28 comments/ 122737 views/ 59 favorites How They May Be By: nomennescio Author's note: This story is fairly long and relatively light on 'action.' If that would trouble you, there are certainly more appealing choices out there. --- I am a sinner. As are all men, of course, hounded eternally by our own darker natures. But my sin is the heavier, not because it is unforgivable but because I am too much a coward to ask forgiveness, too enamored of my own sickness to seek its cure. I tried as best as I might - fought the evil within me, and lost, and wallowed for a time in guilt. I have grown tired of that now. My sins are a part of me, as much as my heart, and as readily removed. I do not know what waits for me when life's final tally is called, but I pray that, at least among men, I may be understood before I am judged. It began on an unremarkable Friday in the middle of autumn, when the daylight hours began to shorten and the heat outside declined into a gentle tepidity. Work at the office was light that week, and our progress rapid; in recognition of that fact, I decided to let my department go home early, to take advantage of the mild weather and still-empty streets. It was a concession to myself as much as to my subordinates, and I was one of the first out the door, taking the drive home in a comfortably contemplative mood. At seventy miles long, my commute was normally a source of frustration, but with Dylan warbling through the speakers and majestic cumulonimbus clouds puffing up in the distance before me, I covered the distance in good time and in contentment. My mind was occupied with nothing more serious than what that evening's meal would be - Fridays we often went out to a restaurant, but I reflected that today offered a good opportunity for me to practice my own kitchen skills. The transponder on the dashboard opened the gate to my community with hardly a second's pause, and shortly I pulled up the peach brick driveway to my home. A comfortable two-story affair in a neo-Mediterranean style, it bristled with low roofs and arches, warm in construction and just imposing enough to satisfy a man's need to feel important. Too large, perhaps, for just two people, but I was happy with it all the same. Indeed, at that moment I do not think I would say I was unhappy with anything in my life; the troubles of the past were but a memory, the birthing pains of the beautiful Now. Such contentment, of course, begged to be upended. The house was quiet as I stepped through the hand-carved wooden doorway, and on the edge of perception I could hear the ambiguous sound of human exertion, of ragged breath and urgent murmurs, a sound that whispered more than said. I did not have to go far to find the source. Passing around the corner into the sitting room, I found on the couch a young couple locked in a passionate embrace. Half of that couple I knew very well. My darling daughter Emily sat there, halfway to horizontal, her blouse and bra cast carelessly upon the floor while a still-dressed and shaggy-haired boy worked his mouth eagerly against hers, one free hand pawing and kneading at the pale flesh of her breasts. Her eyes were closed, her brief raven locks disheveled as she clasped her suitor, accepting the attentions he proffered upon her slim frame with soft, almost plaintive moans. They were too distracted with their embrace to notice me, and I too surprised by it to respond, so for a handful of moments I just watched as the boy dropped his hand beneath the hem of Emily's skirt, and his head dipped to take her rigid, light pink nipple into his mouth, sucking at it as if it were a boiled sweet. She was midway through another low, evocative cry when her eyes suddenly shot open as though appraised of my presence, flinty grey orbs staring straight at me, speaking already of a horrified embarrassment. In that moment my own shock subsided, and the boy half-jumped as I roared out, "Just what the hell is going on here?!" "Hey, whoa man," the lanky, half-shaven boy witlessly offered as he scrambled off my daughter and staggered to his feet, "That is, um, Mr. West. I'm - Emily invited me over, and I was just, we were, uh..." He trailed off nervously as I glared at him with murder in my eyes. There are some fathers, perhaps, who can take the thought of their daughters' romantic encounters with equanimity, but I was far from one of them - finding this stumble-mouthed idiot in the middle of trying to have his way with her was enough to make me wish I had a shotgun to wave about, and perhaps a quantity of quicklime. I had to settle for the lesser gratification of seeing him flinch as I advanced on him. "I can see what you were doing, dirtbag," I rumbled, and as he started to protest, hooked a hand around to the back of his neck, squeezed at the nerves until he squealed. "Aaah! Jesus, man, leggo!" He twisted about, trying to get loose - a futile effort, as I easily had fifty pounds on him. Without pause I trucked him back to the front door and unceremoniously shoved him out onto the walk, where he collapsed in an undignified sprawl before slowly picking himself up, complaining all the while. "Goddammit, you can at least gimmie a fucking second to talk." "If I catch you sniffing around my daughter again," I snarled, dangerous and low, "I'll break you in half and bury you in my backyard." I slammed the mahogany door in his face, entirely beyond any concern for what he might say. The situation explained itself. Anger still drove me as I walked back to the sitting room, where Emily, having quickly donned her blouse, now sat quietly with burning cheeks and downcast eyes, her delicate hands clasped in her lap. But even her clear contrition and my normal regard for her did not contain my ire. "Don't think I've forgotten about you, little lady." I groused at her. "What the hell were you thinking, bringing home a guy like that?" "I was-" "I can tell just by looking at him that he's no good," I cut her off curtly. "That guy's only after one thing, and you can be damned sure your happiness isn't it. I didn't think I raised you to be that naïve. I didn't think I had to worry about you bringing home drugged-up idiots to take advantage of you." "He's not-" A tone of anguish undercut her voice, but I ignored it. "I mean, for God's sake, Emily, has your brain stopped working? Don't you think? I hope you're embarrassed about this, because you damn well ought to be. What were you - damn it," I sputtered angrily. "You'll get a hell of a reputation acting like that, I can tell you. They'll be penning up your name on the bathroom stalls." She was silent now, and in my ranting fury her averted eyes were another irritant. "Look at me when I'm talking to you, for god's sake!" Dutifully, she looked up, and I saw the beginning glimmerings of tears in her silver eyes. Instantly, the anger froze in my blood, turning to a cold, sorrowful regret. I could never bear to see Emily cry; her tears filled me with the guilt of my past failures, rent open my heart to the winter of her suffering, until I could do nothing but try to make her feel better. "Oh, honey, I'm sorry," I collapsed to my knees before her, clutching for her hands in an instinctive plea of forgiveness. "I'm sorry. You shouldn't listen to a thing I say, you really shouldn't. I'm not even mad at you, honestly, I just..." With a sigh, I stroked comfortingly at the back of her hand with my thumb, struggling to put my reaction into words. "You're almost grown up now, sweetheart, but I still think of you as my little girl. Seeing you like that...it reminded me that I'll be losing you all too soon, and the thought just about drives me crazy." I gave her a rueful half-smile, and was heartened to see it returned. "But that doesn't excuse anything I said. Please tell me you forgive me?" "Oh, daddy." Disentangling her hands from mine, Emily wiped dry her eyes and slipped off the couch to give me a warm and benevolent hug. "Of course I forgive you," she said simply, her head resting upon my shoulder. Nothing more needed to be said - her embrace radiated mercy, trust, as though my offenses were already forgotten. Her nearness was now, as always, a balm to my psyche, and I was soon smiling again, the hopeless, foolish smile of a man who feels despite logic that everything is all right. "Besides," Emily rose first, prompting me to my feet as well. "You shouldn't think that. I promise, no matter what happens, no matter how old I get, I'm always going to be your little girl. Okay?" Her eyes looked firmly up at mine, thin eyebrows low and serious, with just the slightest quirk to her small mouth revealing her good humor. "Okay, princess." I accepted the promise agreeably, only wishing it were true. "You're probably right, anyway. I mean, I shouldn't've..." She gestured vaguely, only the context signifying her romantic rendezvous. "I kind of got caught up in the moment, you know, without thinking." "Was that guy your boyfriend, then?" I asked cautiously. If she was willing, I did want to talk to her about this - now that I was calm enough to do so sensibly. "Rob? N-not really, I don't think." She hesitated over the denial, uncertainly. "I mean, I know him and everything, and we've hung out a lot, but we aren't exactly...before now he's only, um, kissed me once. Twice." "But you like him." There was a pause, and when she answered, it was in a quieter voice, one which sparked a pang of pity within me. "He's okay. I know he likes me. I don't think...there's not really a whole bunch of guys that do, you know." "Sweetheart," I began delicately, with the mildest possible tones of rebuke. "I don't know that. I don't believe that. You're a beautiful young woman with a wonderful personality - as far as I'm concerned, if there's a boy out there that isn't in love with you, he's either gay or crazy." Emily let out a sardonic snort. "Really, daddy? 'A wonderful personality?' That's exactly what everyone always says ugly girls have." "Well, nevertheless," I insisted doggedly, "It's still true. Maybe the boys you're dealing with now don't care much about it, but once you get out of high school, personality counts for a lot more. And I also said that you're a beautiful girl, if you'll recall." "Yeah, but you're my dad. You have to say that, it's in the bylaws." She laughed, but there was a distant ache in her expression that told me she meant it, that she didn't really believe me. It was absurd, the endless insecurity of teenagers - looking at her, I was unable to fathom how she could doubt her beauty. "Honey, listen to me." Putting an arm around Emily's shoulder, I sat down with her upon the couch before continuing. "I'm not just saying this because I'm your father - you really are a lovely girl. You have what they call classical features, the kind of face artists loved to paint back when artists actually painted anything recognizable. That's a Greek nose you've got," and I ran my finger down the line of her nose for emphasis, "Very straight and thin and strong. It gives definition to your face, makes you look alert, intelligent." Emily's mouth quirked. "Yeah, I mean, all the guys clamor for a girl with a pretty nose." But she sounded pleased. "It's part of an organic whole," I explained. "Your eyes - you have your mother's eyes, for which you're very lucky. Grey eyes are rare, and quite striking. They make you stand out from the crowd." I had fallen in love with her mother's eyes, deep and expressive, like wellsprings to the soul, and it never quite stopped being disconcerting to see them on Emily. Especially as she grew older, I sometimes had to stop and remind myself of exactly whom I was looking at. "Now that your acne's cleared up, your skin - well, frankly, it's flawless." I stroked absently at her cheek. "Smooth and warm, elegantly pale. You could be an aristocrat, a little Queen." Emily gave no answer - the amusement in her expression had faded away, replaced by a faint apprehension that I failed to notice, caught up in my appraisal. "And your lips, I should say, are sublime." I spoke quietly now, almost more to myself than to her, as my thumb slowly traced the contour of her mouth. "Well-defined and firm, with just that slight enticing plumpness. A perfect shade of pink." "Daddy...?" Her lower lip slid away beneath my thumb as she intoned the word diffidently, and I was jolted from the reverie into which I had fallen, my hand dropping away from her face. Just what on earth had I been thinking? Emily's cheeks were flushed, her eyes wide - I shook my head, trying to clear my senses. "Anyway, ah...seem to have lost track of the point there," I sputtered out with a short, troubled chuckle. "What I wanted to say was that...well, you shouldn't ever think that you have to settle for someone you don't really care for. And you absolutely shouldn't think that you owe a boy anything for paying attention to you." Emily did not immediately respond, still looking at me oddly from the corner of her eyes, her mouth slightly parted. Eventually, though, she nodded, gave me a hesitant smile. "Okay." "Good." I shot her back a warm grin. "Listen, sweetie - I'm not going to give you any commands. You're too old for that now. And I guess these days, it's maybe not too realistic to talk about saving yourself for marriage. But I do hope you'll promise that you won't, ah, get physical with anyone unless you can honestly say that you love him. Can you promise me that?" She laughed suddenly, quietly, for no reason I could see, and stopped just as quickly. "I promise, daddy." Placing her hand around mine, she squeezed it softly, lending weight to her words. "I'm glad." I squeezed her hand back, appreciatively. "This Rob fellow, then - I think I know what my problem with him is. He reminds me of myself, when I was his age, and I certainly don't mean that in a good way. If you said you're not that keen on him in the first place..." "He'll probably be mad about getting thrown out like that, too." Emily's nose crinkled up in amusement. "I have to admit, it was kind of funny seeing you lead him around like, I don't know. Like some lumbering cow." "So you're not going to see him again?" She shook her head lightly. "No. He's... he can be a little pushy sometimes, you know. And..." A moment's hesitation. "Well, I trust you. If you think he's bad news, you're probably right." "Oh, honey." Touched by her faith in me, moved by her graciousness, I put my arms around her and hugged her close. "I couldn't ask for a better daughter than you. I really couldn't." Always an affectionate girl, she responded warmly, holding herself tightly against me. I could feel the heart beating in her chest, the rise and fall of her trim breasts as she breathed, and in this moment that sensation evoked a fugitive emotion in the depths of my psyche, a yearning I could not, dared not identify. I wanted to hold her, maybe forever, stroking her back and breathing in the strawberry scent of her hair. But that was not to be. The seconds passed in our embrace until Emily finally stirred, and I was reluctantly forced to release her, a distant, distracted look in her eye. "Ah, so," I sniffed, trying to shake off my consternation, "I was inclined towards Thai tonight, what do you think? We haven't been to Madame Chow's in a while." "Mm," she shook her head after a moment. "I don't know. I actually felt kind of like Italian, if you don't mind. I found a place called Vittorio's when I was shopping the other day, and it looked pretty nice, I think. Upscale, you know?" "Well, we could certainly give it a try," I nodded. "I can stand to get a glass or two of wine in me, anyway." So we went, and ate, and drank - or at least, I drank - and the events of the day receded into memory. Our conversation remained on lighter matters, Emily's effusive manner managing to make even the petty politics and gossip of high school sound intriguing. I talked a little about work, but mostly just asked questions while quietly marveling at her appetite - the food was well-prepared, and she put away nearly as much of it as I did, despite weighing less than a buck ten. Still, she was certainly active enough for it, between the track team and gymnastics. The afternoon fairly sparkled, despite its inauspicious beginning, and our laughter and banter seemed as warm as it ever was. It was not until that evening, after we had bid our goodnights and retired to our bedrooms, that my thoughts drifted back to Emily's tryst. Despite that the matter was settled - their relationship ended, a promise of something near to chastity extracted - the image of her paramour lavishing his attentions upon her trembling body remained with me, once more inciting the same dark, aching ire which had taken hold of me at the moment of discovery. Lying in bed, bereft of distractions, I found that I could not put it out of my mind; there was a cold sickness in the pit of my stomach as I replayed the few moments I had seen of their encounter again and again; the boy's filthy hands roaming across her bare, unsullied flesh, his detestable mouth wringing undeserved kisses from her lips, and a further sacrilege, stealing a taste of her gently upturned breast. For all that those images tormented me, it was the memory of her cries which tore at me the most violently. Emily had a voice as sweet as a songbird's, and in that low, melodic soprano her pleasured moans and murmurs had a hypnotic quality, a power like siren song. I could almost hear her there, in the silence of my bedroom, sounding pleasured sighs so evocative, so bewitching, that they wrenched me to my very soul, twisted my insides into knots. And I bristled to know that it was that juvenile delinquent who was chosen to wrest such utterances from her, to play upon her body as though it were a musical instrument. I knew that I could - but the thought choked itself off, without conclusion. I had nothing intelligible, only an obsessive, tumultuous horror as I contemplated her ravishment. In that vein, my thoughts were soon cast to what might have happened had I not arrived home early, had Emily been left to her suitor's contrivances. Would he have taken her there on the couch, I pondered darkly? Or in her room, amidst the stuffed animals which still populated her headboard? Or - and the breath caught in my throat at the thought - here on the very bed in which I now lay? In my mind's eye I could see them, young lovers collapsing in a tangle of slender limbs upon the mattress, their clothes falling away like leaves in autumn. He would not have known how to treat her, how to attend to her pleasure with tongue and finger, I thought with a cold, bilious certainty. No, he would crudely spear her yielding flesh, lay waste her innocence with no concern for anything but his own satisfaction. He would thrust with all the imbecilic, artless urgency of a rutting dog, and Emily - my Emily - would accept it with her gentle benevolence, knowing nothing of the raptures which could be afforded by a reverent hand, the ecstasies of a considerate lover. When the end neared - too quickly, as with all boys his age - he would pull back before the climactic moment and befoul Emily's perfect skin with his degenerate seed. She would lie there nude and heaving from her exertions, her breasts sticky with sweat and semen, her body abused and unsatisfied, while her teenaged beau scrambled off of her spouting some jackassed line. And I- It was not until that moment that I recognized my arousal, came to understand in one terrible instant the truth that had been staring me in the face - that it was not protective wrath but jealousy which possessed me, an insane jealousy for an impossible desire. I hated that boy because I wanted to be him, to lay my hands upon those marvelous breasts, to hear those fervid moans and know that I had called them forth. And I shuddered to feel now how the image of her body now inflamed me, how my nerves thrilled and my blood coursed at the thought of a most grievous sin. I had not imagined, could scarcely believe that such a darkness lurked within me; its revelation was a cloying terror, a vileness that choked the very breath from my lungs. How They May Be: After the Fall The following story is a sequel to 'How They May Be.' While I imagine that it should be more or less comprehensible on its own, it is very much intended to be read second. Like its predecessor, it is also somewhat long, with a relatively small proportion of explicit content; I might have placed it under romance or novellas, but I figured that the relationship of the characters took precedence here. If you still wish to read it, I hope you enjoy it. --- I sat holding Emily on the hotel room floor for what seemed a lifetime, her head upon my shoulder as sobs slowly gave way to sniffles, and then to silence. I had caused this - the accusation reverberated in my mind, as terrible as it was undeniable. By my careless neglect, with my lustful hands, I had built a monster to tear apart my life, my daughter's life. A perversion of love, insinuating its way into Emily's heart and laying there its cruel barbs. I had to think. I could not, as it was - not with her softness against me, her bare skin on mine, her slim and youthful figure only a downcast glance away. My body was too receptive to her touch, even in the sober light of a Sunday morning. I had to force my reluctant arms to push her away from me, up and to her feet, where she looked down at me with an anxious, red-eyed gaze and asked with a hesitant, almost pleading tone, "Daddy, can't you...?" She did not put words to the question, perhaps could not, but I knew her meaning all the same - a world of impossibilities lurked in that trailing silence, of promises and sins, joy and suffering. And I could not trust myself to answer it. Not when even the rightful response would bring tears back into her gentle eyes. Instead I fixed my gaze to the floor, and spoke in measured, distant tones, hiding my own ache behind a wall of careful detachment. "We'll discuss this later, Emily." "But..." Her hands wrung pitifully together at the top of my vision, striking at my resolve while it was still a weak and formless notion. "Later." I could hardly shape the word. "Take your shower. Get dressed. Today will be a long day." I desperately invoked whatever remained of my paternal authority, needing to get her away, out of my sight, before my will collapsed and I swept her back into my arms, promised her everything she wanted. And damned us both in the doing. She stood there in silence for a few moments, her stance tight with a longing which mirrored my own. But finally, mercifully, she obeyed, turned and disappeared into the bathroom, the sounds of the shower cutting in seconds later as I breathed with shallow relief. It was only a momentary respite, but it was badly needed. Laboring to my feet, I found my boxers and undershirt where I had carelessly cast them aside the previous night and covered myself before sitting back on the bed. What was I to do? How could I hope to make this right again? I had thought earlier of asylum, that I should check myself into a mental hospital for my sickness, leave Emily to her own devices or in the care of a nanny. Reflection now made this look a less suitable path. I had obligations - to work, to my friends. I couldn't just disappear into an institution somewhere and leave the rest of life on hold. Even if I could, I didn't