"Forget All That 10-12" {Pendragon} (MF rom wl lact) 



                         FORGET ALL THAT
                       by  Uther Pendragon
                     nogardneprethu@gmail.com
 
IF YOU ARE UNDER THE AGE OF 18, or otherwise forbidden by law to 
read electronically transmitted erotic material, please go do 
something else.

    This material is Copyright, 1997, by Uther Pendragon.  All 
rights reserved.  I specifically grant the right of downloading 
and keeping ONE electronic copy for your personal reading so long 
as this notice is included.  Reposting requires previous 
permission.

    If you have any comments or requests, please E-mail them to 
me at anon584c@nyx.net.  


    All persons here depicted, except public figures depicted as 
public figures in the background, are figments of my imagination 
and any resemblance to persons living or dead is strictly 
coincidental.


                      #     #      #     #


                         FORGET ALL THAT
                       by  Uther Pendragon
                     nogardneprethu@gmail.com



Part Ten:
Continued from Part Nine.


"That was the best time that I've spent in that house since the 
woman I love moved out," Bob said.  We'd spent some awful times 
before then, too.  "It's a shame that I got the respite, and you 
didn't."

     "You're supposed to think of your daughter's welfare first."

     "Would your going out to breast-feed her have been that much 
worse?  You could have used the cape."  Which keeps anybody from 
seeing anything at the cost of keeping The Kitten and me from 
seeing one another.  I used the cape on the train, but not in 
church.  On the other hand, most people in church were facing the 
other way.  Which reminded me of the boy.

     "That poor kid in church," I said, "he'll be traumatized for 
life."

     "Damned voyeur, traumatization is the least of what he 
deserved."  But we both chuckled.

     "I'm glad that that's over for another year," he said.

     "Or forever."

     "You don't mean that."

     "I mean it," I said.  "The question is whether I will mean it 
next year.  Dammit, we don't have the right to bring The Kitten 
into that situation."

     "Well, your mother seems more hostile towards the world 
every year."

     "Do you want me here, or away?" he asked when we got home.  
The Kitten wanted only Maman just then.

     "Go eat," I told him.  "We'll lie here on the couch."  Messy 
diapers don't affect Bob's appetite at all, his fight with his 
father didn't seem to touch it.  Two things diminish it.  Colds 
reduce it to nil, and he eats very lightly at my parents' house.  
So he joins his family at their late supper afterwards.  Usually I 
do too, though I don't eat much.

     The Brennans were still at table when I put a sleeping 
Kitten on her quilt.  I wandered into the kitchen and came back 
with a glass of milk.  The family never seats more than four at 
the kitchen table, and that crowds it.  After the first year of 
Bob's and my visits to my family, they moved the light supper 
that the three of them eat into the dining room to let Bob and me 
join them when we come back.  "You know," I said, "I'll be 
happier with that in the past than with it in the future.  I'm 
glad that our feast is after theirs.  Discommodes you three, 
though."

     "Not particularly," Bob's father said.  "You know that we 
kept the schedule the year that you were stuck in Michigan."

     "Sorry," I said, not for the first time.

     "Don't be, dear," Katherine said, not for the first time.  
"You know that we missed you, and it was horrible that the man 
died, but you did your duty.  You can't be sorry for that."  I 
don't think that it had ever occurred to any Brennan that Bob 
could have come home without me.

     "You know, dear," she continued, "The feast schedule is 
written in stone the moment that the turkey goes in.  It's 
flexible now.  I can't figure The Kitten's new schedule.  Do you 
have any hints as to what time we should start eating."  I looked 
at her for a minute and burst into tears.  I ran for my room.

     Up there, I bawled for an hour.  My mother couldn't cuddle 
her grandchild on the grandchild's schedule.  Bob's mother would 
schedule a day around The Kitten's schedule and mine.  She didn't 
think of it as a choice, even.  It was just a technical problem.  
Bob knocked and entered.

     "Just remember that everybody in this house loves you," he 
said.  "That goes especially for me.  Do you want hugs or 
solitude?"  Both really.  I didn't answer.  He came over to the bed 
and knelt there.  He hugged me around the shoulders.  I enjoy 
having him touch the sexy parts most of the time, but not 
touching them at all means that the hug is a gift for me.

     After a few minutes, I answered his question.  "I think I 
want solitude first."  He kissed me on the temple, got up, and 
went out.

     When I came down, everybody was in the living room.  "I 
didn't mean...." Katherine started.

     "All you did was express thoughtful concern," I said.  "I 
just couldn't stand thoughtful concern just then.  I haven't the 
foggiest idea what our schedule is right now.  I don't know 
whether I can pull off another jar-feeding tonight.  All I can 
tell you is that she will get cranky after four."

     "We'll do it early, then.  We can always turn off the oven 
but leave it in, dear."  Which would mean a dry turkey.  There 
wasn't one person in that room who wouldn't ruin the main dish of 
a feast to have me with them.

     "If you say one more kind thing, I'll start bawling again."

     "Sit down and shut up!" said Bob.

     Saying that I didn't want kind didn't mean that I wanted 
nasty.  He had broken the tension, though.  I went over and plunked 
myself in his lap.  He hugged me.  A while later, I sidled off his 
lap and onto the couch.  I leaned into his hug.  When he wasn't 
talking, he occasionally kissed me very gently on my head.  I 
unwound.

     The conversation idled along.  In the past year, the Senior 
Brennans had acquired a CD player and a CD of "A child's 
Christmas in Wales."  Kathleen suggested that the first purchase 
was only to facilitate the second.  "Now, we do have other 
recordings, dear.  It's just that the old record was getting quite 
scratchy."

     Memories led to memories.  "I'll miss Aunt Amy," Kathleen 
said, "though not to the extent of wishing her back for a visit.  
I'll bet that we still have a ton of her inevitable home-made 
candles around the house."

     "No, dear, Bob and Jeanette took most of them in their first 
years of marriage."

     "Sorry now that I took yours, Kathleen," I said.  "Candles 
provide a really romantic light for intimate meals and such."  
Especially such.

     "Not wanting to nag, dear; but I hope you are careful with 
candles around The Kitten.  I always worried about those candles.  
You don't ever want to fall asleep with one burning, it could 
start a fire."  Damn!  Was nothing secret?

     Kathleen moved from the end of the sofa to another chair.  I 
stretched out and lay with my head in Bob's lap.  Junior stirred 
under me, and Bob played with my hair.

     "Hello, dear," said Katherine.  "I'll bet you're wet."  Then 
somewhat later, "My!  Do you like Grandma Brennan's necklace?"

     "'Brennan' is unnecessary," I said.  The bitterness of my 
tone shocked even me.

     "Did I do something wrong.  dear?"

     "She only has one grandmother."

     "Now, dear, that isn't correct.  However you feel about the 
other one.  Do you mind if I use the term I choose?"  Put that way, 
how could I object.

     "Use the term you choose."

     Katherine's attention being mostly taken, the conversation 
was reduced to three Brennans.  This being two more than strictly 
necessary, it rattled along.  Junior was semi-hard under me, and I 
knew what Bob was thinking, though we looked innocent as The 
Kitten from anywhere in the room.  I slowly rolled my head in 
Bob's lap, and felt delightfully lewd.

     "Do you want me to feed The Kitten her baby food, dear?" 
Katherine asked.  The rest of Bob stiffened under me.  He didn't 
want me to get up just then.

     "Please do," I said.  She would do a better job than I would.

     More time passed.  Bob softened.  Katherine returned.  The 
conversation moved from Christmas to politics.  "Weld and Lee may 
come to nothing," Bob said.  "But in two cases the Senate was 
prevented from hearing material by fossil chairmen.  I expect 
Republican Senate candidates to have to carry that baggage.  It's 
one thing to vote no, it's another to not listen."

     "Yes, dear, but will that fit inside a sound bite?"

     "By not watching network news," his father said, "you have 
really cut yourself off from the political arena.  If it hasn't 
happened on TV, it hasn't happened as far as political 
consequences go.  Now, real-world consequences are another 
matter."

     "Maybe, sir, but this is not my century, after all.  TV is 
all telling the audience, and I'm rather past the stage of taking 
lecture courses.  I *teach* seminars, now.  Anyway, Jeanette has a 
take on TV."

     "I figure that The Kitten will want one in a few years.  She 
can ask for it and learn that it is a childish toy, not the 
center of adult life."  Bob's father thought that as funny an idea 
as Bob had.  I was perfectly serious.

     "As both members of the firm have spoken," he said after he 
stopped chuckling, "I take it that this is a firm decision."  
There was a chorus of groans.  "Let him who is without pun cast 
the first groan."

     "Oooh," said The Kitten, as if on cue.  We broke up.

     "Mais non, mon enfant, dis 'Decembre,'" said Bob, a little 
late to claim any of the laughter as his.

