Robotlike, his pole drooping, Jerry climbed into the shower and got clean, got shining and scrubbed, although he didn't know why. It was something to do, while his mother tried to handle Mrs. Carter somehow, while she tried to talk the woman out of doing anything goofy.He felt too guilty to just hang around the room, though; it was his fault, too. If there was going to be any flak over what she'd seen, he ought to go out there and take his share, so Jerry slipped into his robe and found some slippers and moved toward the voices he heard in the kitchen.There was the clink of glass on glass, and the rattle of ice cubes. Good, he thought; his mother had Mrs. Carter drinking, settling her down some. Jerry came quietly to the kitchen entrance and stood there uncertainly. They had their backs to him, both of them seated upon the high stools at the counter.Angela was saying, "Look, Debbie - what the hell is so bad about it? I don't think it's weird, and my son sure as hell doesn't. And I'll. I always find small talk difficult, and this is no exception. Tom breaks the ice, joking that he hoped I had a strong stomach, and that I’d need one if I was to endure his wife’s cooking. We all laugh, except for Alison, who seems to have lost her tongue. The meal was an awkward affair, stilted and uncomfortable. I tried to answer all the questions fired at me, mainly from Tom and very occasionally from his timid wife. The food was as bad as Tom had said it would be, but I had to force myself to eat a fair amount of it, so as not to upset Alison. I’m delighted when we can leave the table and retire to the sitting room. With the addition of alcohol the rest of the evening goes a little better, and I start to relax, talking more freely and taking more control of conversations, particularly with Tom. I notice quite frequently that his eyes stray from my face, down over to my legs and breasts. He makes no secret of it either, his gaze lingering for several seconds. Joe is really getting.
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