really know where or how. For drug addiction or alcoholism, there were a multitude of clinics which would take in anyone willing to pay. For this... More than that, the prospect of turning myself over to the mental health industry was an unattractive one. I had had trouble enough in merely speaking of my desires to my priest, from the safety of an anonymous confession; I did not know that I could bear to tell some unknown psychiatrist of the depths to which I had since fallen. I could just see him, bespectacled and lean, watching me like an entomologist dissecting a rare beetle, his eyes aglow at this chance to observe such a fascinating freak. Recording my sins and my shame in exacting detail, and sharing them with his colleagues to win the accolades due the discoverer of so broken and wretched a man. No, it would not do. I had to separate myself from Emily, but I had to do it on my own terms. I could perhaps just rent a hotel room back in Los Angeles; that would in itself solve most of the problem. If I were not near her, I could not succumb to my temptations. My gaze flickered to the wall which concealed her from my sight. Our temptations. It seemed so impossible, still, that she was joined in this insanity with me, or I with her. A phrase leapt unbidden to my mind, some distant recollection twinged into consciousness - 'folie à deux.' A madness shared by two. Put that way, it was almost a romantic notion. Sudden anger tightened my hand into a fist, nails biting my palm. I could not think that, damn it, I dared not. There was nothing of beauty in this, no more than there would be if we suffered from dementia or delusions. It was sickness, not some ordained connection, and the revelation that it was shared only made it more vital that I absent myself from her presence, before... A slow sigh escaped my lips, weary despite the early hour. Before what? I had already succumbed to my desires, already stolen my daughter's innocence. I could not take that back, however much I might wish to. All I could hope now was that I might keep from turning disaster into catastrophe. That by leaving, I could make this a single, terrible mistake, rather than the beginning of a great depravity which would forever scar Emily's life. I stared dully at the off-white carpeting beside the bed. Yes, this was what I had to do - the best of a number of deeply horrible choices. But I knew that I could not afford to tell her, at least not yet. It would bring tears and pain that I could not stand to see; there was hurt enough of my own, just in the thought of leaving her side. So for a time I sat there, the low thrum of cascading water humming in my ears, and tried to force myself to forget the satin softness of Emily's skin against me the past night, the melody of her cries and the gentle hunger of her kisses. --- It seemed Emily's time in the shower was enough to rediscover her shame, for when she emerged from the bathroom loosely draped in a fluffy white hotel towel, her eyes were downcast, her stance small and quiet. There was a moment of awkwardness as I moved past her, as she intoned the beginning of a word - just a brief note from the top of her throat, before falling into silence. I glanced down at her and she looked away again, leaving me gazing at the side of her narrow jaw, at the soft pink ear which nestled like a dove amidst her wetly mussed midnight locks, at the milky-white expanse of her elegant neck. And lower, the body which burned in my memory, its modest covering only granting it a greater allure. It was an effort of will to call back my eyes from their descent. I said nothing. There was nothing to be said. I disappeared into the bathroom, tried to scour off my sin beneath a stream of scalding water, to wash away the faint residue of mingled sweat that still clung to me. But even with my body cleaned, I still felt the stain of my failure. My mood scarcely improved, I emerged again to find Emily waiting for me, sitting lightly perched atop the dresser. Quietly. "Are you going to go to more meetings today?" She'd dressed in jeans and a snowy white sweater. A picture of innocence, unblemished by the night we had shared. She still didn't look at me, her eyes fixed at the base of the wall, the slightest flush simmering on her cheeks. Her tone struggled to contain a host of emotions - accusation and apology, hurt and want. "Of course." I pulled a suit from the closet, grateful for the small distraction to busy my hands, my mind. Sky blue shirt, jacket an ash that trended to black. "I have responsibilities, sweetheart. Duties." I could keep my voice steady, if I sent my heart somewhere far away. "Are we...um, can we get breakfast together, though?" Hope strained at her words as she looked up at me, and I was forced to turn my gaze away. "No," I intoned flatly, with a shake of the head. "I'm already late. And besides," the words came as a distant echo, "I'm not really hungry this morning." I risked a quick glance into her forlorn eyes. "We'll be finishing up and getting ready to go at one o'clock. You can handle yourself until then. Just meet me here in the room, okay?" Emily did not immediately respond, and when she did, her answer came out as little more than a whisper. "Okay." "Good. You..." I wanted to comfort her. It was impossible to miss her pain. But the only words I had to offer were empty. "You'll be fine, pumpkin. Everything's going to be okay." And with nothing further said, I dressed and departed for the remaining two meetings of the retreat, leaving her to sit silently upon the dresser's edge. We did not speak a goodbye as I left - just shared a look, our eyes meeting for the merest moment before dodging away again. So great a change from the ease and joy of our interactions over the past two days. For all my talk of duties and responsibilities, it was that - she - which filled my mind as I attended to the day's gatherings. How obvious it seemed now, viewed through the lens of retrospect. The hints of Emily's true feeling had been abundant - the pretense of marriage she offered, her anger and possessiveness on meeting Katheryn, her softly insistent demands to dance with me. And how blind I must have been, to miss it before. A willing blindness, no doubt; so long as I was in ignorance, I had been free to engage with her, to dance and to laugh and to embrace, pretending I was only maintaining what we had before this desire took hold of me. Now the veil was lifted, the truth laid bare, and we both knew what our smiles truly said. Every glance was a kiss, every touch an intimate whisper. Any softness on my part would be a cruelty, or else an invitation to a repeat of my failure. And Emily - for all her mischief and her seeming confidence, she was a teenaged girl, insecure and uncertain. Her eyes now spoke perhaps too plainly for her to bear. The hours that followed I spent in a kind of reverie, a blur of faces babbling around me about the dawn of a new financial era while I steeled my soul and hardened my heart for what had to come. I had only one new freedom, that I no longer had to pretend that everything was normal. I could afford to push her away now - if I could stand to. If I could do the right thing, when it came down to the wire and there were no deceptions and appearances to complicate matters. It was with that thought in mind that I returned to our room, when all the meetings were done and it was time to depart. I trod heavily inside, brusquely, as though purpose were the only thing within me. Emily hardly seemed to have moved since I left, sitting folded up upon the bed with her knees clutched between her arms, the television on and tuned to some soap opera with the sound a trifle too quiet to hear comfortably. This time I did not hide my gaze. I forced myself to look at her flatly, the feeling scoured from my face. Like stone, a silent command pressing upon my heart. Only a slight twitch of my lips sneaking through as testimony to the emotion I was struggling to quash. "Let's go." I spoke briefly, impersonally, as I gathered up the belongings spread across the room and brought them over to my bag. Packing it all up again, neat and orderly. Everything in its proper place. The television turned off, and I could hear the silence that flowed from her, straining wordlessly as she drew up close behind. She paused there, waiting, and I felt a twin shiver of anticipation and dread at the prospect of her touch. But the moment passed. She moved on silently to her own luggage, wadding up the discarded clothing which lay scattered around it. I watched her from the corner of my eye as she shoved it inside, a taut violence in her motion. Anger, or bitterness, or worry...it didn't matter, I told myself. She was done, kneeling heavily on the soft-walled suitcase, waiting for me. It was time to leave, to put a close to this entire grotesque affair. There was a bus again, and a wait at the airport, and a long flight back to the mainland. And in all those hours, we did not speak a single word to one another. As though we were strangers who only happened to be traveling identical paths, politely ignoring one another's presence. No, not entirely true. I treated her as such, or tried to - my face was buried in one of the airline's unreadable magazines throughout the flight, forcing myself to read through stilted articles about popular New York chefs and the rise of vacation homes in Oceania. But I sometimes felt her eyes on me, studying the side of my face for what seemed minutes at a time. I ignored it. We were in public, and there was a kind of safety in that. Even if she broke her silence, she would surely not speak openly where others could hear. In fact, it was not until we picked up the car from long-term parking and started on the final leg of our journey home that she spoke again. Her head leaned against the window, looking out into the deepening dusk as we accelerated onto the highway. "We wouldn't have to tell anyone." Her words came so thin and soft against the background rumble of the engine, I was hardly even sure I had heard them. "What's that?" I only glanced at her for a moment, just long enough to see her pale cheek flash as we passed beneath the yellow radiance of a sodium streetlight. "If you're afraid of what people would think." Her dulcet voice insinuated gently into my ear. "We could just pretend like everything is normal. Nobody else would have to know." I looked to Emily again, and her silver eyes speared into mine. Promising. Hopeful. A little prayer sparkling in their depths. It was all I could do to wrench my gaze back to the road. "Is that what you think I'm worried about? What other people would say?" It came out bitterly, my inner turmoil finding purchase in my voice. She was quiet for a moment, stung, but she pressed on patiently. "Daddy, I know you have to . . . keep up appearances. I understand that, and I don't mind. If we could be together..." Her hand moved to rest atop mine on the gear shift, small and warm and soft. "I'd be happy just with that. Even if I could never tell anybody. I can keep a secret." Too long I let her hand stay there, as my heart bobbled in my throat. And too long silent, searching for the words of a denial. When I finally found them, I spat them at her angrily, my own self-loathing turned outwards. "That has nothing to do with it." And I shoved her hand away, moving mine back to the steering wheel. "It's just as wrong if only we know about it. I won't be that person, and I won't do that to you." I didn't even know how true that was - if the world were different, if others would not look upon my feelings with such disgust and horror . . . a useless thought. That was not the world I lived in. "But