     "Dears," Katherine said, "are you really determined that we 
take the two of you as a unit?"  Bob raised his hand off my 
forehead, and I opened my eyes to look.  He was raising three 
fingers.  "Now *that* is hardly fair, dear.  On average, the three 
of you are incredibly cute and cuddly.  I'm *not* going to change 
your pants if you mess in them."

     "Been there," said Bob's father.  "Done that."

     Later in the conversation, The Kitten got fussy.  Katherine 
tried changing her and enticing her with the necklace.  Then she 
handed her over to me.  The Kitten settled down on my stomach.  
Bob's stomach rumbled right next to my ear.  They could have been 
talking Greek above me, I didn't care.

     Then Bob's father put *A Child's Christmas in Wales* in the 
new CD player.  Dylan Thomas's voice, marvelous on the old 
scratchy record, sent chills through us on the new digitized 
version.  We listened to the silence for a few more minutes after 
it was over, but it was approaching Network News time.  Kathleen 
stayed down to watch with her parents.  I tore a sprig off the 
mistletoe before we three went upstairs.

     By now, both my breasts were feeling full.  I would have to 
express some -- not too much, throw it away, and feed The Kitten 
off the other breast.  That was all to facilitate a visit to a 
woman who made less fuss over her grandchild than the strangers 
on the train had.

     The hell with all that.  I had a husband who cared for me.  
Bob would tolerate any experiment.  "I'll go first," I said.

     I came back from the bathroom clutching my robe around my 
nightgown with one hand and carrying all my clothes the other.  
"Your turn," I said.  I found the sling in The Kitten's suitcase.  
I hung it over the back of the rocking chair.

     Bob came back shaved.  I think he didn't want the prickles to 
bother me that night.  The Kitten was on her quilt, not looking 
very hungry.  That was fine.  "None of this may work," I said.

     "The lovely thing about marriage is that there's always 
another chance."  I had a philosopher in my bedroom.  Not, however, 
the marquis's.

     He came over and kissed my hairline.  Sated with non-sexual 
comforting, I raised my face for a real kiss.  Our mouths met in a 
sweet, still comforting, kiss.  Then our tongues met, and the real 
kiss began.  Bob kneaded my seat through robe and nightgown.  I 
finally broke the kiss to say, "Don't all those layers of cloth 
impede your touch?"

     He stepped back to remove my robe.  "You've lost the belt 
somewhere," he said.  No I hadn't.

     "I'll look tomorrow."

     "The nightgown?" he asked.

     "Please."  I lifted my arms and he drew the nightgown over my 
head until it was half off.  At that point, he found the sash to 
my robe.  It was around my waist and knotted low in front.  The 
sprig of mistletoe was tied in the knot.  Bob howled in laughter.

     Farewell romance.  I was standing there with a nightgown 
tangled in my arms and covering my face.  My husband was doubled 
over laughing his fool head off.  This roar of laughter filled the 
house, and probably the block.

     Nobody pounded on the door asking what was so funny.  I 
managed to untangle myself.  A quick check on The Kitten showed 
her to be interested but unworried.  She had heard papa laugh 
before.

     She had seen maman naked before, as well.  But the sight of 
my breasts might persuade her that she was hungry.  I hurried over 
to the foot of the bed and dropped down.  I flipped enough of the 
spread over me to hide me from The Kitten, and waited for Bob to 
quiet down.  "Get the light when you're sober," I said.

     He switched off the overhead light and dropped to the bed 
beside me.  "You are," he said between gasps, "indubitably, ...  
the most lovely, ...  luscious, ...  lascivious, ...  woman 
in ...  all North America....  Love you, ...  love every 
twist ...  in your mind ...  and every curve ...  in your body.  
Let's make love!"  That last is Bob's version of "All roads lead 
to Rome."  His kiss was hot but brief.  He still hadn't caught 
his breath, hadn't stopped laughing, really.

     "I don't want to do anything serious until it's time for The 
Kitten to eat," I said.

     "We can wait until after she's eaten," Bob said.  He is 
patient, if not particularly attentive.  "What is 'serious?'"

     "Anything involving Junior.  And stay away from my breasts."

     "The Firm is growing already," he said.  "There are three new 
members."  It took me a minute to figure out that "The Firm" meant 
our family in distinction from the larger Brennan clan.  Just as 
the "Senior Brennans" were his parents.

     "The question isn't whether Junior is a member of The Firm," 
I said.

     "But whether he is a firm member," Bob responded.  "I love 
your mood tonight.  Were you trying to embarrass me in front of my 
family?"

     "Just returning a greeting from an old friend.  If I were 
interested in embarrassing you, I would have gotten up."

     "It would have been worth it," he said, "to have you in this 
bawdy mood.  One more kiss above the mistletoe."  We had that, and 
a warm, wet kiss it was too.  He ended by gently sucking my 
tongue.

     Then he clambered down and started on the inside of my right 
knee.  Most of our intercourse is "missionary," and I have never 
understood the people who regard that as bland.  A little more 
than half the rest is rear entry from the "spoon" position.  This 
is also very satisfying from a physical perspective, but I think 
the emotional connections are more important to Bob.  A couple of 
times a month (unless he's being assaulted by all the stored-up 
adolescent libido of his old room), Bob likes to add a little 
variety.  He'll let me reject positions, and he makes a point of 
making these sessions special to me; most of the time, though, I 
would just as soon spend the time with my husband above me in the 
bed.  When I feel otherwise, as I did this night, Bob is always 
eager to accommodate me.

     Once upon a time, kissing me down there was one of the 
occasional variations.  Since The Kitten's displacement of ton 
papa from my breasts, it has become more-or-less standard.  Bob 
seems to love it, and I certainly enjoy it.  It does extend the 
time of our love-making sessions, but I can afford the time as 
long as I don't have to go to an outside job in the mornings.

     That is something that Bob will never tell his father; we 
don't watch TV because our family time is spent in love-play.  I'm 
happy about that.  Bob is ecstatic about that.  The Kitten is 
around two very happy adults who have time for her.  What we'll do 
when she gets old enough to figure out what papa is doing to 
maman is another question.  Move to a two-bedroom apartment, we 
hope.

     Anyway, when Bob began kissing my thighs, he was trying to 
put icing on a cake that we serve fairly frequently these days.  
Which is not to suggest that he failed in that task.

     Without the impediment of The Kitten on me, I writhed as his 
ticklish tongue and lips crept upward on my thigh.  When he 
reached his goal, he returned to the inside of the left knee.  
This trip seemed to take even longer.  "This stage ends when The 
Kitten gets hungry," I warned him.

     "It doesn't have to," he said.  I sometimes have The Kitten's 
mouth on my top parts while Bob's is on my lower parts.  She likes 
this less than the quiet times in the rocker, but much more than 
the times that I nurse her in the sling while doing the 
vacuuming.

     "Oh yes it does."  I had plans for my family tonight.

     Bob kissed upwards a little faster.  I grabbed a pillow just 
in case, but he slowed back down when he got the outer lips 
apart.  He licked over the outsides of both inner ones.  This 
teased me without getting me close to satisfaction.  "Bob, 
please," I whispered.  I was afraid of my voice carrying outside.

     "I thought that I was pleasing," he said.  Then he licked me 
open with one stroke of his tongue.  This shot a thrill like an 
electric current right through me.  I moaned and pulled the pillow 
over my mouth.  He slowed again, taking what felt like five 
minutes to stroke his tongue up the inside of one lip, then what 
felt like ten minutes to stroke it down the other lip.  He teased 
me so much that the first stroke over my clitoris tightened me in 
preparation.  I let go of the pillow and grabbed his head.

     As I pulled his mouth against me, he licked the entire 
length of my valley several times very slowly.  Each time he 
reached the top, I stiffened further.  "Bob," I called through the 
pillow as the stiffness became pain.  Then fire shot through me.  I 
writhed under his sweet mouth, threw my head from side to side, 
and moaned aloud without benefit of the pillow's muffling.  I 
pulled him as tight against me as I could while I shook in 
ecstasy.

     Then it was over.

     He came up on the bed beside me.  "My darling, my love," he 
said.  "Oh wonderful girl, oh darling.  I love you.  You are so 
luscious.  You are so fine.  Wonderful Jeanette."  He trailed off 
into a long string of "Love, love, love, ..."  When I think about 
it in the cold light of day, I sometimes wonder how *his* 
tonguing me to ecstasy becomes an accomplishment on *my* part.  
However, this was neither cold, light, nor day; and I luxuriated 
in his praise and his love.

     Finally, I asked, "How is The Kitten doing?"

     He raised himself quietly and looked at her in the night 
light.  "I think that she has four toes in, but her whole foot 
won't fit."  The Kitten can get her foot up to her mouth, but it 
doesn't quite fit inside.  This leads to a certain amount of 
discussion about which parent is more prone to put their foot in 
their mouth.  We weren't in the mood for that just then.  I did 
look.  She can be *so* cute.

