually flaring; she looked like she wanted to hit me.

“I’m not talking about you!” My surprise jolted me, made it all come out rough. “I’m not talking about you and Cole. I’m talking about me and Cole!”

As I watched, I saw her face change; the fury replaced by a quick flash of – shame, maybe; and then back to hard skepticism.

And that, for some reason, set me off.

“Why do you think I’m here?” It came out a little too loud; and to my horror, I could hear the stress underneath it. The spasm of tears, close to the surface. “Why do you think I’m here? I could have been in – ”  I stopped myself, a second; and I swallowed, blinking hard. “I could have been in another country by now. I could have been SAFE, by now. Tonight. I had it planned out. But Cole would have followed me, there wouldn’t have been anything I could say or do to keep him from following me, even if I didn’t want him to, and then what? What kind of life could I offer him, in another country? Maybe as an illegal, maybe on the run?” I stopped, and breathed, my voice right on the edge of breaking completely.

And I looked down, and sniffed, once, loudly, blinking back the tears in the deadly quiet that followed. Wiping my nose on my hand. Utterly ruined.

Okay. Here’s the thing.

I’m not tremendously good at being noble.

I won’t even begin to pretend that I’d decided to sacrifice myself, for Cole’s sake; that I’d willingly go to prison – if it came to that – so that he’d stay in Berkeley and have a normal life. My car keys were in my pocket; part of me wanted to get up and walk out, right then, walk or run to my car, and drive. South.

But.

Even as I turned over the fantasies in my mind – me teaching gringos to surf in Cabo San Lucas, maybe, while Cole did tech support for wealthy tourists, for money under the table . . . or maybe even both of us opening up Cole’s Cafe Americain in Yalapa, this little counterculture, ganja-soaked, half-American-hippy village I knew about south of Puerto Vallarta, reachable only by boat . . .

Even as I clung to those fantasies, I knew it would never work. Never be real.

Oh, I could still go; although now that Cole’s mom had seen me, could identify me visually, it would be a thousand times more dangerous. After tonight, there could well be a warrant out for me, relatively quickly.

But I could still go, if I left tonight. And Cole would still follow me; I knew him. Even if I didn’t tell him where I was, where I was going, he’d follow me, and by sheer force of will make me take responsibility for him. If nothing else, he’d come down to Mexico and leave messages for me, make me come pick him up in Tijuana or Ensenada or wherever he was, even if he had to strand himself without money, and put himself in real danger, to do it; and then we’d be together.

And for awhile it would fantastic, it would be wonderful, it would be the adventure of a lifetime. And between the two of us, we’d be okay; between my adult status, and what money I had, and Cole’s determination. We’d make it.

But I knew it wouldn’t really work.

Because somewhere, sometime along the line, I’d start looking for the regret on Cole’s face. I’d look for the regret, that he hadn’t had a chance to finish high school; that he couldn’t go home. That he couldn’t finish growing up with Trevor; maybe that, most of all.

He’d never say anything to me; I knew that, too. He’d try to hide it. But I’d be looking for the regret, and I’d know I was responsible, and it would kill me to see it.

I’m not good at being noble. But at that moment, in Cole’s back yard – I honestly didn’t know what I was going to do. Go; or stay.

I sniffed, again. Looking at the cement under my feet.

Cole’s mom took another, longer drag on her cigarette; I could hear the faint crackle of the paper burning, in the silence, and then a long, deep exhalation a moment later.

Go; or stay.

Off in the distance, a dog barked. The wind in the branches of the trees, in the bushes, made a kind of a rushing sound, reminding me of the hissing sound that waves make running up on the sand.

Another rattle from her bracelet, as she brought the cigarette to her lips again. Another glow of red, as she inhaled.

Minutes ticked by. One, then another, then another; I didn’t know how many, in all. Minute after minute. Feeling her eyes on me; not daring to look up, to show my face.

Maybe it was already too late. Maybe I’d already missed my chance.

If I wanted to go.

“I didn’t expect you to come here, tonight,” she said, abruptly. Into the silence.

I didn’t say anything.

“I expected you to run away, when you heard the invitation. I thought you’d at least go back to wherever you came from – to San Diego, it turns out. And so, when you showed up at the front door, I was all the more angry with you.”

More silence. She lifted her wine glass again, and took another deep sip; and then, holding it, not putting it down, another sip, before setting it down gently.

Another long pull, on her cigarette. Another long, terrible stretch of silence.

“You did well with Trevor.” I felt her eyes sliding over to mine. “You did very well with him; you acted very responsibly. You took care of him.” A short pause. “Cole and I are both in your debt.”

“I didn’t do it for Cole,” I said. My voice still sounding stressed, to me.

“No. I expect not.”

More quiet; more wind in the branches.

Cole’s mom put out the stub of her cigarette, grinding it down forcefully; then went through the process again, shaking out another one, putting it to her lips, lighting it. She puffed at it, once, then took it out of her mouth and held it up, looking at the glowing tip in the gloom.

“Cole’s stopped smoking.” She said it as if she were talking to herself.

“Yes. Ma’am.”

I’d told him around Thanksgiving, I thought I could taste it in his cum. So we did a comparative taste test, his against mine, a little later. He’d stopped smoking that night.

Another long, deep, quiet puff.

“And his grades are up.” A quick, hard glance over at me. “His grades were never DOWN, mind you. He just wasn’t consistently working to his full potential. He was uneven. But his grades this last semester were significantly better. Better in detail.”

“Yes.”

We’d been studying together all semester. But the last few weeks, when we got together in my dorm room for a tutoring session, were different. We’d do something quick, first – something sexual – and then we’d study together; side by side, touching.

Usually naked. On my bed. Knowing that we’d fuck, fuck really well, the way we wanted, after the studying was done. Before he went home.

I looked away, fast. Not wanting her to see it on my face.

Another pause. More smoke, blown into the wind.

“And he’s dressing better.” Her voice thoughtful, now; looking down, not at me. She rubbed her upper arms with her hands, briefly, in the cold. And then last, and most softly of all: “And he seems happier. He seems happy . . . ” Her voice trailed off.

I couldn’t say anything. My emotions just weren’t registering; I just looked at her.

Another long pause. Second after second, after second. At least a full minute. Then another minute, while the smoke from her cigarette laced upward.

“I want him to have his cell phone with him at all times,” she said, finally, and her voice was back to being firm; clipped, almost harsh. “His own cell phone; not Trevor’s, not yours, not that disposable thing he’s been using. I want it on, and I want him to pick up when I call him.”

I just gaped at her.

“I’ll want to see this new apartment of yours, before he sets foot in it. And I’ll want to see the lease agreement.” Her eyes were hard, too, now, and boring into mine. “It had all better be legitimate. And safe.”

“Yes . . . ma’am.” It came out weakly.

“No drugs. No alcohol. No risky behavior. No excuses. I mean it.” An edge of menace in her voice, now.

“I understand,” I said. Not really understanding, right then.

She held me with her eyes, as she inhaled on the cigarette again, then let out another stream of smoke, to one side.

“I want him home early on school nights. Home here. Early. Eight o’clock – ”

“But we study until nine,” came Cole’s voice, from the open kitchen window; sounding like he was outside on the deck with us.

“Eight thirty; not a minute later,” she went on, not missing a beat. Unsurprised. “I mean that too.”

“Okay, mom.” The kitchen door opened, and Cole came out, shuffling slowly; sitting down in back of her, wrapping his arms around her, burying his cheek against the back of her neck. “Thank you, mom,” he said, and his voice was muffled. “Thank you, mom.” It was almost a whisper, now. “Thank you.”

*  *  *  *  *

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