daddy-" Her voice rose in frustration. "Enough!" I forced a touch of steel into my voice, to make up for its absence in my resolve. "Damn it, Emily, you need to stop this. You need to put it out of your mind. Think about something else." It was a command to myself as much as to her. A helpless command, as no other thought could compete for my attention. She did not try again, just sat turned away from me with her legs curled up on the seat. It was a pose I had seen many times, the last when she came in third place in her gymnastics competition, and it carried her misery so well that I felt it even without looking at her; a gnawing at the depths of my heart, from which my manufactured indifference could offer little protection. Though I tried to ignore it, as the miles wore on the sympathetic ache in my breast grew, and I knew I could not bear to leave her in such a state. "Sweetheart, listen." I sighed softly, struggling for something which would soothe her. "I don't mean to yell. I just . . . you don't know how hard this is for me." Her quiet and bitterly sardonic snort made me revise my statement. "Or maybe you do, I don't know. But I didn't plan on this. I never imagined it could happen, I never wanted it to happen. I'm just trying to do the right thing, for you and...in general. And right now, it's not easy for me even to see what the right thing is." Silence from her still, as she stared out into the night. "I hate to push you away," I continued quietly. "But right now I feel like I'm walking a tightrope, and you keep grabbing for me. I can't handle it. I wish I could, but I just...I can't." She turned to face me then, a faintly rueful quirk to her mouth, and I was heartened to see that some of the gloom was lifted from her expression. "I . . . I guess I understand. I felt so weird about it, too, for the longest time. I didn't know if I should say something, or do something, or what. And I never really thought that this would ever..." She trailed off, with the slightest shake of her head. "Anyway, I mean, you don't have to say yes or no right now, right? We have time to take it slow, to figure out the if and - and the how." And a tiny, hopeful smile broke onto her face, like the glimmer of dawn on the horizon. I thought of my intention, to leave the next morning. But I still dared not speak of it. "Yes," I guiltily agreed instead. "There's time." A moment's hesitant pause. "So, ah, what did you think of that cultural center, anyway?" The artless change in topic provoked a genuine laugh from Emily, and her smile solidified. "It was okay. It was - nice. I mean, a little bit fakey, but the place was beautiful, and I really had fun." Her eyes flashed with recollection. "That reminds me, how's your foot?" "Doing fine." With all that had happened, I'd almost forgotten how I had burned myself on the hot coals when trying out firewalking. "I hardly even have a blister." "Good." Her voice was settling down with a wry kind of satisfaction, taking refuge in this interlude of normalcy. "You know, I liked the dancers, too - they had really interesting tattoos. I mean, I don't know if they were real or not, but either way they just had this powerful, artistic look to them." "Are you thinking of getting one for yourself?" I could manage only a shadow of the playful teasing I would normally have put into the question. "No, I don't think so." A quiet laugh. "It wouldn't look good on me, I don't think. And they're supposed to be for, like, warriors, aren't they?" Old patterns, again - old habits. We managed this light conversation for the rest of the ride home, keeping the great question simmering below the surface, unaddressed. There was a tension within me as I worried about slipped words and about the danger of even this small accord. But there was a current of peace as well, a warm breeze in the chill of my reproach. I always found such comfort in these little talks, in the halcyon lightness of her thoughts. Though it was today only an avoidance of the true concern, it seemed still to ease the burden upon my heart, until I could almost manage a smile. It was well into night by the time we finally pulled into that peach brick driveway, and our conversation stilled as we split up to bring our few bags into the house and get a quick snack from the fridge. I was ready to sleep, despite that the jet lag worked in our favor this time - these flights took quite a bit more out of me now than they had a decade previous, though whether that was from aging or just from being out of practice I could not say. But as I moved to go to my bedroom, I found Emily standing in the hall just before the door, leaning gently against the wall. "So, um," she intoned quietly, a smile of bravado beneath eyes that didn't quite meet mine. "I was in my room, and my bed looks awfully lonely. I thought maybe..." How They May Be: After the Fall She must have seen the denial building in my expression, for she didn't even finish the thought before hastily amending, "I mean, not to do anything - I remember what you said. I just, I..." Half-stammering, she looked away. "I want to be close to you." I had to swallow the lump in my throat before responding. "Princess, if you remember what I said, then you know that this is one of the things I can't handle right now." Right now - I was leaning so heavily on that, promising by implication a future that I did not plan to give her. Her head dropped minutely, a half-hearted attempt at a smile flickering on her lips. "Yeah. I guess I do." Shifting to her feet, she took a step towards her room - towards me. I stepped aside to let her pass, but she stopped as she came up close, turned her head to me with her eyes still downcast. "Just..." she murmured, and with no more warning than that, snaked her arms inside mine, leaned her body gently against me. The cold calculation of reason bade me to push her away, but I was not so controlled as that. This was perhaps the last hug we would have, and I could not bring myself to end it before its time. So for some moments we remained, her gentle curves pressed warmly upon me as I slowly put my arms around her shoulders and held her close, the strawberry scent of her hair tickling my nostrils. The side of her head lay softly upon my chest, and there was soon a sigh that seemed to issue from the very soul of her, with a quality of contentment that nearly pierced my heart. So much power in those delicately pink lips, in her silver eyes. I might not have been able to pull away on my own, but eventually Emily retreated with a small smile, and I was once again able to breathe. "Goodnight, pumpkin," I spoke, after a moment to steady my voice. "I'll see you in the morning." She quirked her lips. "I think I'll see you in my dreams, first." That slender trace of humor, threaded through her words - I knew I would miss it terribly when I was gone. Miss her. I could not bring myself to think of what that would be like; it was imagining oblivion. All I had were these last few moments. And without thought, without reason, I reached forward and gently clasped the side of her face in my palm, my thumb running slow along the line of her cheekbone - capturing the feel of her beauty, holding it like a jewel in my hand. I nearly lost control there, almost fell again, my resolve groaning under the weight of my feeling. It was a monumental effort to call back my hand and turn away from her. When I finally managed it I did not risk another look, instead just disappearing into my bedroom and closing the door behind me. I could hear her footsteps receding down the hallway, and breathed a silent sigh of relief - had she followed me into my room, I would never have been able to turn her away. It was a struggle to fall asleep that evening, my mind crowded and calamitous with memories of her, with emotion and sensation both. Phantom kisses lit upon my lips, and every time I closed my eyes she was there waiting for me, with open arms and a knowing smile. But finally, after an hour that felt like five, I was at last able to drift off into slumber, and find some refuge from my feelings in the blackness of sleep. --- I did not dream that night, or did not recall on waking - it hardly matters which. The usual morning routine I set about with a certain grim stolidity, the detached and measured purpose of a man preparing for his own execution. I certainly felt the strength of that comparison, staring sightlessly at my suitcase and wondering what I ought to pack. I was removing the lynchpin from my life, or perhaps my life from the lynchpin. Either way, there was a sense of unreality which cast a cloud upon my mind as I slowly replaced the worn clothing in my luggage with clean counterparts, and settled on a few books from my shelf. I'd been trying to finish Gibbon's Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire for nearly a year now. Perhaps tearing the heart from my world would give me the chance to do so. Even once I had packed, I remained sitting for a time on the edge of the bed, girding myself for the task before me. I could hear Emily downstairs, moving about with the occasional small clatter and scrape, and there was a terror inside me at the thought of this farewell. Surely I could wait a day, a scurrying thought within me pleaded. I didn't have to do this right now - I could give her time to prepare, give myself time... No. The longer I waited, the harder it would be. It had to be now, or I might never manage it. Complacency was too easily attained. I lumbered to my feet and to the stairs with my suitcase, footsteps heavy as I trundled down. By the time I reached the landing I could smell food cooking; coming down the last flight, I saw Emily bent lightly over the stove, stirring at a pan. She turned to me as I set foot upon the floor, and I guiltily dropped my bag out of sight. "Good morning, daddy!" From the look on her face, it could have been any day of the last half-decade. That dancing little sparkle in her eye, the gently thrilling trill in her voice. As though nothing at all had changed between us. But the illusion faded when her eyes met mine and then fell shyly away. "Um," she intoned bravely, "Did you sleep okay?" A breath to steady my nerves, and a pasted-on smile I hardly felt. "Well enough, I suppose." My gaze flickered down, and I felt a damning disappointment that she had already dressed for school, that I could not look upon her bare and lovely legs. "What about you?" "Better than I expected." A silent laugh spoke through her small smile. "I woke up early, though. Thought I'd make us some breakfast, if you're hungry." And she turned back to the stove, began scraping from the pan onto a waiting plate. "Bacon and eggs?" I asked over her shoulder. Emily wasn't much of a cook; the bacon looked a bit on the scorched side, and the eggs were poorly scrambled. Still, it was clearly a labor of love. "Awfully domestic of you, isn't it?" "I can be domestic when I want to be!" A playful kind of amusement lined her protest, as she turned back and offered up the plate to me. But it fled when her eyes fell again upon mine, leaving in its wake a desperately earnest intensity. "If you want me to be..." My hands stopped there, inches from the plate. It was more than a meal she offered, and I could not afford to accept. Could not afford, in fact, to indulge in this any longer. I stepped back from her, hands falling to my sides. I had to tell her now. Let her know, and go. "Emily, I need to leave." It came out smoothly, coldly. I'd certainly practiced it enough that morning, in my head, under my breath. "For work, you mean." Her eyes narrowed, and there was a trace of worry in her voice. She glanced at the clock; it was