     "Do you think that you could change her just before she gets 
really hungry?"

     "I can try."  He tried after a while, and actually got her on 
the table before she emitted a cry.  I had a dry baby in the sling 
and a willing husband in front of me.  That was the easy part.

     "Sit down in the rocker," I told him.  "We are going to try 
something."

     "I love you."  He'd said that earlier.  On the other hand, he 
certainly lusted after me.  The fourth member of The Firm was a 
firm member.

     I straddled him and adjusted the sling.  The Kitten wasn't 
particularly happy, but she was in her first gluttonous phase.  
"Warn me before opening your legs," I said while I perched on his 
knees.  He nodded.  We weren't going to be able to kiss in this 
position, I could tell that already.  We weren't going to be able 
to fit together, either.  All my plans went for naught.

     "Do you want to face the other way?" Bob asked.

     "I thought that you might drain the right breast while she 
drains the left.  Not all the way, but it is too full to last 
until her next feeding."

     "Come sideways," Bob said.  Well, that defeated one of my 
purposes, but not the other.  I got up and Bob moved back a 
little.  When I sat down on his legs, I could lie back on his left 
arm.  Then he could reach my right breast.  "Talk to your child," 
Bob said.  The Kitten had been a bit disturbed, but she went back 
to her regular pattern of a few sucks and a pause.  Bob's right 
hand moved over my legs.

     "Ta maman t'aime," I said.  "Ton papa t'aime, ...  et ta maman 
aime ton papa...."  When The Kitten paused, I spoke; when I 
spoke, Bob paused.  He was licking and kissing my nipple very 
gently, not having yet drawn milk.  I extended the love pairs to 
"...  et ton grand-pere t'aime, ...  et ton grand-pere aime ton 
papa."  Bob made no sign of disagreement.  My seat was pressed 
against Bob's thigh.  Every movement of the rocker brushed my 
outer lips very gently against that warm support.  Meanwhile, 
Bob's hand was teasing my thighs apart.

     I switched to English.  "Your grandfather was patting you...  
He recited a poem....  Maman thought that it was ... just like 
papa....  Maman said so....  Grand-pere said that, ... maman 
saying so ... was a great compliment, ... but that anyone saying 
so ... was a compliment....  Maman hadn't meant ... a compliment 
at all....  She thinks papa et grand-papa ... were both being 
silly....  But she couldn't say so....  Now could she?"

     With every cycle of the rocker, Bob was able to spread my 
legs a little further.  This gave him greater access, but it also 
pressed my lips a little more firmly against his thigh.  Bob was 
sucking harder now, and drawing tiny sips of milk.  He had also 
got into The Kittens rhythm, anticipating her pauses.

     "Ton papa veult ... recueillir les contes ... que ton 
grand-pere ... raconte...."  I went on to tell her how tapes of 
those stories would give her access to his voice, and her 
children and her children's children access to his stories.

     I had problems keeping my voice level.  Bob's hand was on my 
mound, but the greater excitement was from the motion of my 
sensitive lips against his thigh.

     Bob paused in the rocking for a moment and straightened, 
removing his mouth from my breast.  He nearly lifted me with his 
supporting left arm while he spread his legs.  When he relaxed, 
his hand was cupping me down there.  "Je t'aime," he said before 
resuming his sweet sucking.  Soon The Kitten's sucking, and Bob's, 
and the chair's motion, were all synchronized again.

     His fingers began stroking me in the same rhythm, and the 
only thing keeping this rhythm together was my speech.  Now I like 
to think that I am *good* at French, and nowise worse for 
speaking it several hours a day to my daughter.  I was reaching a 
point, however, where even speaking coherent English was a 
problem.  I settled on one English phrase.

     The Kitten and Bob stopped sucking, almost together.  "Oh 
love," I said, Bob's finger stroked down between my inner lips.  
The chair rocked forward.  Bob sucked more milk out.  The chair 
rocked back.  The finger stroked slowly up my valley toward the 
magic spot.  The Kitten resumed her lip play with my nipples.  
Bob's finger stopped a little too soon.  The Kitten and Bob both 
stopped sucking.  "Oh love," I said.

     Then The Kitten took a long breather.  She was almost done, 
but I wasn't.  "Oh love," I said.  I said it as Bob was still 
sucking.  The tempo picked up.

     "Oh love," I said more quickly.  The chair moved more 
quickly, the finger moved more quickly, Bob sucked for shorter 
periods but with more force.  As the rhythm grew I had to breathe 
when I should have been speaking.  The chair rocked further 
forward; Bob's finger, moving more rapidly, didn't stop.  A thrill 
shot through me.  "Oh love!" I shouted.

     I stiffened in his arms, and he kept up all the motions 
without waiting for my speech.  I shuddered then as my passion 
flamed within me.

     Then I sagged in the arms of my love.  He had to remove his 
hand and use it to support the sling.  The Kitten, who had been 
done a bit ago, decided that all that shaking was an attempt to 
starve her and clamped on again.

     Now it was Bob's turn to say "Oh love."  He said it over and 
over, very softly.  The pillow was across the room; I suppose that 
the whole house knew what we had been doing.  I couldn't manage 
much worry about that, I was mostly worried that I couldn't help 
Bob hold me up, much less The Kitten.  Then I could, and 
straightened in his lap.

     "Could you take The Kitten," I asked.

     "If you can support yourself."  The Kitten, having discovered 
that her tummy was full after all, was finally finished.  Bob got 
his right hand on her through the cloth of the sling and his left 
hand on her inside the sling and lifted.  I removed the sling from 
around me, and Bob extricated The Kitten.  I even managed to get 
up.

     Bob put a spit-cloth on his shoulder and patted The Kitten 
to a minor burp.  "Do we want the next feeding as late as 
possible?"  Bob asked.  When I nodded, he changed her again before 
turning the Kitten-goes-to-sleep tape on.  Extraordinarily tired 
after *that* adventure, she dropped right off.

     I looked at the rocker.  We'd had enough adventures that 
night too.  It was time for bed.  "Put a piece of paper over the 
diaper in the wastebasket, will you?" I said.

     "You know," Bob said.  "It may simply have been that the 
position made me more conscious of swallowing, but I don't think 
I've ever had so much of your milk."  I felt a little guilty.  I 
tell Bob that his nursing on my breasts evens out The Kitten's 
demands.  The truth is that sometimes I want the extra bit of love 
play, sometimes I want Bob in an extra state of arousal.  Most of 
the time, my breasts are a little too sore for me to enjoy it.  
This was the first time that the amount of milk that he took 
mattered.  Should I feel guilty for leading him on?  I decided that 
I shouldn't.  It's like having him assigned to dishes all the 
time.  He would much rather be invited to suck my milk 
occasionally than be told that this bit of love-play doesn't 
interest me this night.

     "You know," I said climbing into bed.  "Your father missed 
the whole point.  I'm grateful for what Bob-my-husband has done 
for me.  He created an entire nurturing environment; he led me 
into the realm of passion and fulfillment.  He taught me oh so 
much.  He gave me a daughter.  But it was Bob-my-boyfriend that 
saved my life."  How was that for a nonsequitur?  I'll be a real 
Brennan yet.

     Bob climbed into bed after me.  He cuddled me.

     "I had a whole program," I continued, "of wild, passionate, 
sex planned.  It didn't work out, and now I'm tired.  It will have 
to wait."

     "It can wait," said Bob, although Junior pressed hard and 
hot against my seat.  His voice showed disappointment but not the 
slightest hint of resentment.

     "Do you think that we could manage a little slow gentle love 
while we're waiting?" I asked.

     "I love you," he said.  I reached for the three Kleenexes 
that we would need.  After what we had done that evening, I didn't 
need much foreplay.  Bob needed none.

     When I thought that I would break if he kept teasing me, I 
turned away from him.  Our shoulders on opposite sides of the 
narrow bed, our loins meeting in the middle, we lay still as he 
made the necessary adjustments with his hand.

     Then he slid into me slowly, sweetly, gently.  He pressed 
forward until he was nearly enclosed, then I pressed backward 
until I was totally full.  "Tell me!" I said while we rested that 
way.

     "There in the forest," he began.  He meant on one night in 
the middle of our camping-trip honeymoon.  "I already loved you.  I 
was already committed to you.  I believed that there was no 
possible way that I could love you more.  But, there in the 
forest, you responded to me in a new way.  There in the forest, 
you gave me your passion while I was in you.  There in the forest, 
I discovered a new depth of love."  That is the story.  He began 
moving.

     I don't want to suggest that I lay there unmoving.  I pushed 
back as he pushed in; I reached back to feel the hard muscles in 
his leg flex as they drove our connection.  Still, most of the 
action was his.  His hand roved continually over my side; his hips 
alternately pressed against me and receded, filling me with him 
and then almost leaving me.  He was stroking me inside and out.  
Mostly I was receiving him, welcoming him, basking in his loving 
motions.  And he, I could tell, enjoyed that welcome.

