With an Extreme Burning

She finished the strawberries, started to cut up a peach. Owen stood watching her, making no move to leave. Like an adoring puppy. Can't you take a hint, Owen? Go home!

Lights slid across the kitchen window as a car swung into the driveway. Amy's Honda—that little engine had a whiny rumble that was unmistakable.

“There she is,” Owen said.

Cecca felt a greater relief than the situation called for. That damned telephone freak … if he knew how deep under her skin he'd gotten, he'd be thrilled. He'd probably come all over himself.

The back door banged and Amy slouched in carrying three bulging shopping bags. She looked wilted but pleased with herself. “Whew,” she said, “what a day. Oh, hi, Owen.”

“Hi yourself,” Owen said, smiling.

Amy dumped the bags on the kitchen table, dragged open the refrigerator. “Iced tea, good.” She took the pitcher out.

Cecca said, “Where have you been?” The words came out sharper than she'd intended.

“Oh God,” Amy said, “you're pissed.”

“I'm not. I expected you hours ago, that's all.”

“Well, it was crowded at the malls.”

“Is that where you've been?”

“Shopping. Me and Kimberley.”

“Kimberley and I,” Cecca said automatically.

“I know that.” Impish grin. “I'm a journalism major, remember?”

“Just the two of you? Shopping?”

“Isn't that what I just said?”

“Amy …”

“School's about to start. Foxy new outfits this fall.”

Cecca tried to lighten her voice as she said, “Looks like you bought every one in stock,” but the words sounded forced even to her.

“Dad gave me a hundred dollars to match the hundred you said I could spend. I paid for the rest with my own money, don't worry.”

“When did your dad give you a hundred dollars?”

“When I saw him last week.”

“You didn't ask him for it?”

“No, I didn't ask him. He gave it to me.”

“Why didn't you tell me?”

“I didn't think it was exactly cosmic news,” Amy said. “Why're you making such a big deal out of nothing?”

“I'm not making …” Cecca let the rest of the sentence die. She was making a big deal out of nothing. And Owen, standing there with his big ears flapping, was not helping matters. She said, “Owen, if you don't mind?”

“Sure,” he said, “I'm out of here.” He came over and kissed her cheek. Then he said to Amy, “See you later, foxy.”

She wrinkled her nose at him.

The silence following Owen's departure had a strained quality. Amy poured a glass of iced tea, drank half of it. “Fruit salad,” she said then. “Is that all we're having?”

“Too hot to cook.”

“I guess. I'm going up and take a shower, if that's okay with you.”

“Amy, don't be angry. It's been a long day.…”

“For me too. What time are we eating?”

“I don't know, seven or seven-thirty.”

“I'm picking Kim up at seven-thirty.”

“Going out again tonight?”

“It's Saturday night, Mom. Just because you don't go out doesn't mean I have to stay home, too.”

“That's a cheap shot. I stay home by choice.”

“And I go out by choice, okay?”

“You have a date?”

“I told you, I'm picking Kim up. We're going to a movie.”

“Just the two of you?”

“What is it with you, Mom? You know I'm not seeing anybody right now. Not since Davey and I broke up.”

“You've had plenty of dates since then—”

“Dates, sure, big deal.”

“There's nobody you're interested in?”

“No. Who would I be interested in?”

“I don't know. That's why I asked.”

“Well, there's nobody.”

“There must be dozens of boys who are interested in you.”

“Boys,” Amy said, “my God. I'm tired of boys.'”

“Now, what does that mean?”

“It means I'm tired of boys, that's what it means.”

“You're not seeing somebody older—?”

“I'm not seeing anybody, for God's sake! How many times do you want me to tell you that?”

“Then why are you carrying condoms in your purse?”

The question surprised her as much as it did her daughter. She hadn't intended to ask it, it had just come spitting out. Amy was staring at her openmouthed, color staining her cheeks—embarrassed and angry. She had Chet's dark good looks and smoky eyes, and at moments like this she looked just like him. Acted like him, too: flew off the handle, became aggressively defensive. The time Cecca had caught Chet with the waitress from LeGrande's … his expression of flustered outrage had been the same as Amy's was now.

“You've been in my purse. How could you do that?”

“No, I haven't. You left it on the dining room table the other afternoon, right on the edge. I brushed against it accidentally and things spilled out when it fell.”

“Oh, sure, right. Accidentally.”

“I'm not lying to you. Now don't you lie to me. Why're you carrying condoms around with you?”

“What's the next question? Am I still a virgin?”

“That isn't the point—”

“Isn't it? Sure it is. But I'm not going to tell you. What I carry in my purse is my business and what I do with my body is my business. Okay? All right? And don't you ever go through my personal stuff again. Don't you ever!”

“Listen to me—”

“No,” Amy said, and grabbed up her shopping bags and stormed out of the kitchen.

Cecca sat at the table. She'd handled things badly; Eileen would probably say she couldn't have handled them any worse. It had taken so long to mend the painful rift that the divorce had caused, and now she'd let that damned phone call rip it open again. Why hadn't she just told Amy the truth instead of letting herself slide into the mother- from-hell role?

Too late to tell her now? Maybe not. She took another minute to compose herself and then went upstairs to Amy's room. The door was shut; she knocked and tried the knob. It wasn't locked.

Amy was in her bra and panties. The shopping bags and their contents were all over the room, as if she'd hurled them around in a demonstration of her anger. Glaring, she said, “Now what? You want to search my room, too?”

“No. I want to apologize.”