well before the time that I usually left. "No." I shook my head, sighed softly. "That is, yes, that's where I'll be going, but I won't be coming back." She laughed briefly, incredulously. "What do you mean, won't be coming back?" "I mean I'm leaving, and I'm not coming back." The words came out roughly now, forced through a throat that tightened in protest. "This . . . we can't have this, Emily, I can't give you what you want. And I can't trust myself to be around you. As long as you're here, I have to stay somewhere else." Emily shook her head, a desperately disbelieving smile on her lips. "No, you said we had time to figure this out. You said we could talk about it." Heavily. "I said what I had to, to get us through the day. There's nothing to figure out. Talking wouldn't change anything." "But you can't just leave," she insisted. "I can't live without you, daddy, I-" "You'll be fine," I interrupted firmly. "You're a very capable girl, and you won't have to worry about anything. You have your car, and your credit card. I'll hire someone to come in and keep the house clean. If there's an emergency, you can call me on the cell." Silence for a few moments, her head shaking in a small bobble. Then, "So that's it? All those years, everything we've had since you came back, and now because of one night it's just 'goodbye forever?'" She was not making this easy for me, staring up into my eyes with a passionately plaintive intensity. My heart was on her side, pleading that there must be another way, that I could not abandon her like this. Not again. But I would not be dissuaded. Despite the dictates of emotion, I knew what had to be done. Slowly, I nodded my head. "Maybe not forever. But for the foreseeable future - yes. That's it." "You just..." Emily trailed off as her head shook again, her expression contorting with ripples of helpless feeling. Brief laughter bubbled out of her, tinged with hysteria. "You...liar!" An adolescent fury leapt into her voice, blotched her face as she suddenly spat out the accusation. "Fine! You want to leave so bad, then leave!" "Sweetheart, please understand," I said softly. "It's not about what I want. It's about what's necessary. It's about-" "SHUT! UP!" She screamed, eyes burning fiercely. "Stop saying that! I hate you!" And in a single, smooth motion, she hurled the plate of food at me - it glanced stingingly off my shoulder and shattered upon the wall, eggs sliding semifluidly down to the ground. I don't think she even meant to do it; her expression quickly cycled through shock and chagrin, before settling in to anger once more. "Just - just get the hell away from me." She turned away then, hands balled into trembling fists, and I stood there long seconds grappling with my own internal struggle. Her anger rubbed at me like a thorn in my side, and I did not want to leave her so full of bile and rage. I had always soothed her at times like this, never permitted fury to curdle in her heart. But I knew as well that this was an exit I had to take, that I could better stand this anger than the tears which might follow it. So I picked up my bag, uttered a small "Goodbye, Emily," as I headed for the door. It sounded, felt, so empty. Words could not contain the meaning of the moment, could not express what I was giving up. The sky as I stepped outside that day was grey and dismal, with a chill wind that seemed to seep down to my soul. --- A major bank failure in the Midwest made for a heavy workload that day, and I threw myself upon it eagerly, desperate to fill my mind with something other than the daughter I was abandoning for a second time. I half-succeeded - there were accounts, investments, contacts to work over, but always in the background a low tolling of memory, ready to leap to the fore if I stopped for even a moment. Her face, her eyes, her words. I could still hear her screaming at me, those three terrible words - "I hate you." She didn't mean it, I knew that - but it clawed at my heart all the same. I had to pray she would one day understand, that she would come to see why I had to leave. The irony was, she was right to hate me. Just not for this. That afternoon I checked into a downtown hotel, booking a room for a week. I still didn't know what I was going to do in the long run, where I was going to stay while I waited for Emily to grow up, to move on, to heal from what I had done to her. But this would do, for the moment. In that small room I carefully hung up my handful of suits, sat upon the bed, and quietly collapsed in on myself, like a home with its foundation ripped away. There was nothing now to distract me, no invented goal to occupy my attention, and my very soul seemed to sag beneath a screaming emptiness, a life made suddenly purposeless and vain. Even before this chain of events had been set into motion, I had pondered dismally what I would do with myself when she moved on to college and out of my daily life, when I could no longer look forward to her smiles in my mornings or her company on a lazy afternoon. I faced that absence now, earlier and worse than I had feared; I could not even hope to visit her, or to speak to her on the phone, and the lack cut all the more deeply for the forbidden moments we had shared. For my sanity, I could not think of her - but I could think of nothing else. Emily had been the center of my life for so long now that I had no other orientation. I tried to read, but my eyes passed glassily over the words, refusing to focus. Tried to work, but could no longer summon the clarity of mind to do so. So I paced instead, striding back and forth across the room for something like an hour, my hand clutching neurotically at my shoulder. Desperately trying not to think of anything at all, just doing, being. It was hardly a satisfying answer, and it was perhaps inevitable that I should eventually turn instead to a chemical solution. There was a mini-bar in the room, with a few of those small and fantastically expensive bottles of vodka; not normally my drink, but on that day I just needed something to tear away my consciousness before it drove me mad. I emptied out the fridge's supply and drained them one by one, laying on the bed with the television tuned to some forgettable sitcom, the intellectual equivalent of white noise. I drank until a cloud descended over all my senses, until I could not hold a thought in my mind or remember what it was that troubled me. And then, with all temperance restrained, I drank until that cloud turned black, and found the night's extinction. The next morning I awoke with a pounding headache and a dull, hollow feeling that stretched down to the bone. I felt suddenly a decade older, and hardly recognized the haggard face that stared back at me in the mirror as I shaved and washed. The clawing existential panic of the day before had departed, leaving behind an all-consuming weariness, and I shivered with an aching despair that this was to be my life now. Only this, traveling between work and an empty room, carrying on a fa‡ade of normalcy in the days and silencing my memories in the nights. Until such time as I forgot her, recovered from my sickness - but I could little imagine that. There was no one else in the world. At work, I could not attain again the industry with which I had distracted myself the previous day. I instead just sat in my office, at my desk, staring emptily at the deep-varnished mahogany surface. I listened to the low hum of the air conditioning, to the constant, distant thunder of a building full of footsteps, to the steady clicking of the clock, seconds turning into minutes turning into hours. It was almost a Zen experience, if not for my misery. When I was finally pulled back to reality by the insistent ringing of the sleek black phone on my desk, it took a few moments for me even to pull together the will to pick up. "Hello?" I finally answered, an unpleasant rasp in my throat. "Yes?" "Mr. West?" My secretary. In my current mood, the constant perkiness in her voice was a vague irritant. "Your daughter's school is on the line. A Mrs. Mullins would like to speak with you." A little flash of panic ran down my spine. What now? "Thank you, Ms. Jacobs." Fighting back a renewed sense of looming catastrophe, I hit the button to switch to the incoming line. "Hello, Mrs. Mullins? This is Emily's father. Is there a problem?" "I certainly hope not." An older woman's voice from the other end, small and faintly prim. "I'm only calling myself to make sure everything is all right. Do you know, Mr. West, that your daughter has not appeared in her classes, yesterday or today?" "She hasn't?" I felt a knot tighten in my stomach. "No, indeed she has not." A cluck of disapproval came down the line. "We've received no word here of illness or any other matter, and so it's standard policy to call. Now, Emily is doing well in her classes overall, but unexcused absences can very quickly begin to affect a student's grades, you understand?" "Yes, of course," I agreed distantly. "She's, ah. I'll speak to her about it." "Do I take it, then," the woman continued acutely, "that these are not absences with your permission, and that she is just 'playing hooky,' as the kids say?" I could hardly imagine that the kids said that, and at this point I desperately wished to end the conversation. "That may be. As I said, I'll speak to her about it." "Very good," she replied pleasantly. "Then we will be happy to see her in class tomorrow. Have a good day, Mr-" Explosively, I slammed the phone back down on its cradle before she could even finish her goodbye. My fingers tapped nervously on the desk, possessed by a sudden and terrible worry. It was nothing. I dearly hoped it was nothing. But I remembered the words she had spoken as I left, so blithely ignored at the time - "I can't live without you." Emily was so sensitive, so given to sorrow, and abruptly all I could think of was the half-full bottle of sleeping pills in the medicine cabinet, the package of razor blades under the sink, the small revolver I kept in my nightstand. Such a tumultuous event in her life, and I had abandoned her there with such tools... No, I wanted to cry out. Emily had never tried to hurt herself, never spoken of any desire to. Not that I knew of. And surely I would know if she had, wouldn't I? I was being paranoid. I prayed that I was being paranoid, that she was just cutting class to have fun, to go shopping, to recover from...from what I had done to her. But if I wasn't? If she were lying comatose this moment in the bath, or holding my revolver, or already - I couldn't think it. I couldn't risk assuming. I had to call, make sure she was all right. My fingers were jittery as I picked up the phone again and hit my home number, the ringing on the other end seemingly eternal. Finally, there was a click, and I heard Emily's voice. "Hi there!" Relief swept through me, and I released the breath I didn't know I was holding. "Oh, thank god, sweetie. I was-" Then I heard myself on the other end, and came crashing down again. "You've reached the home of Mark," - "And Emily!" She sounded again in my ear, eager and sweet on the recording, before my own voice returned. "We're not able to answer the phone right now, but leave a message, and we'll get back to you just as soon as we can." A long beep. I inhaled once before I spoke. "Emily, if you're there, pick up the phone." I waited, one second, two, three. Nothing. "Pick up the phone. Please, I just want to make sure that you're...that everything's okay. Pick up." Again, I waited, and received only silence. I felt like screaming, a touch of madness in the back of my mind. "Okay," I sighed, "If you're there, if you get this, just . . . stay