     For a long while, his motions were slow.  He would pause 
after every dozen strokes or so and let his hands provide all the 
stimulus.  At first the motions were soothing sensuous pleasure.  
Inevitably, however, the time came when I wanted more.  When I 
tightened his favorite muscle, he sped up.  I grabbed his hand 
from where it was smoothing a path from my elbow to my thigh; I 
didn't even need to guide it.  He caressed down my belly to my 
mound and between my already-spread legs.  There, his finger 
ignited the fire that the slow loving had fueled.  As he stroked 
within me faster and faster, his gentle touch doubled the 
sensation.

     Our timing couldn't have been better.  I felt him press 
against me, raising me to new heights.  He groaned somewhere far 
behind me.  I grabbed the pillow against my mouth.  He drove in, 
filling me.  Then he pulsed and spurted, filling me more.  That 
spiraled me upward until I fell, quaking and moaning and glorying 
in the release.

     I landed in his arms, as I had so often.  As soon as I 
returned to my senses, I passed him one of the tissues.  I held 
another between my legs as he came out.  Getting the tissues ready 
beforehand isn't the most romantic preparation for sex; but we're 
stodgy parents now, not romantic honeymooners.




Part Eleven:

     I clutched my robe around me as I dashed across the hall to 
the bathroom.  Somehow I had lost the sash.  Mostly I put on a 
nightgown before leaving the room when I am visiting the Senior 
Brennans and put on a robe over that.  (Bob is horrified at the 
idea of my actually wearing a nightgown to bed.  By this time, 
I'm not used to it either.  My nightgowns and Bob's pajamas last 
a long time.)  This morning I was in a hurry.  Bladder empty, I 
decided that I might as well shower at that time.  The Kitten 
hadn't awakened before me, which gave me a nice long time before 
she decided that she was famished.

     Bob had put on his pajamas by the time I returned.  The 
Kitten was on his shoulder getting a few more minutes of sleep.  
"There are now two diapers in the wastebasket above the paper," 
he said.

     "Oh, do you remember changing her?"

     "Just now.  Do you?"

     "Not in the least."  This is a minor mystery.  We know that 
The Kitten wakes in the middle of the night and demands a meal.  
We know that I feed her, and that one of us changes her.  
Sometimes we remember doing that, and who did the change.  More 
often, neither of us remembers it.  Occasionally, we check to 
make sure that it actually happens; it does.  Changing a baby is 
a rather complex action to do in your sleep.  Oh well.

     "I like your outfit," Bob said, "but The Kitten will too."  
I can't go topless around my daughter, not because she is a prude 
at the tender age of seven months, but because she wants to suck 
on my breast any time she sees it.  This may be typical of 
breast-fed babies, but it just might be hereditary.

     "That's all right, we're almost on schedule.  Have you seen 
the sash to my robe?"

     "It's over on the bookcase where I threw it."  Bob pointed, 
which was helpful since the walls of the room were mostly low 
bookcases.  I slipped it back through the loops and hunted up 
clean clothes.  By the time The Kitten had reconciled herself to 
a new day's beginning, I was dressed below the waist.  I nursed 
The Kitten while Bob watched with his patented combination of 
beam and leer.  Which finally reminded me of why Bob would be 
throwing around the sash to my robe.

     "Did my father really say he was proud to be compared to 
me?" he asked.

     "Bob, you should have seen his face.  Pure ecstasy.  He 
looked like you did the first time The Kitten clenched your 
finger."

     "You still should have approached us as adults."

     "Somehow the concept didn't leap to mind," I said.  Then I 
ignored him to coo to my daughter and tell her that "Les hommes 
sont fous."  "Prends garde aux," I told her, "...  hommes 
empoisenne ...  du testosterone."  It's probably the same in 
French; it's that sort of word.  Bob wandered off to shower and 
breakfast.

     "I think I'll run a wash load today," he said when he came 
back.  We didn't pack enough for two weeks, and this was about 
the midpoint of our visit.  "Is The Kitten done?"  I handed her 
over.  "Voyons ton grand-pere!"  I went downstairs moments later.  
I could have carried The Kitten, but it was better that his 
father get this treat from Bob.

     Dinner was already in preparation when I reached the 
kitchen.  Kathleen handed me my breakfast plate and I took it 
into the dining room.  Katherine stopped her story when I 
returned.  "Does two o'clock seem good enough, dear?" she asked.

     I thought.  "That should be fine.  If I foist The Kitten off 
with a meal from a jar, she'll probably be hungry well before 
one.  Two would be almost perfectly safe."

     "Or would two-thirty be safer?"

     "That would be more likely.  The only danger would be that 
I'd have to leave the table a little early."

     "Two-thirty it is, dear.  We'll have Bob bring down the 
rocker; you won't have to leave the room.  Or would you rather 
talk to The Kitten than listen to us.  I know that I would."

     "The Kitten is getting a little less French this trip than 
we're used to, but she's getting much more English.  I have her 
most of the time at home, so don't worry about that.  The thing 
is, we spilled something on the rocker and it didn't quite come 
out."  If "coming out" is how you describe cleaning a spill off 
varnished wood.

     "Nothing which hasn't been spilled on it before, dear.  
Don't worry.  After a while, the stain darkens and pretends it's 
part of the pattern of the wood."  If only she knew.  Then I 
thought.

     She kept that rocking chair in her bedroom, their bedroom.  
They moved it back and forth for us every visit, but it stayed in 
their room fifty weeks a year.  Bob and Kathleen had been nursed 
in that rocker, but not recently.  Katherine spent very little 
waking time in that room.  Maybe the Senior Brennans used the 
rocker for the same purposes that Bob and I did.  Katherine was 
looking at me.  "Nothing which hasn't been spilled on it before, 
dear."

     This proved nothing, but it did give me a more attractive 
vision of my life when I get to my fifties than the discussion 
around the table the night before had given me of my life in my 
sixties.

     "Do you think that I could bathe The Kitten once the 
turkey's in?" I asked.

     "There will be space for you, dear.  Whether you can wrest 
her from the hands of her grandfather is another question.  Are 
you available to peel potatoes?"  I was, and she set me up across 
from Kathleen.

     Katherine started a story of her great-great-aunt Hazel and 
her wonderful recipes.  "And, you know dear, when the family had 
almost gone to court over who would inherit her set of recipe 
cards, almost all of it came down to 'a pinch of cinnamon,' or 
whatever, or -- even worse -- 'season to taste.'  That was before 
the age of Xerox, dear.  One person got that sort of 
information."  Kathleen and I sat with enthralled minds and busy 
hands as that story led to another, then we looked at each other.  
I don't know who had the idea first, but we both had it before 
Katherine came to a stopping place.  "Is Bob still opposed to 
sweet potatoes dear?"

     "He still is, and my mother foisted a double helping onto 
him yesterday.  But we have a question."

     "Would you mind terribly," asked Kathleen, "if we taped 
you?"

     "I think that you shouldn't have done that to your father, 
dear, whatever your motives.  I don't know how I would have felt 
if you had done it to me."

     "No," I said.  "We mean out in the open.  We want tapes of 
these stories.  Who cares about the company politics of Ward 
Tech?  We want to have The Kitten's grandchildren hear about 
great-great-aunt Hazel."

     "It seems lots of people are interested in company politics, 
dear.  Whether you think they should be or not."

     "By the time that it would be safe to publish those 
stories," I said, "no-one will care about them.  That's what 
would make it safe.  Look, we aren't asking you to invest in the 
publication of some book.  We are asking you to let us turn on a 
tape-recorder while you tell those stories.  *We* are interested.  
Whether anyone else would be isn't relevant.  When is The Kitten 
going to hear this treasure trove?"

     "Why sitting in the kitchen, dear, and peeling potatoes.  Do 
you think that I was involved in the struggle over great-great-
aunt Hazel's recipes?"

     "Are you prepared to come to Michigan to tell her these 
stories?" I asked.  "Anyway, stories are muddled and lost."

     "Dear," Katherine said, "if it will make you two happier, we 
can make the tape.  But I think that it would make the kitchen a 
duller place for your next visit."

     "Oh mother!"  Kathleen said.  "You have lots of stories that 
I've heard dozens of times.  I still enjoy them."

     "Go get your tape, then."  Kathleen left.  I picked up 
another potato.

     "You know, dear," Katherine said, "the real shame is the 
stories that are a bit too private to tell your children.  My 
great-grandmother came from Germany as the fiancee of a man in 
Minnesota.  Neither of them had seen the Atlantic before she 
started that journey, if I'm not mistaken.  They certainly hadn't 
seen one another.  I wonder what that wedding night was like.  
She wouldn't have minded my knowing, but it isn't a story that 
you tell in the kitchen to people who really know you.

