Literary Orphans

Stepfather by Ralph Uttaro

Maggie had been nervous about bringing me home.  Now we sat in her living room turning the stiff, plastic-coated pages of a photo album.  Maggie riding a swing in a flowered dress and white tights, short stick legs in white leotards extended toward the sky.  Maggie standing in the driveway waiting for the school bus, a shiny book bag hugged to her chest. Maggie deep in a bubble bath, a wisp of foam dotting her nose.

The front door swung open and a short, compact man entered the foyer.  He had blue eyes and sandy hair just a shade darker than his khaki-colored work shirt.  The shirt appeared to be a size too small, the oblong white patch over the right pocket containing the words “Reliable Heating and Cooling” in brown script letters.  An identical patch over his left breast identified him as “Randy”.  He crossed the room and extended his hand.  I rose from the sofa and shook it.

“Randy Webb.  Please to meetcha’.  Welcome to our home.”  He made a sweeping gesture with his arm.

“Sal Toscano,” I said.  “Maggie has told me so much about you.”

“Is that so?”

He smiled awkwardly.  Maggie never moved.  The air in the room tightened like a coiling spring.

The visit had been my idea. Maggie and I had been dating for almost two years, it had been six months since I moved in with her, we were shopping for an engagement ring.

“So when do I meet the in-laws?” I asked her one night.

“I’m not sure I want you to.”

“Why not?”

“I’m afraid you won’t want to marry me if you do.”  I laughed. She didn’t.

“Oh, c’mon, they can’t be that bad.  Besides you’re going to have to introduce me to your parents eventually.  Like at the wedding?”

“They’re not my parents.  He’s my stepfather.”

 

Maggie’s mother appeared from the kitchen and handed Randy a can of Bud Light.  He curled himself into the wing chair across from us.  His movements were surprisingly furtive and delicate, almost cat-like.  He pulled back the tab on the top of the can and took a long swallow.

“Maggie and Sal just got in a few minutes ago.” Her voice was overly cheerful.  She perched herself on the arm of the sofa closest to Maggie.  “Five hours it took them.  From Boston.”

“You don’t say.”  Randy took another swallow.

The room fell silent.  A clock I hadn’t noticed before ticked loudly.  Randy’s eyes locked in on Maggie’s, his lips spread into a tight smile.    I felt her shudder.  His eyes moved slowly, possessively, defiantly down the length of her body.   He took in her smooth shoulders, the subtle curves under the yellow cotton of her sundress, her toned thighs, the cherry red polish on her sandalled toes.  Maggie’s mother seemed to edge closer.  Randy drained what remained of the beer.  His eyes met Maggie’s again. His smile widened.  That was when I knew.

 

Maggie’s mother tried, in her brittle high-pitched voice, to keep a conversation going at the dinner table, but there were gulfs of silence broken only by the scraping of forks and knives on china.  The beef was overcooked and leathery, the mashed potatoes were cold.  I drank Bud Light straight out of the can like Randy did.  No one offered me a glass.

We retired early when Maggie announced that she felt a migraine coming on.  By the time I finished brushing my teeth, the lights were off and Maggie had a wet washcloth pressed to her face.  During the night I heard her softly crying.  She was turned away from me, her shoulders heaving gently.  I slid over and wrapped my arm around her waist.

“It’s okay,” I said quietly.

“Are you sure?”  She let loose now, her body trembling.

I pulled her closer, buried my face in her hair, kissed the back of her neck.  Her breathing gradually softened, she drifted off to sleep.  I watched the red numbers on the clock radio roll forward.  I wasn’t sure and that scared me.

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Ralph Uttaro’s work has most recently appeared in Cortland Review, Apeiron Review and Blue Five Notebook.  His short stories have twice been nominated for the storySouth Million Writers award.  He lives in Rochester, New York with his wife Pamela.

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Art by Marja van den Hurk and Stephanie Ann

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