"I don't think so. I think you turned out very well. And surprisingly normal."
She laughed. "Normal, huh? You know that you're probably the only person who would call me that."
"That's because other people don't know you as well as I do."
She reddened, looked away, and impulsively he reached over and touched the back of her hand resting on the seat. Her gaze jerked immediately up, her eyes locking on his. They stared at each other for a moment. Her skin felt smooth, soft, cool beneath his fingers. She pulled her hand out from under his.
"I'll see you in school tomorrow," she said, putting the car into gear.
"But--"
"I have to go."
"Still have those same old parental restrictions, don't you?"
Penelope laughed.
He got out of the car, closed the door. "Good-bye," he said.
"Good-bye. I'll see you in school."
She waved as she turned around, and he watched the car cruise smoothly down the block until it disappeared with a blink of red taillight around the corner.
April sat in front of the television, waiting for Dion to re: turn.
The TV was on, but she was not paying attention. She was thinking about her son, about the way he was growing older, growing up. She saw him in her mind as a child, then thought of him going out with a high school girl, holding the girl's hand, kissing her. It was an uncomfortable thought, and one she did not like. She knew it was normal and natural and that it was long past time that Dion showed some interest in the opposite sex, but she still didn't feel good about it.
She was angry at herself for thinking this way. She had always promised herself that she would not be an overprotective mother. So far it had not been a promise that was hard for her to keep. If anything, she had been underprotective, leaving him too much to his own devices. But then Dion had never needed much supervision. He was not the kind of kid to hang out with the wrong kinds of friends, or party or drink or use drugs.
The things she had done.
Now, though, she worried. It was not that she didn't trust her son. It was more mat ... Well, she hated to admit it, but she was jealous. She knew what Margaret would say if she told her about it. She knew all of them would laugh at her, would tell her it was time to let go, time to stop coddling her son, but she couldn't help wanting him not to change, wanting him to remain forever exactly the way he was now. There was nothing sexual about her jealousy. It was nothing like that. It was just that, for all of his brains, for all of his intelligence and sophistication, for all of the things he'd been exposed to, there was still something essentially naive and innocent about him, something that she alone knew about, that he shared only with her. She didn't want that to change. She didn't want that to disappear.
A commercial came on the television, a commercial for a nationally known brand of wine made here in the Napa Valley. Her eyes focused on the glass of chilled white wine shown sweating on a redwood table before a barbecue.
A glass of wine sounded good right now. It sounded very good. She needed to relax a little, to stop brooding over this situation. What was it Margaret had said about the medicinal value of good wine? She stood up and was about to walk into the kitchen when an unwanted memory of the other night burst upon her. She sat shakily down.
Not all wine was good.
She heard Dion's knock on the front door, heard his machine-gun ringing of the doorbell. She hadn't heard a car pull up, hadn't seen it through the window. She'd been too preoccupied. She stood up again. "Coming!"
she called. She opened the door.
Dion rushed in. His color was high, and he was obviously excited.
"What's for dinner?" he asked, putting his books down on the seat of the hall tree. "I'm starved."
April smiled. "That sounds suspicious to me. Why are you so hungry? What were you doing?"
He looked at her. "Huh?"
"Come on," she teased. "What's her name?"
He reddened. "Mom ..."
"Don't 'mom' me. This is exactly the sort of thing we should be talking about. We're supposed to be communicating, remember? We're supposed to be sharing our thoughts and feelings, et cetra, et cetra."
Dion smiled.
"I'm serious." She moved back to the couch, sat down, patted the seat next to her. "Sit down. Let's talk."
"Look, I have to study."
"I thought you wanted to eat."
"'I have to study until it's time to eat."
"You're going to talk first. Did you have a good time?"
"Mom ..."
"If you ever want to leave this house again, you'd better humor me.
After all, I'm your mother. I have a right to know. What's her name?"
Dion sat down next to her. "I told you her name last time. Penelope."
"Penelope what? You never told me her last name."
"Daneam. Penelope Daneam."
She frowned. "Daneam? Like Daneam Vineyards?"
"Yeah. You've heard of it?"
She felt a small knot of worry in her stomach. "Is this, uh, serious?
Are you two seeing each other, going steady, boyfriend and girlfriend or whatever you call it these days?"
"I don't know," he said.
"What's she like?"
"She's nice."
"Is she good-looking?"
"Yes."
"Pretty, sort of pretty or very pretty?"
"Mom!"
She smiled at him. "Okay, okay. I'm just trying to find out where things stand. Are you going to be going out with her? On a real date?"
"I told you, I don't know. I don't even know if she likes me."
"But you're attracted to her, right?"
He stood up. "I have to study."
"Sit down." She grabbed his belt buckle, pulling him back onto the couch. "You know, you're lucky," she said.
"Why?"
"Because. This is a good time for you, even though you might not realize it. It's frustrating, I know. You can't think, can't concentrate on your homework, you spend half your time wondering what the other person is doing, whether they like you or are thinking about you. But it's exciting. You interpret everything as a sign. You analyze every move they make, everything they say, for clues to how they feel about you."
She smiled sadly at him. "Once they're caught, once you have them, you lose that. The magnifying glass is gone. You no longer pay so much attention to the little things they do, you start paying more attention to the text of their words than the subtext." She patted his hand. "I don't mean to say it's not good. It is good. But ... it's never the same."
Dion stared at her. He had never heard his mom talk that way before, and for the first time he felt as though he partially understood the way she acted. He felt even guiltier for the name he had earlier called her, and he realized that he hadn't told Penelope that he loved his mom. He should have, he thought. He should have told her that.
"I'm hungry too," April said, changing the subject. She stood up, turned on the table lamp to dispel the creeping shadows in the room. "Let's eat."
"What are we having?"
"Tacos."
"All right."
"I'll cook the meat and chop the vegetables. You go to the store and get the tortillas."
He groaned. "I'm tired. I have to study. I don't want to go-"
"Or we have egg sandwiches."
He sighed, conceding defeat. "Give me the keys and some cash."
"I thought you'd see it my way." She grabbed her purse from the table and took out her keys and wallet. She handed him two dollars. "That should be enough."
He walked outside to the car in the driveway.
She watched him get into the car and back up onto the street, feeling worried, apprehensive, and a little bit scared.
Penelope Daneam.
Somehow she wasn't surprised.
And that was the part that scared her.
Dinner that night was more silent than usual, the occasional conversation more stilted, more reserved, and Penelope could feel a Big Discussion coming on. She sat at her usual place between Mother Felice and Mother Sheila at the long dining room table, trying to eat her spaghetti without slurping, not wanting to disturb the quiet. Her palms were sweaty, her muscles tense, and she waited for that first innocent lead-in question that would broach the topic on everyone's mind.