     "You'll either tell your daughter, 'A honeymoon in a tent is 
the worst idea that we ever had,' or you'll tell her, 'If you 
love the man, sharing a tent with him makes a marvelous 
honeymoon.'  You won't tell me either one, and I don't think you 
should.  And you won't tell *her* any details.  Her 
granddaughters, however, will hear only that you went hiking for 
you honeymoon, and wonder.  It's a pity that you can't tell 
them."

     "Why can't I?"  I asked.  "Your great-grandmother may have 
lived in a verbal culture, but I use a word-processor on a daily 
basis.  I could print it up, and leave it with the instructions: 
'To be opened a century after my death,' or whatever.  What would 
you write about?"

     "Well, I could hardly tell you, dear.  That's why we're 
talking about privacy.  And it wasn't entirely a verbal culture, 
you know; they had become engaged via letters.  I'll tell you 
what, though.  If you promise to write something about the 
rocking chair, I'll promise to write something about it, too."

     "You type, don't you?  Uh!"  I felt so stupid.  "You send me 
those marvelous letters, of course you type."

     "We need to get back to cooking," she said, "but I feel that 
I can't start another story until Kathleen gets back.  You know, 
dear, I can cook perfectly well in silence when I'm alone in the 
kitchen."

     "You don't have to wait," I said.  "Tell me the one about 
when Kathleen was a baby and your husband came home from the 
trips.  Anything which she doesn't capture on tape, she can fill 
in from memory."

     "Am I *that* bad, dear."

     "Bad?"  I was genuinely shocked.  "She loves that story.  
It's as much a part of these sessions as 'King John' is of 
Christmas."

     "Every bit of it is true, dear."

     "I'm sure it is," I told her; and I am sure.  "I just wish 
that Bob had heard something similar."

     "Am I really that transparent?" she asked.  But then I saw a 
motion in the doorway.

     "Hurry," I told Kathleen.  "She won't talk until it is set 
up, and the dinner is on hold."

     Soon the tape was running.  Katherine had the natural 
shyness that anyone develops when they are being recorded, but 
she was -- after all -- both a school-teacher and a Brennan.  She 
was used to talking.

     As she got into the story, she went back to cooking, which 
made her less self-conscious.  Soon, she was running along as she 
had the year before.  "...  For the rest of the weekend, I got to 
hold her while I was feeding her, period.  I'd be talking to him 
and he'd turn his back, not because he'd stopped listening, dear, 
but so she could see what Mommy was doing.  Disconcerting all the 
same...."

      We peeled potatoes, cored apples, and occasionally checked 
to see if the tape had run out.  There was no reason to stop 
Katherine for the tape changes.  *All* the information would have 
been lost if the machine hadn't been running.

     I fed the Kitten while this was going on, staying in the 
kitchen where she could hear Grandma Brennan recite the 
accumulated wisdom.  As for me, I want each individual's 
personal, uninterrupted, version of Bob's ultimate package.  But 
that could wait for next year.

     We got the turkey in, and the rest of the meal at a holding 
stage, just before Bob walked in.  "I'm going to run two loads.  
I'll fill up the whites with sheets."

     "That's kind of you, dear."

     "Are there any other requests?"

     "Thanks, Bob," said Kathleen, "but I don't think so."

     "Wait ten minutes, won't you," I said.  "I'm about to bathe 
The Kitten, and I don't want to run out of hot.  Indeed, could 
you bring down the soap and shampoo?  I'll go pry her away from 
son grand-pere."

     "My daughter doesn't want you rubbing sham-poo in her hair" 
Bob said.  "She wants to rub in real poo."  That is dangerously 
close to the truth.

     Three of us managed to bathe The Kitten with only a little 
more difficulty than it would have taken one.  Kathleen carried 
her away, while I washed out the sink.  We dressed in relays, one 
always in the kitchen.  I wore a skirt and my Christmas-gift 
shirt from Lands End.

     Well into the meal, Katherine said, "Russ, you'll never know 
what the girls have been doing with me."

     "Those two are as likely as not to be taping you."  Bob's 
father seemed in a remarkably dour mood considering the 
granddaughter time that he had received.

     "Why, dear.  How did you guess?"

     "What?!"

     "And," Katherine continued, "we are going to put all the 
stories that I can remember on tape.  For The Kitten if nobody 
else.  Kathleen hasn't decided yet whether she'll have any 
daughters...."

     "I've already decided against sons.  Look what happened when 
Mom had one."

     "...  And Jeanette, after all, won't have enough time in my 
kitchen to learn them all to pass down to her daughter."

     "Besides," I put in.  "I mostly talk to The Kitten in 
French, and some of these stories don't translate well."

     "And, dear," Katherine said while I was still talking, "we 
thought that Jeanette and Kathleen could add their own stories to 
the cache, and later The Kitten and whoever.  Their stories, and 
stories from other families, and stories that they have heard 
from others."

     "Ann told some marvelous stories," I said.  "Some you heard, 
Bob, and many you didn't."

     "When," Bob asked, "did this oral history project change 
from the memories of one man to those of dozens of women?"

     "Well," I pointed out, "there didn't seem to be a whole lot 
of enthusiasm on the part of the subject for that one.  And we 
have hours of recordings already for our project.  While the 
assets offered were those of the firm, it was my typing; I should 
get some vote.  Anyway, at this time we're pushing the idea of 
tape.  Transcription would be in the future."

     "And it isn't dozens of women, dear," Katherine said.  
"Except for the ones that are filtered through my memories, there 
are only four or five.  And I doubt whether I know a story from 
more than ten women all told."

     "The Kitten and whoever," I said, "(and doesn't Kathleen 
have original taste in children's names?) won't have *memories* 
to contribute for an awfully long time.  Anyway, that isn't the 
problem.

     "We got talking about saving some memories that might hurt 
our contemporaries.  Those would be put in writing, not tapes.  
That could be kept for a century.  'My honeymoon on The 
Appalachian Trail, to be delivered to any of Catherine 
Angelique's granddaughters on their eighteenth birthday.'  And we 
didn't know how to handle that."

     "You'd have to ask a real lawyer," Bob said.  "There is the 
so-called 'Law against perpetuities.'"

     "Is that why the US doesn't issue consols?" his father 
asked.

     "No sir," Bob responded.  "Different thing.  Same name.  A 
lawyer's 'perpetuity' is like the English entailed estates.  You 
can't leave money to be shared by The Kitten's grandchildren.  (I 
mean now.  You can wait until she has some.)  I'm sure that you 
*could* leave papers to be *publicly* available in one hundred 
years.  I'm sure that you could *not* leave property to be 
divided among people not yet born.  (I think that the limit on 
private trusts is one person's lifetime.  But don't quote me, I 
*didn't* go to law school, remember.)  Whether one can legally 
bind someone to keep papers secret for a century and then 
distribute them privately, I don't know.

     "But that's legality.  If you left me some papers to be 
turned over to The Kitten, I might be able to open them with no 
legal penalty.  On the other hand, would I keep her respect after 
she found out that I had done so?"

     "You might find," said Bob's father, "that having the 
respect of your child is an impossibility whatever your 
behavior."

     "Well," I said.  "You have retained the respect of your 
children.  Bob is enough like you to make it a reasonable bet."

     "I think, dear," Katherine said, "that the proper verb is 
'regained' with a 'g,' not 'retained.' Children go through a 
stage of rejecting everything before they reach a stage of 
selection."

     "All the more reason," I said, "to behave in a fashion that 
would lead them to select respect.  Besides, I knew Bob from 
sixteen.  He never talked of his father with disdain.  Now, his 
father's generation...."

     "I can remember," his father said, "some comments about 
never understanding him at all."

     "Well," I said, "that's entirely different.  When he told me 
that I didn't understand him, I told him that nobody in the world 
could possibly understand him."  Kathleen's loud agreement helped 
lighten the discussion.

     "I suspect," said Bob, "that there are more intellects lofty 
enough to recognize my genius than you four might think."

     "There," Katherine said, "could hardly be fewer."

     "They would have to be experts in abnormal psychology," 
Kathleen said, "and nobody is doing work on anything *that* 
abnormal."

     "The Kitten, at least, loves me."

     "We all *love* you, dear," his mother told him.  "We were 
talking about understanding you."

     "If she understood you," I pointed out, "she'd say 
'Decembre.'"

     "She doesn't know what month it is," he said.  "*My* 
daughter can speak French, but *your* daughter doesn't know what 
month it is."  Now I ask you, which parent is more likely to help 
The Kitten's French, whether we are talking genes or environment?

     "Tell me true, Kate," Bob's father said.  "How much of this 
is conspiracy?"

     "Not on my part, dear.  But the girls sprang the original 
idea with suspicious speed and unanimity."

