The Shrine

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This was a lot of fun to write – the story came to me in an instant literally fully formed. I hope you like it. As always, this is a work of fiction, all characters exist only within the confines of the story and in my head. Let me hear from you – your opinions are important! Enjoy!

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I looked out the window and saw the city of Chicago beneath me as the plane banked and began it’s descent into O’Hare Airport. The lights of the city sparkled and glittered, enhanced by the rain that was coming down. I turned my attention back to the lifeless cell phone I cradled in my hands and gave a heavy sigh. It would only be a few minutes before I could turn it back on and see if I had any messages from my son. I hoped he’d gotten my messages, otherwise he was going to be surprised when I showed up at his door.

Once we’d landed and had the stewardess’ blessing, I anxiously powered up my phone. My heart leapt as it told me I had four messages and then my heart sank as I saw they were all from my husband…soon to be ex-husband. “Asshole,” I muttered as I deleted them unseen.

Once I collected my only bag, a duffel bag with a shoulder strap stuffed with what few clothes I had paused long enough to gather, I tried my son’s cell phone again. Again, I was directed to leave a message. Resisting the urge to sigh, I took a deep breath and said, “John, it’s Mom again. Like I said earlier, I’ve left Benny. I’m at O’Hare and hoping I can stay with you for a few days. I’m taking a cab to your place. Hope I see you soon.” I paused and then added, “I love you!”

I sat back for the long taxi ride into the city, the driver a sullen young white man with a lot of metal in his face who was dually focused on his loud, bass driven hip-hop music and keeping us on the now slick roads as the rain was slowly changing to ice. I shivered, still dressed for the warmer Florida weather, forgetting how cold it could still get in late March in Chicago. As we moved down the highway, gradually sliding off onto the wet, gleaming streets of the city, I marveled at how my life had changed in less than a day.

Yesterday, I was Cassie Blaylock, wife to Benny, an often unemployed construction worker in Pensacola, Florida and prominent deacon in the city’s most conservative church. Benny was lazy, but powerfully religious — preferring to view his down-time from work as simply God’s way of freeing him up to work the church’s ministry to our community. Benny was my second husband, my son’s father having passed away from cancer when John was only two. Two years later, I remarried, finding solace in religion and for a while, in my new husband.

John and Benny never got along — fighting from the start with Benny always claiming that John “had the Devil in him.” When John defied his wishes to enter a conservative religious college in Tallahassee, choosing instead Northwestern University in Illinois, Benny had all but disowned my son and I hadn’t seen my son in nearly six years.

Oh, I’d stayed in touch with letters, phone calls and emails, but Benny had made clear that my son wasn’t welcome at home anymore, not that John would have stepped across our threshold. I had been caught in the middle and had seen no other course than to stay with my husband. After all, my son was now a man and getting on with his life. While I was nowhere near as devoted to God and the church as Benny, I felt my place was with him. It didn’t make me happy, but that was life.

Two years ago though, things had begun to really spiral out of control. Benny announced that he was devoting himself to being a lay preacher which meant he wasn’t going to be working at construction anymore. Oh, he brought in pocket change, performing the occasional funeral or wedding, but it was my job as the cafeteria supervisor at a local junior high school that paid the bills…barely.

That was frustrating enough, but Benny also decided that being more “godly” meant he was to be more celibate, that with our child rearing days behind us, sex was something we didn’t need anymore. Maybe at age forty-five, I didn’t necessarily need sex anymore, but that didn’t mean I wanted to give it up. Our sex life didn’t exactly light me on fire, but I had enjoyed the once or twice a week vanilla lovemaking that we’d shared for years and now found myself growing more frustrated as time went on. I remained faithful, although the temptation was always there. I bought myself a short, vibrating friend in secret and kept the edge off with masturbation while Benny was out spreading the word of God.

The straw that broke the camel’s back came this morning though, when Benny announced plans to basically sign over the house to the Church. “We can live here through our declining years,” he explained to me at the kitchen table as calmly as if he’d bought a new toaster or shovel, “But it will be our tithe to God.”

Now, over the years, I’d put up with a lot from Benny — I knew he loved me and we’d had good times together, albeit less lately and while never as religious in my heart as he was, escort ataşehir I’d been raised in an old fashioned Christian home and had been a good and obedient wife, but this had been too much.”

