Page 99 of The Dommes

It takes a few seconds, but I recover my hospitality. Carolyn is ushered into my living area, where I offer to take her fur coat, but she declines, citing that she won’t be staying long.

“Why, if it isn’t Evelyn,” she says sweetly, staring down my best friend. They exchange fake smiles. “Haven’t seen you around much lately. How’s school?”

While they submerge themselves in idle chatter, I get Carolyn a small cup of coffee to tie her over. Is it strange that I know she likes a hefty amount of cream and no sugar? I don’t know where I remember this from. Probably a function long ago. Either way, I feel like the prodigious daughter-in-law as I serve her coffee in my own home.

Until now, I never really saw Carolyn as “Ira’s mother.” She’s always had such a tight identity of her own – how can she not, given her machinations in the Mathison family? – that there was no need to think of her in relation to her husband and child. Most women in our world have those kinds of identities. They’re known for being so-and-so’s wife, mother, daughter. The best they can hope for is striking out on their own a bit, but many don’t bother, whether out of choice or disillusionment.

I’ve always looked up to Carolyn because she knows what she wants and is completely unapologetic about getting it. We laugh about her marriage and divorce but think about it – how well played! Donovan Mathison wrote in a prenup that she wouldn’t get half his fortune in a divorce unless they were married for twenty years. In exchange for getting married over Ira’s conception, he asked her to invest more than her body. He wanted her time. Twenty years of being the hot young wife. A hot, smart wife who did more than be arm candy at functions. Carolyn didn’t mind being with the man, but she wanted to see her worth upfront. Her own personal worth… and wealth.

Growing up with women like that in my family’s social circle helped shape who I am. Probably. I saw women like Carolyn and realized that I could make my own way without my father’s help. It’s tougher being a woman, but at least I know it’s possible.

That doesn’t mean I know why she’s here. Or that I’m suddenly not thinking of her kid, especially since they share the same arch of the brows and high cheekbones.

She’s a glamorous woman who doesn’t look a day over thirty, even though she’s much older. What? Fifty? I think so. Today, she’s wearing a body-hugging long-sleeved dress designed to look like intricate oil pools. From one angle she’s covered in blues and purples, and from another she’s nothing but greens and reds. The high-neck of her black fur coat makes her look more sophisticated. Especially when I realize it’s vintage fur. The Mathisons, especially Carolyn and Ira, are infamous for being environmentally and ecologically conscious to a fault. No way would Carolyn purchase any real fur that wasn’t dead for at least a hundred years already.

“To what do I owe this pleasure, Carolyn?” I ask, sitting by Eve on my couch. The woman takes a chair adjacent to us. The coffee is untouched in her hands. “You don’t stop by here often.” Or ever.

She glances at Eve. “I was actually hoping we could speak in private, dear.”

Eve takes the hint without offense. “I need to use the ladies’ room anyway.” She gets up, taking the empty popcorn bowl and wineglasses to my kitchen before diverting to the guest bathroom. Carolyn eyes her before turning back to me.

“How’s the project coming along, dear?”

“Dear” is basically a copula for Carolyn, and I usually ignore it, but today it seems slathered in some strange feeling. I don’t know what to make of it.

“It’s coming along fine. I can’t apologize enough for holding things up in the beginning part of this plan.”

“Oh, don’t fret over it. The Anderssens needed a reason to broach the council subject, and you were a scapegoat handed to them on a silver platter.” Gee, that doesn’t make me feel any better. “I’m more concerned about how you’re dealing with my darling family.” The condescension dripping from her fangs would be hilarious if she weren’t talking about the person I’m currently fucking.

“You mean Ira?”

“Ira, Donovan… even that cute gal Vivian working for the fruit of my loins. They’re all kind of the same in some areas.”

“You’re not?”

“Hell no! I’m a girl who made the best out of a… terrible and unfortunate situation.” Her grin says otherwise. I’ve often wondered – and I’m not the only one – if Carolyn got pregnant on purpose. “However, I know firsthand how difficult those two can be. I may have given birth and raised one, but they’re still their father’s child, bless them. Once Ira discovered they liked dressing up as a boy, Donovan paraded them around in those men’s-only clubs as a way to prove how ‘daft’ they are. His words. God only knows what Ira’s picked up from them!”

“I haven’t had any problems to speak of.”

My lips are tight, which means Carolyn doesn’t believe me. I’ve never been shy in recent years about what an ass Ira can be. She often agrees with me, laughing into champagne, coffee, tea, or whatever she has on hand at the time. Today she’s not even touching the coffee I gave her.

“You know…” she begins, and I’m not sure I like the tone in her voice. “I made quite the flub the other day talking to Ira. All this time I thought that you two once dated. They set me right, don’t you worry… but I’ve been wondering if I really misremembered that or not.”

I attempt to keep my demeanor pleasant, but it’s faltering. “Ira and I never dated. We’ve known each other for quite a while, however.”

“Yes, yes, they told me that you two went to that academy together. Aren’t you younger?”

“Only two years. She was a senior when I was a sophomore.” The fact that we’re both using our own pronouns for Ira isn’t escaping me. I admit, I feel a bit put on the spot referring to her as she so casually, let alone in front of her mother, who throws a gala every Pride and has more Trans Youth shirts in her closet than the Human Rights Council. But Ira told me a long time ago that it was fine for me to use she, so I do.

Is this what it feels like to not want to offend your potential mother-in-law? The kind of mother hawk that would steal a machete and start slashing if anyone came for her baby?

“Oh!” Carolyn exclaims. “That explains it. Old enough to go to school together, but different grades.”

“I suppose.”

“Hm.” Carolyn looks up toward my ceiling and taps a pink nail against her red lips. “You should date Ira!”

“What?”

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