     "It occurred to the two of us at once, sir," I said.  "It 
really did.  We were sitting there with Katherine's story pouring 
over us.  And we couldn't talk, but it occurred to us almost 
simultaneously.  *These* should be saved.

     "Now let me delay speaking for the firm and even as a mother 
of my daughter later.  Because the idea occurred to me as 
Jeanette.  (Things don't always occur to you under all your hats, 
you know.)  My husband is a historian and thinks of the ages; I'm 
a mother and think of my child.

     "The Kitten would be interested in hearing your voice, as 
Bob said.  We'd be more interested in having her hear it, 
assuming -- as your family seems morbidly to do -- that she won't 
hear it from your mouth.  But she'd be *fascinated* by 
Katherine's stories.  They are, as Katherine pointed out to us, 
mostly intended as compensation for staying in the kitchen and 
peeling potatoes.

     "Transcription is another kettle of fish.  These stories 
should be transcribed someday.  (And I just switched hats.)  What 
you did around the dinner table is try to educate your kids.  
Those lectures would go down more smoothly for being transcribed.  
I couldn't speak for the firm without consultation, but it's 
possible that I might find some transcription time this year.  I 
mean this coming year.

     "If I do, I'll only spend a little time.  For the oral 
history project, I listened and listened again.  Instead, I'll 
send you a rough draft, and *you* can put in the word that I 
missed."

     "You got one thing wrong," Bob said, "these are stories.  
They just need a little understanding to (um) understand them.  
They just need a little grounding to understand them."

     "Well," I said, "of the women in that kitchen, only I 
belonged in a kitchen.  Katherine has what?  an MAT?"  She 
nodded.  "And Kathleen has an MD.  They have both worlds.  I want 
my daughter to have both worlds.  Your daughter does, and who can 
swear that the stories around the table didn't help.  But I think 
that those stories, or at least the grounding, are best conveyed 
on paper."

     "You know," said Bob's father, "That's the longest speech 
that I've heard from you since the wedding."  The Kitten cried in 
the other room.  It was a hungry cry.

     "It's the longest speech that you'll hear from me for a 
while.  I'm being summoned."

     Bob got up.  "Rocker?" he asked.

     "Please," I said.  A moment later, the cry was stifled in 
the other room.  I stuffed my mouth and started unbuttoning my 
new shirt while I chewed.  A sensible woman would have eaten 
while she had the chance.  I managed to get in a slice of turkey 
and all the remains of my mashed potatoes (I love gravy, but I 
hate *cold* gravy) before Bob called from the other room.

     "Coming," he said.


Part Twelve, Conclusion:


     "Coming," I replied.  I moved to the rocker and adjusted my 
bra.  Bob handed me The Kitten and sat down.  She began to feed, 
but I paid more attention to the conversation than I normally do 
while nursing.  That was lucky, as my sister-in-law addressed her 
next sentence to me.

     "You know, Jeanette, you shouldn't put yourself down.  
You're not a housewife locked in the kitchen.  You're a 
translator of scholarly works."  I decided that there was no way 
that The Kitten was going to get French during this meal.

     "Y'know, Kaytoo," Bob said, "you *think* you're a feminist.  
You're really an imperialist.

     "You know, dear," Katherine said, "wrapping an insight in an 
insult is hiding your light under a bushel."

     "He means, Kathleen," I said, resisting the temptation to 
start my sentence with "You know," "that you're projecting.  You 
don't want to be a housewife; you want to be a psychoanalyst.  I 
don't have dreams of a career in translation; I'm building a 
family.  If that means translating and I'm able to translate, 
fine.  I really enjoy it.  If that means changing an enormous 
pile of messy diapers, so be it.  Though I *don't* really enjoy 
that.

     "You aren't in any position to talk, you know.  Your present 
job pays less than my first job paid for forty hours a week; and 
you are on call thirty-six hours out of forty-eight.  You're 
building something, but so am I.  For that matter, I had four 
jobs over ten years, not counting a few second jobs.  I left two 
of them to follow my husband into another state and one to have a 
baby.  I have references from all four, and glowing references 
from the last job where I was secretary to the president of a 
small company.  Ask your father if Brewster would hire me."

     "Not Bob's wife, of course," he said.  "And you may be 
overqualified for any available position.  But personnel would 
drool over that sort of record."

     "I'm not," I told her, "just-a-housewife.  I wasn't just-a- 
secretary, either.  But I was a very good secretary, and I think 
I'm a good wife and mother.  I'm an adequate housekeeper."

     "You're the finest wife a man could ask for," Bob said.  
That wasn't what he'd said the night before.  "I think that 
you're a wonderful mother.  You're a very good housekeeper, but 
too compulsive."  If Bob found that people could write their 
names in the dust on a table, he would start an autograph 
collection.

     "Remember the three men on the same job," he said to his 
sister.  "One said that he was laying brick, one said that he was 
earning a living, one said that he was building a cathedral."

     "You Brennans don't know any more about families than a fish 
knows about water," I said.  "Bob says that he never gets any 
support from his father; and he believes that he believes that.  
But when push comes to shove, he says 'my parents will back me.' 
And his parents, both parents, will back him.  And back you.  And 
will back me because I married him."  I broke down in tears then.

     Bob looked over, decided that coming over would be a 
mistake, went back to eating.  I think that The Kitten's next 
message, when she paused and looked up at me, was "Don't be sad, 
Maman."

     "Quelquefois on doit," I told her.  Her next look wasn't any 
happier; well, I didn't like the news either.  "C'est-une partie 
de la vie."  That didn't persuade her.  "Et la vie est tres 
bonne."  I glanced over at the table.

     Katherine was speaking to me.  "My children might be 
ignorant of family, dear, but Russ and I built our own 
cathedral."  Bob was looking down at his plate.  Odd.  His father 
was glaring at him.  God, my husband loved me!  He would walk 
through fire for his father's approval; but he sat there under 
his father's disapproval instead of coming over to me.  And he 
did it because that was slightly better for me.

     How *dare* that bastard put his son through that, I thought.  
I would have liked to tell him what I thought of him.  Why not?  
He had done that to me two days ago.  Then the reason why not 
came to me.  It wouldn't build that family I was claiming as my 
goal a minute ago.  I needed a better approach.  I thought; 
indeed, I schemed.

     "She built a cathedral, Jeanette," Bob's father said 
blithely.  "I mostly carried hod."  And swung a wrecking ball.  I 
had thought of my lever, and he *was* addressing me.

     "Well, sir," I started.  "I don't know much about 
management.  And I know less about medicine.  So this free advice 
may be overpriced.  But *I* would think that a man who has had a 
bypass operation would ... learn to delegate."  Bob sputtered.  A 
particle or two of food escaped, and I was glad that The Kitten 
couldn't see.

     "Now, Bob tells me what a great manager you are.  It may be 
simple hero worship, it may be true of the office.  What I see 
here at this table is a Dilbert cartoon."

     He winced.

     "The man who knew me better than you ever will fourteen 
years ago, a man who has bent his considerable intelligence to 
finding out what makes me happy for those fourteen years, checked 
on me.  He decided that I *didn't* need his presence.  Then you 
put him through agony because he followed his knowledge rather 
than your guess.

     "I appreciated your glare when you used it to protect my 
modesty from the boy in church.  I *don't* appreciate your glare 
when you use it to punish my husband because he cares more for my 
feelings than for your ephemeral opinions.  I especially resent 
it because I know how important those opinions are to him."

     And *that* was now the longest speech he had heard from me 
since the wedding.

     "I'm sorry, Jeanette.  I just worry about his making the 
mistakes that I made."

     "And you worry about his not having your virtues, especially 
your prime virtue of loyalty.  (I don't think that is the essence 
of manhood, though Bob has tons of loyalty, especially to me.  I 
just think that it is the essence of Russell Brennan.)  But don't 
you see the catch twenty-two?  You worry about his being like 
you, and you worry about his being unlike you.  That doesn't 
leave him a whole lot of options."  I needed to look to The 
Kitten again, who hadn't appreciated the anger in my voice.

     Bob leaped into the breach.  "I'm not making your mistakes, 
sir.  I'm busy making my own."  That brought the tension down a 
little.

     "As long as we have a little creativity, dear," Katherine 
said, "we can pretend that we're making progress.  You know, when 
Kathleen came along, I had a whole list of the mistakes that I 
had made with you.  I wasn't going to repeat them.  The problem 
was that Kathleen wasn't Bob."

     "Problem!"  Kathleen was playing incensed.  She was probably 
actually incensed, as well.

     "The mistakes that I made with Bob, dear, weren't at the 
level of dropping him on his head, whatever you claimed later.  
They were things that could be right for *a* child, but were dead 
wrong for *that* child.  They might have been okay for you.  On 
the other hand, some of the things that worked best for Bob 
didn't work at all for you."  The subtle Brennan had spoken.  If 
the others picked it up, well and good; if not, I could use it 
later.  "You know, dear, it is really unfair to sit there nursing 
a child."  What did she expect me to do?  "It's like holding a 
hostage.  Nobody's going to zap Jeanette when it might disturb 
The Kitten."

