Greg's Mom

I let myself in through the garage, the way I always used to when I was a kid. The code on the keypad was still her wedding anniversary. Stupid bitch. Every year, she swore she’d change it, and every year she forgot. I told her this was a safety issue, but she never listened to warnings, not when I was twelve, not when I was twenty, not now that I was back in the Midwest with a duffel bag full of implements and nothing resembling a real job.

The house smelled exactly the same. Lemon Pledge, cheap candle wax, stale air from a climate system that never switched off. I stood in the mudroom and watched the second hand on my watch, counting out a full minute in silence, just to see if she’d notice. She didn’t. She was humming in the kitchen, a vague, tuneless sound, more like a low electrical hum than a song.

“Greg?” she called, the sound hitting me in the chest like a ricocheted pellet. She always sounded both hopeful and afraid when she used my name. “Is that you? I thought you were…”

“Hi, Mom,” I said, stepping into the kitchen. “You’re home early.”

She spun around so fast she nearly lost her grip on the knife in her hand. For a second, her eyes darted up and down my body, as if searching for something unfamiliar. Maybe it was the beard, or the ten pounds I’d put on, or maybe she could smell the metal and leather sweating inside the duffel. Maybe she was looking for a reason to send me right back out the door, and maybe, just for a second, I gave her one.

“I wasn’t expecting you,” she said, smile twitching at the corners. Her hair had gone silver at the roots, growing in like frost on asphalt. “I’d have made something if you’d called.”

I shrugged and leaned against the refrigerator. “Didn’t want to make a big deal out of it. Last-minute, you know?” I let my eyes drift to the window, counting the seconds before she’d start the small talk script: How’s the job, Greg? When’s the last time you saw your father? Are you still seeing that girl, the one with the tattoos and the face piercings? She always claimed not to be judgmental, but you could measure the contempt in her sentences the way you could taste iron in blood.

“Your timing is lucky,” she said, switching off the stove. “There’s leftovers. Or I could make sandwiches?”

My blank face stared back. “A sandwich is good.”

She tried to laugh, but it caught somewhere in her neck and came out as a cough. “You always were easy,” she said, then immediately blushed, as if the phrase had too many meanings. The knife made a tap-tap-tap on the cutting board as she shaved the crusts from a loaf of supermarket bread.

The silence stretched, as I watched her, counting her breaths and mine, matching the rhythm of the blade. When she looked up, I gave her a deadpan smile and gestured to the duffel at my feet. “I brought a few things,” I said. “Might stay a couple nights.”

Mom’s eyes flicked to the bag, then up to my face. I saw the quick, involuntary tic of her throat, the way her tongue pressed into the side of her mouth before she said, “Of course. The guest room’s always ready. Your sheets are clean, I just…” She cut herself off, as if the next words were classified. She had never been good at small talk, and with me she was worse.

I let my gaze drift over the room, cataloging the changes: new backsplash, different barstools, the slow encroachment of potted succulents along the sill above the sink. Nothing that would cost more than a hundred dollars. Nothing that suggested she was happy, or had anyone to impress.

She handed me the sandwich on a plate, then sat across the kitchen island with her hands folded tight. “Are you really staying?” she asked, voice brittle as a communion wafer. “You’re not just passing through?”

One shoulder lifted in a shrug “Maybe. Depends on how the weekend goes.” I took a bite of sandwich. It was as bland and soft as I remembered. “You look good, Mom. Been working out?”

She looked away, color blooming on her cheeks. “Don’t be ridiculous.” Then, unable to resist: “You look tired. Are you sleeping? You know, I read an article that said…”

“I’m fine, Mom.” I chewed, watching the way her hands twitched and clenched. “Don’t worry about me.”

Silence blossomed. For a long minute, we sat in a kind of suspended animation, the way bomb techs must sit just before they cut the red wire. Finally, she said, “Well, I suppose you’ll want coffee?” and stood, reaching for the French press she’d had since the 1990s.

“Sure,” I said, my voice flat.

She moved to the sink. I followed her with my eyes but kept my body loose, relaxed, my hands open. I waited until her back was turned before I moved, slow and silent, circling the island so I was just behind her and to the right. My cock throbbed, lifting its head in anticipation of what I was doing.

The French press clunked on the counter. She fiddled with the kettle, humming again, the sound brittle and wavering. I inhaled through my nose, letting the smell of her shampoo, her skin, the faint peppery bite of anxiety, fill my head. I eased the duffel open at my hip, sliding the zipper just wide enough to slide my hand inside.

The revolver was cold, slick with oil, the grip as familiar as the handle of a kitchen knife. I took it out one-handed, keeping it low ...