“I don’t think so,” I’d snapped back. “I’ve worked myself near to death to pay off the mortgage for the last twenty years and now that we own this place free and clear, you’re not giving it away!” I don’t know what pissed me off more — that he would try and give our house away or that he would give it away after I, pretty much by myself, had worked and paid for.

Benny’s face grew red and he hissed at me, “Remember your place, wife. I’m not asking you — I’m telling you. I’m the husband, your’s is to obey, praise God!”

“You might be the husband, Benny Blaylock, but I’m the one who worked her ass off while you sat on your lazy butt and prayed all day. I paid for this house and you’re not giving it to the church!”

The argument got ugly from there, with screams and shouts and Benny quoting scripture until I told him he could take God and the church and shove them up his ass. So he slapped me…hard….hard enough to knock me down. When I picked myself up off the ground, I didn’t say a word, but walked away, went upstairs, threw a few clothes and things into an old nylon duffel bag and grabbed my shoulder bag — my big purse that weighs a ton and holds my wallet and makeup and other assorted things a woman needs.

As I tried to leave the house, Benny tried to stop me. When he growled, “Know you place, woman,” and raised his hand to slap me again, I swung my purse hard and left my husband curled up on the ground, his hands cupping his busted balls and praying to God for relief.

I climbed in my old, rusting minivan — the “Mom-mobile” my son had called it, and drove to the bank where I took out half of what we had in checking and in savings — not that it was a lot. I called school and made arrangements for a leave. I called a lawyer — a young man who remembered me from his junior high cafeteria days, who said he’d take care of things about the house and start the divorce proceedings and then I headed to the airport.

I sat in long-term parking for I’m not sure how long before I decided I needed to get away, at least for a few days. My son, John, came to my mind — being literally all the family I had and I bought a ticket to Chicago and now I was in a taxi pulling up to a large high rise near the downtown area with the rain and ice coming down in buckets.

Paying off the cabbie, I was out the door with my bag just as a doorman in a ornate, yet threadbare uniform came rushing out with an umbrella. Despite his best efforts, I looked like a drowned rat before we both got inside the apartment building, after slipping and sliding across the sidewalk.

I’m sure I looked ridiculous wearing khaki capris and a short sleeved cotton blouse under a light nylon windbreaker in the middle of what appeared to be a late winter event. The doorman folded up his umbrella and eyed me with concern as I stood there, my long black-gray hair in tangles, dripping water on the nice marble floor of his lobby as I shivered with cold. Dark eyes wedged into a roughly hewed Mediterranean face studied me.

“Can I help you, ma’am?” he asked in a tone that indicated that he doubted it. Obviously, he knew all the tenants on sight and he was positive I wasn’t amongst them.

“Um…I hope so. I’m uh, Cassandra Blaylock. My son lives here — his name is John Harper. Could you let him…”

“Yes, Mrs Blaylock!” The doorman suddenly snapped to attention, his tone now filled with respect and deference. “Mr. Harper called, ma’am and asked us to let you into his apartment. He wishes you to know he’s been detained in Billings…um, Billings, Montana on business and is having trouble with his cell phone. He will call you later this evening. If you need anything, Mrs. Blaylock, please just let us know.”

The doorman went around a table covered in the same marble that was on the floor and retrieved a set of keys. He took my travel bag and gestured towards an elevator. “I’ll show you up, ma’am.”

A little overwhelmed by his sudden change in attitude, I rode up the elevator, not speaking as he managed to tell me at least three times what a fine young man, my son, Mr. Harper was. John apparently lived on one of the higher floors and the elevator, while very stately, moved slow. As we moved, I paused to consider the one good thing my life seemed to have produced, my son.

As I already said, John never got along with Benny and when given a chance to be adopted by him, refused, saying that even if he didn’t really remember his father, it was wrong to change his name. On this, I had stood firm with Benny and supported John. My son never really bought into the whole church thing, preferring to do his praying before circuit boards and computers. He was on the whole, a proud computer nerd, although I preferred the word “whiz.” Slightly stocky and plagued with acne all through junior high kadıköy escort and high school, he never dated, preferring his ever more complex computers and the small circle of friends who shared his interests.

