Deadly Deception. Brenda Gunn
Brenda washed Mrs. P.’s face, she thought about the pictures she’d found in the old china cabinet in the dining room. One was of a string of girls dressed in old-fashioned pantaloon type swimsuits. Mrs. P. was in the center holding roses. The gold caption underneath read, Miss Missouri 1939. Mrs. P. had been a real beauty in her day, with strawberry blond hair and a full but lovely figure. Now, the old woman was almost bald from the chemotherapy and so thin Brenda could see all the veins and arteries through the tissue paper she called skin.
“We’re going to fix you up real pretty today,” Brenda said, as she dabbed at Mrs. P.’s nose with betadine solution and began applying makeup to her sunken cheeks. Brenda always tried to keep Mrs. P. in touch with the outside world. She knew Mrs. P. especially liked hearing the town gossip. Brenda covered the old woman’s liver spots with foundation as she talked.
“You hear the latest gossip yet?”
Mrs. P.’s eyes filled with mischief. “Is it more about Charlie Carson and that stripper?”
“No. It’s better. Guess who rumor says is having an affair!”
“All I know is it isn’t me,” Mrs. P. teased.
“Judge Carson and the new female deputy. I heard it from Jane.”
“I guess if it’s true, that will put a stop to the rumor that she and the judge don’t get along,” Mrs. P. said.
“Yep. You’re a pistol,” Brenda laughed.
“Geez-Louise, who knows what to believe?” Mrs. P. went on, lifting her neck for Brenda to smooth on makeup. “Have you seen her yet?”
“No, but Jane has. Jane says she’s attractive, fortiesh and redheaded. Apparently she says she’s a feminist and wants to run for sheriff in the next election.”
“She’s got my vote. Any woman who’s got the gall to stand up in these parts and say something like that—”
Brenda nodded her agreement and Mrs. P. continued. “A feminist! Can you believe it? That’s as bold as admitting you’re the one who left your panties hanging on the bull’s horn on top of the Holden Meat Plant.”
“You’re too much,” Brenda said and they laughed hysterically. Brenda wiped the tears of laughter from her eyes and Mrs. P. was holding her ribs.
When Brenda finally got control of herself, she said, “She plans to come down hard on wife beaters, too.”
“That’s might-near every man in the county,” Mrs. P. frowned. “Say, isn’t she the daughter of that woman Congressman?”
Brenda nodded. She took a step back and looked at her handiwork. “Mrs. P., you’re lookin’ good.”
The coffee was ready and Brenda poured them both a cup. Brenda sniffed her own, as she handed Mrs. P. hers. It was a special blend that had a vanilla smell to it. “You want anything in that?”
“I’d love some Irish Cream,” Mrs. P. said, sweetly.
“I meant cream or sugar.” Brenda acted as if she was surprised by the request. She removed the bottle of Bailey’s Irish Cream from under the bed. Mrs. P. held out the steaming cup and Brenda poured a little liquor in it.
“Why don’t you pour yourself a little nip?” Mrs. P. suggested.
“You know I’m on duty,” Brenda said, as she replaced the lid and slid the bottle back under the bed.
Mrs. P. covered the exposed nostril with one hand and used the other one to lift her coffee cup.
“Does it still hurt when the steam rises on your nose?”
“Like the dickens,” Mrs. P. said, then took a sip of coffee.
“Let’s put a bandage on. That’ll help,” Brenda said and made a bandage out of beige athletic tape. She attached it to Mrs. P.’s face and covered it with makeup. When she was done, the bandage was barely noticeable. Then Brenda reached into her handbag and pulled out a handful of nail polish bottles. “Which one do you like?”
Mrs. P. was fingering them all, turning them and shaking them to see their true colors. She seemed to get such enjoyment out of the decision making process. Brenda thought it was funny that such a small thing could bring her so much pleasure. Finally, a pretty pink having been chosen, she began to trim Mrs. P.’s toenails.
Brenda brushed the half-moon toenail clippings off the sheet and into the trashcan then carefully applied the polish. Now, with her toes all pretty pink, Mrs. P.’s feet were neat and tidy looking. Brenda untied the apron from around her waist and folded it carefully.
Then she told Mrs. P. her own news.
“Mrs. P., I want you to know I’ve gotten married.” Brenda pulled the clean sheet over Mrs. P.’s feet. It arced like a parachute and filled the air with the lemon scent of the fabric softener. “The ceremony was when you were in Florida, otherwise I would have invited you,” Brenda said graciously.
Mrs. P. smiled. “That’s wonderful, but, I guess you won’t have time for me now.” The old woman had a wistful look on her face.
“I’ll always have time for you, Mrs. P.”
Brenda told her all about Glen and the wedding.
“Brenda, you deserve happiness. But I know how hard you work, maybe too hard,” Mrs. P. said. “Why don’t you go home early today?”
“That’s really nice of you.” Brenda smiled, knowing her friend was giving her the ultimate gift, the little time Mrs P. still had left for companionship. “I believe I will.”
At home, Brenda found Glen in the laundry room washing the clothes. He’d turned half their white socks, underwear and T-shirts pink and Brenda figured it was time to rescue him.
“You want to wash my uniform?” she asked.
“May as well,” he said pouring soap into the washer.
She began to undress and handed him her clothes. The dryer had tennis shoes inside and they went ker-plunk, ker-plunk, ker-plunk…Brenda had on her new bra and panties.
“I read in Cosmo that lots of women achieve orgasm by sitting on a warm, hard…dryer,” he said in a sexy voice. “Wanna try it?”
Blushing, she nodded. He helped her climb onto the dryer and began to kiss her neck and breasts. She thought it’d be more comfortable in the bed and started to hop down from the dryer.
“Stay there. I want to see if Cosmo’s right.”
“If you desire it I’m sure you’ll make it come true,” she smiled.
He laughed, scooted a step stool over and stepped up. It made him just the right height. He unfastened his pants and let them drop to the floor. Brenda felt the heat of the dryer on her butt and crotch. Ker-plunk…ker-plunk…ker-plunk… ker-plunk…The rhythmic vibration of the drying shoes sent ripples through her body. She wanted him and she could tell he wanted her. Ker-plunk…ker-plunk…ker-plunk…She was moist and ready and he was full and firm. Ker-plunk…ker-plunk…ker-plunk…They kept time to the rhythmic ker-plunk of the shoes and discovered that women really could reach orgasm on a dryer.
The only problem with sex on a dryer was there was nowhere for afterglowing. So they wound up on the floor on top of the dirty laundry, snuggling.
“That was wonderful,” Brenda said. “I’m going to have those tennis shoes bronzed as a memento.”
He laughed. “Think I should write Cosmo a thank-you letter?”
“I would,” she laughed. “Whatever you want.”
“I’m glad you said that. You need to lighten up and have some fun. There’s someplace I want to take you,” he said.