there, stay home. Don't do anything. I'm coming over. Please, princess," I could hear the reedy edge of desperation in my own voice, "Don't...don't do anything rash, okay? I'm leaving right now." I held the phone to my ear for a moment longer, just in case. Nothing. Muttering something about a family emergency to my secretary on my way out, I almost ran through the underground parking structure to my car, my lethargy of the morning given over to the fevered energy of panic. It was only my good fortune that I was not pulled over by the police on my way home, as I made full use of the car's power for perhaps the first time, tearing down the highway at a hundred miles an hour wherever traffic permitted, and in a few places where it did not. All the same, the drive felt twice as long as it usually did, and when I finally arrived at my neighborhood, I screeched around the curves to my house, parking haphazardly upon the driveway in front. Emily's car was there. I refused to consider what that meant. I tried to remain calm, forcing myself to breathe deeply, as I opened the front door. There was nothing obvious amiss - in fact, the room looked just as it had when I left the previous morning. Rounding the corner, I saw the shattered plate she had flung at me still resting beneath a sloppy pile of eggs and meat, now smelling faintly foul. I stopped before it, lightly pushed one of the ceramic shards with my toe. And then a touch of dread in my belly, as I heard the distant sound of music coming from upstairs. How They May Be: After the Fall "Emily?" I announced myself for the first time as I came up the staircase, calling out with a certain hurried energy in my step. "It's your dad. Talk to me." I could hear the music more clearly now, a depressing dirge coming from her room. The Smiths, or the Cure, or one of those other gloomy bands that she sometimes liked to listen to. Her door was only slightly ajar, and I stopped in front of it, afraid of what I might find when it was opened. "Emily?" I asked again, more quietly, and slowly pushed my way inside. I saw nothing at first, my eyes darting around the messy floor of her room. And suddenly terror touched my heart as I saw her stretched out upon her bed amidst her stuffed animals, staring face up. Silent and unresponsive, still wearing the same clothes I had seen her in the previous day. She looked so pale, so still. I was sure that I was too late, that I had lost everything. Then she rolled over to face the wall, away from me, and despite the slight I felt a tremendous wave of giddily self-conscious relief wash over me. She was all right - still angry at me, but all right. It had only been paranoia after all, a father's baseless worries. I barely suppressed a joyous laugh, held back only out of fear that Emily would not understand or appreciate it. Moved to turn off her music, while I tried to settle the happy fluttering of my heart. "Your school called me today while I was at work," I spoke into the suddenly-quiet room. Still too much of relief in my voice, despite the situation. No response - she didn't speak, didn't move. Pretending I wasn't there. I continued, this time managing more severe tones. "They told me that you didn't show up for your classes today, yesterday. Is that true?" "What do you care?" Her voice echoed off the far wall, bitter and hostile. She still didn't turn to look at me. But at least it was a response. "Pumpkin, of course I care," I uttered quietly. "Your classes are important." "Can't be that important." Her words came rapidly now, animated by a biting acrimony. "Not so important that you you'd stay." "Emily..." I sighed as I worked to keep my voice patient. "Even if you don't see it right now, you have to understand that I'm thinking of what's best for you, for your future." "Stop it," she hissed fiercely, sitting up now to glare at me. "Stop lying. You're not doing this for me. You're doing it because 'it's a crime, it's a sin.'" Her voice dropped low in a mockery of my own, and she stalked off the bed. "Because you don't want to get in trouble. Because you don't want to think of yourself like that." And despite her small and slender form, her anger was such that I shrunk back as she drew up before me. "That's not true," I protested automatically - but in the face of her conviction and her quaking ferocity, I found myself wondering at my own motives. I could not deny that it troubled me to see myself as a sinner, a criminal, an abusive father, and without a doubt the prospect of discovery and of punishment for my crimes was a terrible one. But could they be the reasons I ran away, hidden behind a façade of concern for her well-being? I thought on that for a few brief moments as Emily's gaze burned into me, her arms held tense and shaking at her sides. I could see an ocean of pain in her expression, in the quivering of her chin and the low tightness of her brow, only barely held back by the anger she pushed to the fore. And then...no. These had been worries, but they were not the reason for my actions; I had not thought of them as I agonized over what I should do, but rather of her, of her future, her psyche and her soul. My decision to leave had been for her sake, not my own. I did not get a chance to tell her so. I had hardly opened my mouth when the dam of her fury burst, a single sob escaping Emily's lips as she cast her arms around me, clinging to me as though I were a rock in stormy waters. "Oh, daddy, please don't leave." Little more than naked begging, her voice cracked with anguish. "Please don't leave. I don't . . . there's no point without you." Her arms tightened as though to hold me there even against my will. "Please stay. Please." I had not wanted to face this, not trusted my ability to stand against her sorrow. And rightly not - between her touch and her tears, the proper path felt a million miles away. "I can't, princess." I tried anyway, while my hands rose to rest on her sides, almost of their own accord. "I can't. I told you, this is what I have to do." "No, you don't," she whispered fervently into my chest. "I need you. If you don't want...even if it's just as my dad, I need you. Please." I paused at that - it was as frank an offer of cooperation as I could have hoped for. I did not want to leave, wanted it even less after having had a taste of life without her. The thought of spending even one more night in that hotel room, with Emily fifty miles away instead of just down the hall, was unendurable. As a blueprint for the coming months, it was unimaginable - I could not will myself to step towards it, any more than I could my heart to stop. If there was another way, if we could fight this together . . . I brought my hands up to Emily's shoulders, pushed her to arm's length so I could look her in the eye. Bit my tongue at the tears I saw collected there. "Emily, if I stayed..." I started slowly, thinking it out as I went. "You would have to help me fight this, understand? You would have to do what I ask. It isn't a game." It was as much bluff as genuine demand. Even if she refused, I did not know that I could follow through, leave again. She stared back at me a few moments, moist lips barely parted, before answering. "I understand." A long breath passed. "I'll do what you say. But daddy, I won't just give up on us." "There isn't an 'us.'" I sighed tiredly. "There can't be, not like that. That's the point." "I know you don't want there to be," she answered back, a bit of force returning to her voice as her eyes began to dry. "And if you ask me not to, I won't do anything about it. But you can't ask me not to want to." And her hands came up to grasp at my wrists, pulling my grip from her shoulders. A long moment passed. "No," I admitted quietly. "I suppose I can't." "And you have to promise that you won't lie to me anymore," she demanded, an ember of her earlier anger smoldering in otherwise mournful grey eyes. I wanted to defend myself from her implication. But it was only a moment's reflection to see that, even if I had not lied about my reasons for leaving, the past few weeks had still seen from me a shameful number of deceptions. I thought of myself as an honest man - it was an ideal that I should have been living up to. So I swallowed my pride and nodded. "All right. No more lies. I promise." She looked up at me a time with a critical gaze, gauging my sincerity. Smiled wanly. "Good. Then, um...you're going to stay?" Our hands hovered, loosely linked, in the space between us; she squeezed mine softly as she intoned the question, and a pulse of joy traveled up my arm. I nodded again, swallowed uncertainly. "For now. If I can't make this work, if I can't trust myself to be here, I may have no other choice, but for now...yes." Emily's smile bloomed bittersweet as she released a soft sigh. "Thank you, daddy. This means - thank you. Everything will be okay, I know it will." And she embraced me again, already making me struggle to hold my center against the gentle assault of her curves and her scent. It was some moments before I could make myself push her away; a spark seemed to leave her as we broke contact, her shoulders slumping and her gaze turning to the floor. "Um," she said quietly. "I'm sorry about yesterday. What I said, and throwing the food at you." "Don't worry about that," I answered in what I hoped were reassuring tones. "I understand - this isn't easy for either of us. How are you feeling, anyway?" She laughed briefly, relief and self-consciousness and a tinge of madness all echoing in the sound. "God, I don't know. I mean, this is all so crazy, right?" Sitting down heavily on the bed, she rested her chin in her hands. "Yesterday, today - until you walked in a minute ago I felt like the world had broken to pieces. I spent half the day hating you and the other half just . . . crying. Now you're back, and I'm - I don't know." She rubbed absently at the bridge of her nose, laughed again. "I guess I'm hungry, actually. All I've had to eat was a thing of ice cream last night." "Well," I tried on a hesitant smile. "At least that's an easy enough problem to fix. I can make you your favorite. Some carbonara should fill you right up." "Are you sure?" Emily looked up through her eyelashes at me. "I mean, you don't have to. I could just go pick up some McDonald's or something." "No, I'm sure." I shook my head with somewhat more confidence than I felt. "We need to get things back to normal. Get us back to the way we were." And beyond that, I felt an inward pull to do something for her, to make up for the offense of my temporary abandonment. "Back to normal," she repeated with a certain lack of enthusiasm. "Yeah." "Come on." I hesitated just a moment before offering her my hand. "Let's head downstairs. We can clean up that mess from yesterday, and then you can put on the pasta while I make the sauce." --- We did just that, enjoying a quiet supper together in that early afternoon. Emily ate voraciously, and indeed, I found my own appetite to be healthier than I expected. I had scarcely eaten in the previous two days, the world made flat and flavorless in Emily's absence - back by her side, I rediscovered hunger. But we spoke little, my mind occupied with what I planned to do, now that I had so quickly cast aside my decision to leave. The possibility that it was a mistake, that I would regret returning, loomed darkly in my thoughts. But looking at Emily across the dining room table, I did not see that I could have done otherwise. Whether it was out of love or selfishness I could not say, but I could not truly stand to abandon her again, to leave her in the pain I had seen that day. Even if staying had its own dangers, I had to try to make it work. We