Caught Red-Handed

 

My mom caught us smoking on the porch.

I was 7. Billy Toby was 8 and had sneaked 3 cigarettes from his mother’s purse.

“Are you boys smoking?”

“Yes, Mrs. Frothingham,” Billy whimpered.

We both knew we were in for it.

And when my mother was through with us, we knew we would face our dads. Both known for their explosive tempers.

 

“Well, if you’ve decided to smoke, go ahead.”

 

Huh? This was unexpected.

 

“Go, ahead, Billy.”

Billy’s eyes darted towards the porch steps, perhaps considering making a quick escape. The power of adult attention kept him frozen in place.

“Go ahead, Billy. Show me how you smoke.”

Billy took a small puff and then seemed to physically shrink, making himself a smaller target.

“Now you, Scott.”

There was no way out. I took a little puff.

My mom chuckled.

"Boys, boys, boys. That’s not how you smoke. This is how you smoke.”

With that she took a long drag on the cigarette. Time slowed down until she finally released a long stream of smoke from her lips.

“Let’s see if you boys can do it right.”

She lit 2 cigarettes and gave one to each of us.

“Do it like I showed you … the biggest breath you can take.”

With a shrug we complied … giving each other a relieved glance as it dawned on us that we'd gotten away with it.

In moments Billy and I were doubled over retching.

I threw up things I’d forgotten I'd eaten. Including an Indian head nickel my cousin Bobby had double-dog dared me to swallow the previous Thanksgiving.

After 20 minutes of gagging and retching. Mom sent the ashen faced Billy staggering back across the street to his house and ushered me into the bathroom.

As she splashed cold water on my face she asked, “So what do you think about smoking?”

“I hate it, Mom. I’m never gonna smoke again.”

 

Mom, when I call you this afternoon, I’ll remind you of this story ... and that on our porch that day was the last time I purposely inhaled tobacco smoke.