Oh, he liked girls, judging from the computer porn I would find running on his computer screen sometimes or the girlie magazines he had under the mattress of his bed and I recognized the signs of masturbation on his sheets quite often, but never thought anything of it. Even when he was first struggling with puberty and snuck a few peeks of me in the shower, I never really worried about it. He was a growing boy and that’s what they did.

I had hoped that once he was at college, he’d meet some nice woman, but in our many phone conversations, he’d laugh and tell me, “No, Mom. There’s no one here. That’s okay, though. You’re still my girl, aren’t you?”

I would laugh and tell him yes, remembering the little boy I had raised who’d before his teenage years would snuggle with me and giggle before telling me he was my fella. I would hug and kiss on my son and tell him, “And I’m your girl.”

I missed him something terrible, but took pride in hearing of his accomplishments, although at times, they seemed a bit surreal. He’d finished his degree in two and a half years and opted to not pursue higher degrees when a data systems company lured him into their employ with what sounded like an unbelievable amount of money for a twenty-year old to be making. All those years preoccupied with computers had paid off. By the time he was twenty-two, he’d developed a couple of patents that he’d sold to his company for a fortune plus future royalties.

With his new found fortune, John had offered to help me out many times, but I knew that whatever he’d send me would somehow be directed right into Benny’s church and although I could have kept it secret, I tried to not be dishonest with my husband and so had always told my son no.

My reverie was broken as the elevator came to a halt and the doorman led me into a hallway with only four doors — two on each side. We paused before one and using the keys, he opened the door, stepped in to set down my bag and then stepped out. “Mr. Harper asked us to make you a set of keys, so you can come and go as you like, Mrs. Blaylock.” He dropped them into my open palm and tipped his cap.

As he moved away, I suddenly remembered where I was and reached into my shoulder bag for my wallet, but the doorman shook his head and said, “Mr. Harper takes care of me, ma’am.” He tipped his hat again and added, “You need anything, Mrs. Blaylock, call downstairs to the lobby. Ask for Anthony.” He smiled, great white teeth splitting his craggy features as he said, “Anything you need, just call, ma’am.” Then he was gone and I closed the door behind me, finally after a crazy day, safe in my son’s home.

I slowly took in a large living room — definitely the home of a bachelor with lots of leather and chrome furniture — Star Wars and Lord of the Rings movie posters adorning two walls — a big screen television adorning another and a cluttered pile of equipment which I assumed comprised game systems and DVD player. On a glass-topped coffee table were several remote controls lined up in perfect order, flanked by empty soda cans and a pizza box, empty except for a few dried up crusts. A tie was flung over the arm of a leather sofa and I counted at least three pairs of socks scattered about.

I began walking towards the kitchen, spying it past a pony wall, but paused as on one wall was a large framed photograph and I had to smile and warmness washed over me. It was a picture of John and me — taken the night he graduated from high school, his arm around my shoulders and both of us smiling from ear to ear. It suddenly occurred to me that that might have been the last really happy moment for us as Benny had soon banished my son from our lives. I suddenly ached to see my John and hug him. Talking weekly on the phone didn’t take the place of actually being around my only child. How much I had missed him over the last several years washed over me in a wave that was almost staggering.

Eyes tearing up, I tried to divert my thoughts by exploring my son’s home. The kitchen was very up to date — all shining stainless steel appliances, although beyond some canned soups in the cupboard, cokes and the remnants of take out Chinese food in the refrigerator along with some frozen dinners in the freezer, there wasn’t much in the way of sustenance.

My tour led me next to the bedroom — a king size bed centered the room, clothes scattered all about and a slightly messy bathroom beyond it. At least there weren’t mushrooms growing behind the toilet or in the bathtub. My John wasn’t the best housekeeper but he wasn’t a total slob either. I found another bathroom further along the hallway and a second bedroom that John had turned into a small and very functional office.

For work, it appeared that my son kept a very ordered house. I didn’t know much about John’s work, maltepe escort bayan but I knew he was very talented at setting up and data tracking systems for insurance companies and corporations and keeping them running smoothly — working out of his employer’s offices in downtown Chicago or from home or on the road. Several computer screens and towers were arranged about a massive work desk. I nodded approvingly — when it came to work, my son was not careless.