parted again after eating, but not for long; I had to retrieve the belongings left behind in the hotel room, Emily making me swear that I would return immediately after. An unnecessary precaution - I wanted nothing more than to remain by her side, to gaze upon her beauty, to hold her close against me . . . I needed an oath to stay away, not to return. But all the same, she was waiting for me when I walked back in the front door, wearing a heavy relief in her eyes. "Did everything go okay?" It was hardly a question; I just nodded silently, and she moved swiftly on. "Um, I called Sarah and got my homework for tomorrow. I thought maybe you could help me with it?" I was quiet a moment as half a smile crawled onto my face, heartened and appreciative. Bless her, she was trying; it was a fine idea, a fatherly way for me to spend time with her, to restore the proper order of things. Precisely what we needed. I nodded acquiescence, and so it was that we spent the remainder of the evening in Emily's bedroom - she sprawled across the bed, and I in a chair beside, close enough to point into the book beneath her head. She hardly needed the help, in truth; calculus was one of her strong subjects, and my own comprehension was not much greater than hers. My role was largely just to confirm her answers, a host of quiet "Mm-hmm"s as my rebellious eyes rolled down the curve of her spine and rested just before her derrière, in the gentle dip at the small of her back. This was the true challenge. I could control my actions - mostly, anyway, when not drunk from wine or her embrace. But my eyes, my thoughts, my imaginings, they were more willful. They roamed the supple curves of her body, and as they did I was drawn back time and again to the night we had shared, the burning heat of her beneath me and her divine taste upon my tongue. In the back of my mind, we were there in the hotel room, bodies damp with sweat and thoughts delirious with pleasure; I wandered there repeatedly, only to be called back to reality by a cold equation, to give another approving nod, another low "Mm-hmm." The night had grown late by the time the last of her work was complete, and I thought it best to return to my own room rather than face off too long against the desires that strained at my breast. I left Emily with a "Good night" and a gentle pat on the back, and was halfway to the door when she stopped me with a quietly questioning "Daddy?" Half-turning, I faced her, and she asked in a voice that barely betrayed its inward tremble, "Goodnight kiss?" Silence for a time. There was no hint of mischief in her expression now, only a delicately yearning, as she repeated the request that had helped push us to this point, testing me anew. I could not say she had no claim; we had traded such goodnight kisses for years, brief pecks upon the lips or the forehead, a tradition I had never until these past two weeks thought anything but paternal. And I wanted greatly to agree, wished as both man and father to feel those small, plump lips touched to mine, if only for a moment. But the very strength of that desire forbade it. Nothing I wanted so badly could be innocent. "Princess," I spoke back quietly instead. "I think that's something we're going to have to give up." She bowed her head, a weak, false smile playing around the edges of her lips. "I guess." Her throat tightened briefly as she swallowed. "Good night, daddy." Righteousness is cold comfort, not that I had much of it to judge. I retired to my room with aching memories, and little satisfaction at having navigated this first day back with her; the promise and the temptation of her nearness weighed upon my conscience and tickled at my imagination. I knew that I was the only thing holding myself back, that if I gave in I could at any time return to my daughter's room and find the paradise within her. The knowledge, the responsibility, made my insides squirm; during my days abroad my decisions had affected the livelihoods of thousands, but it was a concern I had hardly felt compared to the worry which now gnawed at me. After a few dozen sleepless minutes, my mind busy with guilty thoughts and images I struggled to quash, I eventually took one of my sleeping pills, and soon thereafter managed to drift off into slumber. --- It was morning, and I felt a presence at my side, a gentle warmth breathing upon my skin. My mind felt in a fog, but even before I turned, I knew that I would see her there, lightly pressed against me, my arm clasped lovingly in hers and nestled pleasantly in the low valley of her breasts. Her eyes met mine, sparkling with mischievous happiness, and as love and desire sounded in my heart I could hardly manage even a note of gruffness. "Emily, what are you doing in here?" She giggled once, an exquisite sound like the ringing of a bell, and laid her head upon my shoulder. "Why wouldn't I be?" Hunger swelling in my loins, I could think of no reason. I rolled over on the bed, pinning her beneath me, and she hummed in soft delight as her hips twitched under me. My mouth hovered an inch from hers, only waiting for the proper moment to pounce, while I stared deep into the liquid beauty of her eyes. My fingertips traced admiringly down the side of her face. "You're just a little minx, aren't you?" A question for a question for a question. A grin spread upon her face, and for a moment she bit enticingly at her lower lip. "Not just." It was enough. My mouth lowered to hers, caught upon it in a slow and powerful kiss, my want for her like the beam of a searchlight cutting through the haze in my mind. She had the sweetest taste, as though spun from sugar; I drank deeply from her lips, and my pulse hummed as the sensuous flavor suffused my consciousness. Our tongues flirted with one another, sharing wet caresses at the border between us and muffling Emily's wordless murmurs. My left hand rose to her bosom and rubbed it roughly through the thin fabric of her shirt, savoring the soft and pliant feel of her young body. Her small nipples stood rigid, pressing up visibly at the cloth, so sensitive that she moaned into my mouth when my hand first brushed against them, and again with rising urgency as I thumbed and pinched at those delicate nubs. "God, Mark," her hands gripped at my back, at my neck. "You make me feel so good." Devilish pride stormed through me, and I only wanted more. It seemed just a moment later that we were naked, and I could feast my eyes upon her delectable body, my gaze roaming between her petite, creamy-white breasts, her taut, flat stomach, the soft and girlish curve of her waist. And all the while a primitive satisfaction slowly building in the back of my mind, a voice I could barely hear. She's mine. Mine to enjoy, mine to taste, mine to love. There was no reason I should give her up. Her long and lovely legs were shyly closed and curled on their side, hiding her treasure from my sight. It would not do; gently I took hold of her knees and spread her legs apart like the wings of a butterfly, bringing slowly into view her triangular thatch of thin ebon hair, and the deep pink rose bedded within. She glistened wetly as she came further into bloom, her legs spreading obscenely wide in my hands without a trace of resistance. Her breath came fast and shallow as my hands slid up her inner thighs, her eyes focused at my waist, at my manhood standing rigid and tall, ready for duty. I saw her tongue sneak out to briefly lick her lips, and an exultant pleasure solidified on mine. Such a feeling, to be desired by so beautiful a creature - it coursed roughly in my veins, impelled me forward with a thunderous power. I was upon her again, forceful kisses bombarding her elegant neck, my organ lying hot as fire at the junction of her legs, a gentle arch of flesh pressing at her groove. I shifted, and she moaned as it slid against her, its underside slick with the honey that trickled from her flower. Pulling back, I hesitated at her gates, one arm sliding beneath her shoulders to hold her for what was to come. It was time. A single, powerful thrust, and she gasped adorably as I squeezed inside her, her fingers clenching tight at my back. "Oh!" Just a sound, a note of sensation, her eyes wide with intensity. "Ohhhh . . . ohh, oh my god," words returned slowly, "my god, you're so big." I almost smirked, a surge of masculine pride blending with the delicious pleasure of our coupling. "Just for you, princess," I answered low and husky, pushing further inside her, clutching her close as I deepened our union. Pulling her down onto me until her thighs were jammed against my hips, until I felt her stretched tight around every millimeter, until I could hardly keep a lustful growl from my throat. I kissed her again, savagely, while my left hand rose to paw at the pliant flesh of her breast, pale skin bulging in the spaces between my fingers as she hummed her pleasure against my lips. There was a moment then of something like stillness, Emily's small tongue venturing boldly into my mouth before I retreated to look at her. Her breathing was already heavy, her silver eyes staring intently into mine, demanding and pleading all at once. And then she took her own initiative, lunging up to kiss hungrily again at my lips, and I groaned as she twisted her waist, grinding upon me deliciously. I pulled back from her slowly, wet skin sliding with a nearly audible suction, and thrust back faster, a sound between a gasp and a moan escaping her as we crashed together. And again, working into a pattern, a rhythm of gentle withdrawals and fierce attacks, my tempo increasing until she could only lie back upon my arm with an arched spine and wide-opened mouth, overflowing with helpless squeals of rapture. How They May Be: After the Fall I only slowed while she came upon me, the shudders of delight rattling through my body as I continued to pound into her, the air growing thick with the scent of our activities. And I resumed the pace afterwards, eager for my own release and driven by an irresistible, impossible vitality. Emily could only cling desperately to me now, as though to a bucking bull, and with lips up beside my cheek she stuttered madly into my ear between sensuous cries. "God - just fuck me - fill me - give me your baby." It hardly seemed I could have been any harder than I was, but this notion drove me to new heights, and an animal power filled my thrusts as all thought gave way to sensation. The pleasures were as great as our first night, a heaven of flesh in white and pink. Every motion was ecstasy, every sound a symphony. I hardly noticed the heat and haze that appeared behind my eyes, experienced it first as an ambiguous, thoughtless urgency, that I must hurry with her before . . . I knew not what. But it grew quickly stronger, an uncomfortable brightness in my mind, until in the last moments the world around me seemed to grow thin, and finally fall away. My eyes flickered open, staring into the morning sun which peered at me through my bedroom window. I lay upon my bed, alone, the covers disarrayed where I had kicked them about. A dream - nothing more. I felt a shallow relief at that, along with a deeper, damnable disappointment. It had been so real, so compelling; my nerves still echoed with the touch of her body, and I could almost smell her passion on the air. Indeed, I was painfully aroused, rigid against the mattress, my mind intoxicated with images of my dream and memories of the night which had inspired it. My body demanded relief, and I had little strength to refuse it. Turning over, my hand dropped to my boxers and I took hold of myself, slowly stroking, reliving the fantasy before it faded from my consciousness. God, the feeling of