My aunt — my babysitter

I want to say up front that I got this idea when I was reading jl317’s “the Babysitter.”

“Jimmy, you’re not old enough to watch your brothers for the weekend.”
“April watches her sisters,” I said and sulked.
April’s family lived across the street.
“She’s more mature than you are.”
“I’m mature!” I whined.
“Jimbo,” Carl, my stepfather piped in, “Do you really want to watch your brothers?”
He didn’t insert himself into my disputes with my mother often, but when he did, I had learned to listen and think about what he said.
But the two of us were both trying our best to get along, after we’d fought it out hard and dirty for over a year. He had pinched me painfully hard under my upper arms or spanked me with his belt so often that, thick as my skull was, I had learned to listen to him.
I thought about it, and laughed.
“No, Carl. I’m sorry, mom.”
He had taught me to admit when I was wrong and to apologize to my mother.
He had said, “You don’t have to apologize to me unless you break something of mine. But your mother, you damn well better . . .”
“You want the house to yourself,” my mom said, but she was smiling her thanks at my stepfather over my head.
“I guess.”
“Jilly’s will be here,” my mom said.
“I know.” I had known that it was a loosing battle anyway.
Jilly was the fat college girl from our church who had been our babysitter for the last two years.
“Is she in charge of me?”
“How about this,” Carl suggested. “Behave yourself, and you and Jilly can both pretend that she’s not.”
“And the time after next, or the time after that,” my mom said, “you won’t have to pretend, if you show that you can handle it.”
I nodded.
Carl grinned at me. “And then after that, we’ll start fighting about whether you have to watch your brothers when we’re away.”
As much as I hated to admit it even to myself, I was starting to like Carl.

But then Jilly canceled at the last minute.
I overheard my mom tell Carl, “She said that her sister had a relapse.”
I didn’t know what that meant, but Carl had said, “Nobody lies about something like that.”
I guessed that a “relapse” was something bad, something embarrassing.
They made a few phone calls, but they couldn’t find anyone.
“What about aunty Cara?” I suggested.
“You wish,” my stepfather said to me.
“Carl!” my mom said and giggled.
Cara is my real father’s nineteen-year-old sister. She has the most amazing red hair, what my mom calls “strawberry-blond,” and tits to die for. She has blue eyes and creamy skin and round lips.
“You know, Magpie, if she’s gonna be here, I think we should cancel, to provide proper supervision,” my stepfather said and winked at me.
My mom’s name was Maggie. I always felt creeped out when he called her “Magpie” instead.
My mom punched him in the arm, and it looked like a hard punch, too.
But Carl only laughed.
He had told me that any man should be able to take a punch from a woman in good grace. “You can block it if she goes for your face or your nuts, but otherwise, tough it out.”
He’d also said, “Ninety-nine out of ninety-nine times, if a woman hits you, you deserved it.”

Well, I was on my absolute best behavior.
I helped Cara with my brothers, my half-brothers, really.
They’re six and seven years old, so it wasn’t like we fought anyway.
But I even did the dishes without being asked.
After they were in bed, Cara said, “Thank you.”
I started to talk about Carl, about what he’d said, but then I spilled the beans about what my mom had said, too, about how I could be in charge of myself if I starting acting like I could handle it.
“Come on, Jim,” she said, “you can, I can tell.”
I had my doubts, but I didn’t argue with her, of course.
Instead, I said, “Well, I’m trying.”
“You did the dishes, and you read to Carl Jr and Teddy.”
“I like reading to them. It reminded me of when my father used to read to me.”
She looked sad, “He used to read to me, too, when I was little.”
He was in Canada, working on an oil rig.
So we were talking about him, my real father, when we sort of ran out of steam.
“Do you have a girlfriend?”
“No,” I admitted and felt my face get warm.
“You will, don’t worry.”
“I know.”
But I always felt stupid when I talked to girls.
“You can ask me, you know.”
“Ask you what?”
“If I have a boyfriend, silly.”
“Do you?”
“No.