American Boy - Larry Watson [44]
She didn’t leave me alone, not exactly. A covered cage in the corner of the living room gave off a tinny, tinkling rattle, evidence that the bird inside (a parakeet, probably) was alive and well. Graduation photos of the Knurr offspring stared soberly at me from a bookshelf. Marilyn, two years older than me, was attending Iowa State University. Richie, five years older, had drowned in northern Minnesota the summer after his senior year.
As I considered these family photos, I remembered the rumors that kept my mother and the other town gossips busy. Beverly Knurr had supposedly had affairs with Mr. Foster, the gym teacher at the junior high, with a garage mechanic from the Mobil Station, and with an office supplies salesman who came through Willow Falls once every three months. The reasons for this wanton behavior were variously attributed to her heritage—she was Italian, the only citizen of Willow Falls who could claim that ethnicity—grief over her son, and her drinking.
When she returned, Mrs. Knurr had a glass of whiskey in her hand. She sat down on the couch a cushion away from me. Then, as if she knew what I’d been contemplating in her absence, Mrs. Knurr asked, “Did you know my son?”
I shook my head. “He was older. But I remember the news about ... what happened. How shocked everyone was.”
Mrs. Knurr nodded with understanding. “Norb has never really recovered. People talk about how boys need their fathers, but fathers need their sons, too. So they can pass on all their useless knowledge about fishing lures and curveballs and carburetors....”
This might have seemed an insensitive thing to say to a boy who had lost his own father, but I wasn’t offended. Quite the contrary. I was flattered. Mrs. Knurr’s remarks had the effect of a shared intimacy. Only those of us closely acquainted with loss understood how refreshing candor on the subject could be.
“I suppose,” she went on, “it’s not unlike your situation with Dr. Dunbar. I imagine he’s assumed a fatherly role in your life? And then he’s passing on his medical wisdom to you as well. And to his own son, of course. Well. If you ever feel as though you’d prefer a legal education, you should knock on Norb’s door. I’m sure he’d be happy to bore you for hours with all the ins and outs of a lawyer’s work and training.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
“But what he’d really like is someone to play catch with. Does throwing a ball back and forth mean as much to sons as it does to fathers? If the activity has any appeal to you, be sure to look up my husband. He has the mitts and the ball waiting in the garage for just such an occasion.” The rim of her glass bore the imprint of her lips, stained from her fresh application of lipstick. She was careful always to drink from the same spot.
“I’m more fortunate. I have a daughter on whom I can impose the same lessons my mother forced on me. How to match shoes and accessories. How to curl eyelashes.” Mrs. Knurr leaned forward and batted her eyes at me. “How to tell real pearls from fake.” She put her thumb under her own necklace and raised it, seemingly for my inspection. But what she was really inviting me to examine were her breasts, further exposed when she leaned lower and closer to me.
For many reasons, I’m skeptical of the episodes in books, movies, and television programs that feature the seduction of young men by older women. First of all, an inexperienced young man is often as apprehensive about sex as he is eager for it. And would a frustrated woman want a lover whose ineptitude would only add to her frustration? Also, while a young man might have a physical appearance that makes him appealing to an older woman, the odds that a young man will see a much older woman as attractive are much slimmer. Cheerleaders are often models for a teenager’s lust, and those pert bouncy bodies present a difficult standard for a woman in her forties to match. Troublesome as well are the maternal thoughts that often play a role, even if they