I found the last door on the bedroom hallway to be locked and was wondering why when I was startled by the shrill ringing of a phone in both the living room and bedroom. I hurried back to the living room and picked up the receiver. “Hello?” I said tentatively, suddenly realizing that while I hoped it was John, it might well be my asshole husband.

“Mom! Thank God, you made it. Are you all right?” It was my son, his voice warm and filled with concern.

“I managed to reply, “Yes,” and then broke into tears.

My son let me cry myself out, offering gentle words of comfort until I was done telling him what had happened and then he said in an understanding, yet firm voice, “Don’t worry about anything, Mom. You can stay with me as long as you like. Forever, if you want!” His voice quavered a little at the last, but he continued. “I wish I was there right now, Mom, but we had this big glitch in Billings. I should be back in a few days. Until then, just make yourself at home — use my bedroom. There are clean sheets and blankets in the bedroom closet.”

“Well, I don’t want to be a bother — if you have a spare bedroom, I could use it. The door was locked and…”

John interrupted me, saying, “It’s not a bedroom, Mom — uh, just a bunch of stuff stored in there. Use my bed. It’s comfortable. When I get back, we’ll — um, we’ll figure out something. Shoot, I usually fall asleep on the sofa anyway.” My son voice sounded a bit odd, but it wasn’t anything I could put my finger on.

My son and I finished our conversation, John letting me know where he kept a backup debit card and its pin number, insisting I use it for any needs — “Food, clothes — anything you need, Mom. Go out shopping and have some fun for a change.”

“Oh, that’s sweet of you, son,” I replied. “But, I’ve got a few dollars — you save your money.”

My son chuckled and answered, “I do save my money, Mom. You know I make a good living, but most of my expenses are picked up and what little I spend, I spend on games and stuff. I want to spoil you — you deserve, no, you need to be spoiled. After all, you’re still my girl, aren’t you?”

John’s words almost choked me up, but I managed a weak, but happy, “Yes, I am, son.” We finished our call and I felt happier than I had in a long time. Then exhaustion crashed over me. I staggered into my son’s bedroom and didn’t even bother changing the sheets, simply shrugging off my clothes and falling naked into my son’s bed, pulling the deliciously heavy and soft comforter over me. I drifted off to sleep, my son’s strongly male scent surrounding me, my last thoughts of how good he smelled and that oddly, there was a faint hint of White Diamonds — the fragrance I’d used since John was in middle school. I don’t remember much about my dreams, but rather I remember just feeling very safe and happy.

I didn’t wake up till late morning, feeling better than I thought I would, considering that my marriage was in ashes. As I lay there, I stretched like a big cat, groaning pleasurably as muscles strained — spreading wide my arms and legs, my son’s sheets feeling wonderful. I took a deep breath as I stretched, again taking in the scent of my son and then again detecting the hint of perfume mixed in with it.

Sudden realization struck. I was both elated and a little jealous as I comprehended that there had been a woman in this bed. “That little devil,” I murmured as I scrambled out of bed. “He’s gone and found himself a girlfriend!” As I made my way to the bathroom to pee and then shower, I made a cursory inspection for other evidence of my son’s friend, but found none. No make-up, no left behind pantyhose. I was impressed and very curious. My son had never brought a girl home when he was in high school and I was very curious as to what his type was.

After a long, long hot shower, I toweled off and paused to consider myself in a full length mirror in his master bathroom. “Are you ready to hit the single scene again, after all these years?” I asked my reflection. Then a terrible realization hit me. I might have to start dating again! I turned and tried to look at myself in the mirror.

I pretty much liked what I saw. I wasn’t half bad for a forty-five year old woman. Standing five foot, five and one hundred-fifty pounds, I was a tad plump but it was all in my breasts and my ass. My 38DD tits sagged a little and my butt cheeks jiggled a bit, but my stomach still looked good with just a slight round pot and my skin was clear and just a few crow lines around my eyes. My face was framed by my longish black hair, shot through with threads of gray, which most of the time I wore up in a bun. Now it was tangled from the previous day’s travails and a night’s sleep, but it kind of looked good. I suspected if I got it cut a bit shorter and more stylish, I could still turn a man’s head.

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