     "I didn't choose when he would glare at Bob."  Nor did I 
care about fighting fair.  I was protecting my family.

     "I'm sorry, Jeanette," Bob's father said.  "Will you forgive 
me?"

     "Why Mr. Brennan," I said in my *very* sweetest voice.  Bob 
looked up.  He knew that voice.  "You already know the answer to 
that.  Since you ask me in that way, of course the answer is ...  
no!"

     "What?"  Aside from the way he handled his son, the man was 
no fool.  He was Bob's father, after all.

     "You weren't glaring at me.  It wouldn't have hurt if you 
had.  You were glaring at Bob.  I can forgive the *past*, but I 
can't make peace with you while you are at war with my husband.  
Ask his forgiveness first."

     "Of course I forgive you," said Bob.

     "Not even your omnipotent God can forgive the unrepentant, 
Bob."

     "Son, her theology may be shaky, but her take on people is 
correct.  I most humbly beg your pardon."

     "You have it," said Bob.  He sincerely meant it.

     "And you have mine," I said, not particularly sincerely.  
For thirty seconds, I thought that we would witness the millionth 
hug in the Brennan household and the first between two men.  They 
went back to their plates, but they had *looked* like a hug was 
possible.  Bob, in particular, looked extremely huggable.

     "It ain't The Firm," said his father.  "It's damn-well La 
Compania."  That wasn't good French if it were intended for 
French.

     "Anyway, dears," said Katherine, "does this idea of 
collection of tapes look viable?"

     "I don't see why not," said Bob.  "It's just as I was saying 
about Father's tapes.  Only your list goes deeper.  It is 
important social history.  Try to guess at a date for those 
stories.  For your own memories, of course, you don't have to 
guess.

     "On the other hand, I might become a real historian, after 
all, if I can keep sucking off my family.  The rise and fall of 
the Hamiltonian system in Ward Tech would be a nice piece of 
institutional history.  It couldn't be told today; it wouldn't be 
acceptable if it were based only on your memoirs, sir.  It could, 
however, be pasted together over time, and told in twenty years."  
Have I mentioned that Bob thinks in the long term?

     "Not your century is it?" his father asked.

     "Not my century, but I sat at a dinner table for five or ten 
years hearing nightly lectures on the strengths and weaknesses of 
the twentieth century American corporate system.  I think I 
could navigate those waters without too many blunders.  Indeed, 
with your guidance and a few letters of introduction, I might be 
able to write the story without quoting you at all.  I would 
dedicate the book to Grand-pere Gorge Profonde."

     "That's deep throat," I put in.

     "Sounds wonderful," said his father, "Meet me in the garage 
Monday."

     "Give me a slice of white, please," Bob said.  "and a bit 
more dressing too."  He passed his plate down.

     "Wonders will never cease," said Kathleen.  She sounded more 
shocked at that request from her brother than at anything else 
which had been said at the table that day.  I was sorry to 
disappoint her, but I knew what was coming.  Bob cut the turkey 
up into small pieces, mixed a little gravy in with the stuffing, 
and brought the plate over to me.

     "Nod when," he said.  Then he held out a small piece of 
turkey on the fork.  I nodded.  "Your daddy loves you, Kitten," 
he said.  "Your mommy loves you....  And your daddy loves your 
mommy...."  I ate, the table conversation finally resumed, The 
Kitten got her food and her message.

     Much later, Katherine got her granddaughter while the rest 
of us got our dessert.  The Kitten played with the beads.  When 
Bob's father had finished his pie, Katherine said, "Want her, 
Russ?  I warn you she needs a change."

     "Better a wet Kitten than a lonely chair.  Before I go, 
though, I want to say something to Jeanette.  I don't withdraw 
one word of what I said about your *actions* of taping Bob.  I 
did over-react, though, when I talked about *who* you are.  You 
still have my deepest admiration."

     "That's terribly kind, sir," I said as he hauled The Kitten 
off towards the changing table.  "And, in return, I really want 
to express my respect for the way that you handle the tax 
accounting at Brewster."

     "Really, dear," Katherine said after he walked away.  
"Neither of us is a fool you know.  Where do you think Bob got 
his genes?  I don't say sarcastic things about your husband."

     "Between your husband and your son, you have to maintain 
some degree of neutrality.  Between my husband and my father-in-
law I don't."

     "I think," Katherine said, "that you have delivered more 
than Russ is capable of hearing right now, dear.  Why don't you 
let that sink in this trip.  See what happens through this next 
year.  He has heard you, but he'll turn defensive if you say 
more.  I say this as a person who loves them both very much."

     "I only have two more messages, anyway," I told her.  Well, 
two that I'd thought of yet.  But ignoring Katherine's advice 
about her husband would be idiotic.  "I'll give them to you and 
you can deliver them in a few months."

     "I certainly can, dear.  Perhaps I will."

     "Bob's father has to be an expert on budgeting," I said.  
"He does it for a whole damn company.  When the two of us were on 
a tight budget, he never asked to see what we were spending money 
on.  He trusts Bob's judgment on everything that he trusts *his* 
judgment on."

     "I'll think about that dear," Katherine promised.  "You 
think about who needs to hear that message.  And the other?"

     "Would it really be so wonderful," I asked her, "if Bob was 
precisely the husband that his father wants him to be, and I was 
precisely the wife that Bob's father wants him to have.  Would 
that be so wonderful if we then got divorced because we weren't 
meeting the deepest needs of *each other*?"

     "Thank you, dear.  Now I believe that I should have a little 
quality time with *my* daughter while we do the dishes.  Will you 
excuse us, dear."

     "Mom!"  Kathleen said.  "I spent the day in the kitchen."

     "You haven't done the dishes this whole visit, dear.  Get 
all your work out of the way in one swell foop.  Besides they are 
my grandmother's dishes and I can trust them neither to the 
dishwasher nor to Bob."

     "I notice," Bob said to me when they had taken out the first 
load, "that you didn't try to defend me from *that* accusation."

     "You're an excellent husband, mon mari.  You are a bull in 
the china dishwater.  Let's go upstairs."

     "Now you're talking!"

     "Keep your libido under control," I told him.  "I just had a 
heavy meal, and your mother's right.  We have to talk."

     Upstairs, I dropped down on the stripped bed, my head on the 
foot end.  Bob put the pillows in new cases and passed me one.  
He lay down on the floor with the other pillow, lying in the 
opposite direction from me so that our right hands could meet 
easily.

     "I just wish that I could defend you from your family as 
well as you defend me from my father," he said.

     "My family did its worst damage before I even met you," I 
pointed out.  "You can't defend me from that, you can only heal 
me.  You've done a marvelous job of that."

     "Thank you."

     "Thank *you*.  I love you."

     "I love you, too," he said.  "Even if you have just had a 
heavy meal."

     "Your mother was right, as always."

     "About what?  I've known her to be wrong."

     "Your father doesn't distrust your judgment in family 
matters."

     "He gives a damn good imitation."

     "He sees what everybody else sees.  That you are so much 
alike."

     "I think of us as opposites."

     "That's right," I told him.

     "What did Whitman say about 'I contain contradictions'?"

     "*You* are asking *me* about poetry?  Anyway, that doesn't 
matter.  What your father sees is someone who looks spookily like 
Russell Brennan.  He thinks Russell Brennan fouled up royally in 
the family department, now your mother thinks differently...."

     "My mother," Bob said, "says differently."

     "But what she says, or what she thinks, or what the reality 
is....  Is there any reality in such situations?"  I was getting 
lost.

     "That is the 'absolute truth' question," he said.  "The 
people who say that there is no absolute truth have a point, even 
if their certainty is a logical contradiction and their tactics 
border on the fascistic."

     "Can we leave faculty wars 'til next week."

     "You asked."

     "Anyway," I went on, "no one else's opinions on that subject 
matter to what your father sees.  He sees someone who looks 
spookily like Russell Brennan, and whom he loves.  He sees 
Russell Brennan as a horrible failure in the family department.  
*Thus*, he sees the person he loves in imminent danger of being a 
horrible failure in the family department.  The particular thing 
that you do doesn't matter in the least.  You might try plastic 
surgery on your chin."

     Bob laughed at that.  The Brennan chin was a family trait.  
It looked good, and almost identical, on the two of them.  
Kathleen could have done without it, although she was pretty even 
with it.

     "No way," he said.  "The Kitten has it already."  He is, 
unfortunately, right.

     "Anyway.  Bob Brennan looks like a disastrous husband and 
father to him because Bob Brennan looks like Russell Brennan to 
him.  Now I get the impression that he was a fine father when he 
was there."

     "Anybody could be a fine father as often as he was there," 
he said, a bit unfairly.  Bob's father had a remarkably intense 
job; he *could* have come home expecting his wife to neglect the 
children briefly so she could soothe his aches and needs.  But 
Bob's impression of that past is just another impression.  I 
wanted to deal with the present and future.

     "And you are trying to be as fine a father on a three-
hundred-sixty-five day basis."

     "Not yet."

     "Goofus!"  I said, and he is a goofus.  "Three-sixty-five a 
year, every year.  You are a fine husband and a fine father.  
Just remember that your father doesn't worry about your fouling 
up in the family department because of anything you do, and he 
won't be persuaded that you are a good husband and father by 
anything you could do.  He looks at you and sees his younger 
self.  It's his younger self that he sees failing."

     "I love you."

     "And I love you too.  Will you think about it?"

     "Loving you?" he asked.  "I think about it all the time.  I 
used to lie for hours in this room and think about nothing else.  
Of course, in those days, *I* got to lie on the bed."  I decided 
to let him have his diversion.  Bob can't *not* think about an 
idea once it's raised.

     "I could always go downstairs and lie on the couch," I said, 
knowing that he would never take me up on it.

     "I fail to see the advantage," he said.  "In the first 
place, it's much narrower and we'd be even more crowded.  In the 
second place, we'd have an audience."

     "Can't you think of love apart from lust?" I asked him.

     "Easily.  I just can't think of Jeanette apart from lust."  
I suspect that he can't breathe, let alone think, apart from 
lust.

     He took my hand and kissed each finger.  I took it back 
after a while and said, "Can you find the volume with the article 
about Gide?"  He groaned theatrically, but handed it to me.  
After a bit, he got out the print-out and went through it some 
more.  Working side-by-side is awfully companionable.  Too bad we 
never could get in the hang before we were married.  I actually 
got the next volume for myself.  I wasn't going to get to Verne 
before returning to Michigan.

     The book was closed beside me on the bed when Bob woke me.  
He said, "Dad's calling.  Here?  down in the rocker?  or should I 
bring the rocker up?"

     "None of the above.  Do we have a clean bib?"

     The Kitten, once deposited in the highchair, settled down 
for the game.  She even opened her mouth one time without my 
making the face.  She still tried to grab the spoon, but I have 
the reaction-time in our family.

     I remembered to stop when she was half full.  We played a 
little "This little piggy."  When she was done, I washed her off.  
She was half an hour from her cranky time, but nobody was around 
to notice that.  I snuck up the stairs, and we lay down on the 
quilt together.  When Bob came back, he took the rocker.  "We 
only want Mommy, eh," he said.

     "Bob could we have another name?"

     "Other than Brennan?  other than The Kitten?  other than?"

     "Mommy and Daddy," I explained, "are what I still call my 
parents most of the time."

     "How about 'Dad,' did you ever use that?" he asked.  "Or I 
could be 'Pops.' Unless we move back to Boston.  We could just 
use 'Maman' all the time, but it is going to sound a lot like 
'mommy' to a lot of people."

     "Let me think about it.  You are a sweet, accommodating, 
husband."

     "Darling, if it's important to you, and not to me....  
Actually, I want to be 'Dad.'  I just felt we should wait.  
Terminal consonants are going to take a while."

     He wandered over to the bed, and made it with the newly-
washed sheets.  He lay down on top with the print-out.  After The 
Kitten fell asleep, I joined him.  I decided to read the Verne 
article and actually stayed awake straight through it.

     Just before dinner, we tried out the baby monitor.  Bob 
stayed upstairs.  When I was in the dining room I could hear his 
voice saying, "This is Deforest's prime evil," quite clearly.  
His father shouted for him to come down.  The Kitten didn't wake 
until the table was being cleared.

     Rested, dry, and fed, The Kitten went to Katherine and from 
her to Kathleen.  Bob carried the rocker back upstairs.  The 
Kitten really doesn't get *cranky* at night, she just is very 
possessive of Maman.  Which is fine; Maman, although she tries 
not to show it, feels very possessive of The Kitten.  Indeed, I 
was tempted to call our friends and cancel the party on Sunday.

     I reconsidered.  We would be back in Michigan in a week.  I 
would have The Kitten to myself for most of the time, (and her 
best times) most days.  I lay with The Kitten on my belly and my 
head in Bob's lap.  The conversation above me solved the problems 
of the world.  Bob explained why strict censorship of any 
pictorial or voice media, combined with absolute freedom of the 
printed word, would reverse the decline in literacy.  "Are we 
boring you, dear?" Katherine asked.  I shook my head.  I wasn't 
paying enough attention to be bored.  My daughter was barely 
stirring on my lap, and Junior was barely stirring under my head.

     We went upstairs early.  The Kitten was tired of Maman, too.  
She played on the quilt, if throwing all ones toys away and 
crying because there is nothing to play with can be called 
playing.

     Soon, I was nursing her in the rocker.  I talked to her 
disjointedly.  Bob lay on the bed going further into the printout 
until The Kitten was quite done.  "You know," I said, "with the 
door locked, there is no rule that you have to change all her 
diapers."

     "I think this business of giving you a break is a good 
thing.  Besides, I would rather have you lie there and think lewd 
thoughts."  There is a grain of truth in that.  Bob changes his 
share of diapers, but much more than half the ones just before we 
lay The Kitten down to sleep and begin our own bed-time ritual.

     That was a fair trade.  He changed The Kitten; I thought of 
all the ways that we had made love this trip.  I remembered 
straddling him in the rocker, and of his hand playing with me in 
that same rocker while he tasted my milk.  I remembered my moving 
above him on the bed, and of his moving behind me on two separate 
occasions.  I remembered all the times that he had tongued or 
kissed me to a climax.  Those sort of merged together, as I 
remembered one climb to glory after another.  (I can never 
remember the actual climaxes more than moments after they 
happen.)  I remembered lying between the end of the bed and his 
lap.  I remembered him moving above me and within me and against 
me.  I thought that this was the sweetest time of all.

     "Thinking any lewd thoughts?" he asked, after The Kitten was 
safely ensconced in her crib.

     "Nothing lewd," I answered, "only licit, unexceptionable, 
practices with my lawful wedded husband."

     "You make it sound so bland," he said while just touching 
one nipple, "but look so enticing."  My nipples were standing up, 
and a nursing mother's nipples stand rather tall.

     "Kiss me first," I said, meaning my mouth before my nipples.  
He pecked my mouth, pecked a nipple, and came back for a real 
kiss.  His tongue was exciting of itself, but more exciting as a 
promise.  His hands passed over me as our tongues played tag.

     My thighs spread as he stroked them.  "Oh, how I do love 
you," he said as he took the invitation.  Then he pressed his 
mouth more firmly to mine.  My hips rose to press against his 
clasping hand.  He parted the lips and touched me within.  "Oh, 
how I love you!" he said as he felt my slickness.

     "Both together tonight," I asked, "Please!"  He could easily 
have pushed me over into my climax, but I wanted him along with 
me.

     He kissed me with love and petted me with lust.  I thought 
that he had forgotten my request when I stiffened under his hand.  
He had remembered; he just enjoyed my readiness.  Leaving the 
most sensitive area, he urged my legs farther apart as he climbed 
between them.  Then the strokes up and down my valley were not 
from his fingers.  Soon, he placed himself.

     His entrance was slow, and steady, and filled me, and then 
pressed me down.  "Oh!" he said.  "I love you!"

     I think half his weight was supported on that pivot for a 
minute.  Then his strokes followed one regular beat.  The 
sliding, the filling, the pressing excited me until the 
individual sensations were lost in the blissful warmth.  I was 
just aware of his hand sliding between us.  Then the warmth 
burned to fire, and the fire consumed me.  "Oh!  Love *you*," I 
heard through my own moans as a writhed beneath him and flared 
around him.

     Then his motions sped, sped again, and ended in a driving 
thrust.  "Oh love," he said, in time to each spurt.  "Oh love, oh 
love.  *Oh* love!"  He lay on me, in me, coming out of me, for 
minutes afterward.  Then he moved over and we cleaned ourselves 
off.

     We turned onto our sides and nestled into a spoon.  He 
hugged me as our breaths eased towards sleep

     "Love," he said.

     And so it was.


The End
FORGET ALL THAT
Uther Pendragon
nogardneprethu@gmail.com
1998/01/01 
1999/12/30
2000/11/12
2010/11/24

This is the last story (so far) in a series of stories about the 
Brennans.

The first segment of this story is: 
        fat_a.txt
Parts 1-3  

The first story in the series is:
        forever.txt
"Forever"  

The list of the entire series is:
        brennan.txt
Brennan Stories Directory  

The list of all my stories can be found at:
        index.txt
Index to Uther Pendragon's Website  

Another story with another perspective on another three-
generation family is:
        gully.txt
"Gully Washer"