her skin, the taste of her sweat - it hardly seemed to matter if it was real or imagined. Either way, my blood was set to boiling, my ardor burning like wildfire. In minutes I was near the edge, the tightness of incipient release twitching in my loins. I opened my eyes to look for a tissue, or something else to deal with the looming mess, and as I did, my gaze caught upon a picture on my bookshelf. It was a photograph of Emily and Irene, from one of the many ballet recitals I had missed. I don't even know exactly when it was taken; Emily looked to be eight or nine, wearing a light violet leotard and tutu and smiling broadly with an innocent delight, colorful braces adorning her teeth. Her mother crouched beside in a modest blue dress, beaming with proud affection. It was an icon of virtuous, parental love, of the bonds of family, and as the image sunk into my mind I was swept up in a torrent of shame. This was my daughter I fantasized about, my flesh and blood that my sick mind had dreamed of impregnating. My hand dropped away, my insides twisting with renewed guilt. I could not do this - if I was to have any hope of being a proper father again, I had to resist these desires, even in private. Any submission would weaken me for the future, and I was already far too willing. Though the hour was still somewhat early, I saw little chance of getting back to sleep. Instead I dressed and made my way downstairs to the kitchen, feeling that breakfast might help steady my mind and settle my nerves. Putting a pot of coffee on to brew, I fired up the griddle and prepared a few egg sandwiches - a simple standby of mine, heavily used over the years. Then, sitting at the counter, I ate, and drank my coffee, and worked at clearing my thoughts of the filth which infested them. It was perhaps twenty minutes later that Emily appeared. She stepped so lightly that I did not hear her arrival, just gradually noticed her standing on the staircase, looking down at me with a weak smile on her face. "Good morning, daddy," she spoke first, quietly, with little of her usual cheer. "Morning, sweetie." I raised my cup to her, an awkward, casual greeting. She took another step downstairs, paused. "I was, um." Her voice had the tones of a confession. "I wanted to wake you up today. When you weren't in your room, I was afraid that maybe you'd . . . left again." I took a long sip of my coffee, fixing my eyes to the dark liquid, thinking of what I should say. Finally tried for a half-hearted humor. "Sorry, princess, but you're not getting rid of me that easily." She looked away with a quirked smile and let out a brief huff of laughter. More for the effort, perhaps, than the sentiment. A beat passed, silently, and I could almost see her worry, rubbing raw at her psyche. What to say, what to do. I thought of what I would feel, if I worried that a stray word might send her running from me, and a sympathetic shudder ran down my spine. I had to show her that it was all right. I rose to my feet, gestured vaguely to the stove. "Ah, if you're hungry, I have everything together for egg sandwiches." "Sure, that sounds nice." Her voice relaxing slightly, she started the rest of the way down the stairs, while I attended again to the stove. Just an ordinary day, I told myself. A regular morning with my daughter. "There's fresh coffee, if you want some." I glanced back at her over my shoulder, and immediately wished I hadn't. I could see now that Emily was in her usual sleeping clothes - just a large, baby-blue t-shirt, the bottom curve of a pair of white cotton panties barely sticking into view. Her legs stretched down beneath, bare and lithe and beautiful, like carvings of alabaster. I was cast back to our time on the Hawaiian beach, when I had run lotion-slick fingers up and down those trim, delicious thighs, had felt the muscles twitch against my hand... Damn it. A cold fury clawed at my mind as I tore my gaze away. Not five minutes into the morning together, and I was already lusting after her. It would almost have been funny, if it didn't bode so terribly for the future. I had to deal with this. Taking a deep, deliberate breath, I focused my gaze and my attention on the stove. If I didn't look, if I kept myself controlled . . . it was a place to start. "How many do you want? Two, three?" I asked, keeping my voice carefully neutral. "One should be fine, actually. I'm not super hungry." Past the spit and crackle of the frying egg, I could hear her bustling about the kitchen. The quiet clinking of a ceramic mug being pulled off the shelf, the liquid gurgle of pouring coffee. The soft hiss of sugar poured from the carton - it seemed to go on forever, and a small smile tugged on my lips. Emily practically turned her coffee into syrup, and I'd made a habit of telling her that all that sugar she drank must be why she was so sweet. For a moment, my mouth opened to repeat it once more - then closed again, silently. It wasn't a proper thing to say, now. Too heavy with meaning. Her food was ready a minute later, the sandwich neatly centered on a thin blue plate, and I braced myself to look at her again. "Here you go, sweetie," I spoke, somewhat absently intoned. Her eyes were already on me as I turned to face her, brilliant silver orbs fleetingly locking with mine before falling away. Gentle hands cradled the mug of coffee at her chest, her fingers loosely intertwined around the white ceramic. It was almost a thoughtful expression on her face in that brief moment, a wondering kind of hesitancy which she quickly swept away with a neutral smile, working free a hand to take the plate. "Thanks, daddy," she answered, a soft and precious sincerity in her voice. She turned then, to eat at the counter, while I tried and failed to look away again. It was so easy to be captured, looking at her - to be ensnared by the vision of loveliness she posed. Dark as midnight and damp from her morning shower, Emily's hair loosely obscured the nape of her neck, long enough now that I knew she would soon be getting it cut, maintaining the pixie look I had come to love. The shape of her body was faintly outlined beneath the draping cloth of her shirt, gentle curves sliding down to her narrow waist and hips, just the right width to put my hands around. And beneath that, my gaze fell to her trim derrière, perfectly sculpted and delectably elevated as she leaned gently over the counter. I could not forget how it felt, grasping and squeezing her as she rode me on the hotel room bed. A thin layer of yielding fat over firm muscle. Like steel wrapped in silk. "Daddy." I stiffened as my gaze shot back up to her face. She looked at me over her shoulder, half a smile quirking her lips, clearly knowing where I had been staring for what must have been minutes. But her voice remained hesitant. "Are you thinking about that night?" "No." Furious with guilt at my wandering eyes, I lied automatically, thoughtlessly - and hardly even realized that I had, until a disappointed frown descended on Emily's lips, and her eyes narrowed with accusation. She opened her mouth to speak, then shook her head instead. The expression on her face as she turned away said enough - liar. My soul squirmed, pierced by shame in two directions. Less than a day, and I'd already broken my promise that I would no longer deceive her. "Wait," I sighed, trying to make it right. "I'm sorry, I . . . yes, I was thinking about it." At that, she faced me again, hitting me full-bore with a stormy-eyed, demanding glare. "I was, but I shouldn't have been. I need to put it behind me - we both do. I know it's not easy, but we need to just forget about it." She snorted softly, bitterly, and glanced away. "Seems like it's too easy." I paused at that, uncertain. Was it an accusation? A complaint? An offer? I didn't know quite how to respond, and finally said as much. "I'm not sure what you mean, honey." "I mean I..." She stopped, waited, and released a brief, disconsolate sigh before trying again. "I guess it's because of how much I drank, but I don't really remember it very well at all. I have - flashes." She gestured with her right hand, grasping with her palm upwards, as though for an escaping memory. "Images. Moments. But it's mostly just...fuzz." A great frustration echoed in her voice. I hardly knew if this was good or bad. "Well, what do you remember?" I asked cautiously. She glanced into my eyes, and a small smile flickered on in her expression. "I guess . . . I remember getting back to the hotel room after dinner." Her fingers traced softly at the coffee mug, eyes unfocusing as she retreated into memory. "I felt so terribly warm inside, after the dance and the wine, and the feeling of your hand on my waist..." She took a deep breath, and I could see the slight shiver run through her body. "Um, I think I was just hoping that you would hold me more, touch me more. Maybe that I could sleep next to you again. I didn't really think . . . but then you kissed me, so hard I couldn't breathe, wrapped me up in your arms, and it felt so perfect, so right. Your mouth was like a branding iron, burning into mine." And her left hand rose to her face, two fingers lightly rubbing against small, pink lips, invoking the memory. "Ah." I swallowed awkwardly. "That's..." "Not just that, though," she continued quietly. "I remember lying back on the bed. Naked, with my legs behind your neck. You were licking at me, at my . . . at my secret place." She hesitated over the phrase, uncertain of her words. She'd never spoken anything fouler than 'damn,' at least for me to hear. "Your tongue tickled inside me, tingled everywhere it touched. There was this boiling in my tummy, this tightness as you drank me up, and I felt this incredible wanting, more, more, more. More of you. All of you." I was speechless listening to her, my pulse pounding. Down at her waist, her right hand moved against her shirt, pressing through to her inner thigh. Touching right where the flesh of her leg met with that of her hips. It seemed like she was breathing faster. "Um." Her voice strained softly. "After that, I remember being on top of you, and you were inside me, filling me up. Just perfectly full, and then I moved down and suddenly I was overflowing, like I would burst, like I would break. I felt like screaming." A tiny, rueful smile. "Maybe I did scream. But I was on fire, feeling you push so deep inside of me. Feeling you slide and twist every time I moved an inch. I can't describe it, it was just so..." Her cheeks tinged with pink, she looked away, and I felt a weak relief as her confession wound down. Silence for some seconds, letting my own pulse settle. Finally I spoke, a rueful note in my voice. "It seems as though you still have quite a bit left to forget." "I don't want to forget it," she frowned, aggravation undercutting the self-consciousness in her tone. "I . . . if I could remember clearly, I could try to be happy just with that, you know? I could have that to go back to." A slow breath escaped her lips, and she crossed her arms, still looking away. A touch of vulnerability in the shape of her expression. "I thought about it so much, before it happened. I just wish I could remember the moment." "The moment." I repeated quietly, questioningly. "When you . . . entered me." She swallowed, hesitating over her words again. "Took me. When you made me a woman." That silver shimmer in her eyes as she looked up into mine. "That's what they say, right? A boy becomes a man when he kills something, a girl becomes a woman when someone..." "That's what they say," I interrupted, sparing her from finishing the sentence. Sparing me from hearing it. I hardly knew what to say now, running on nervous improvisation. "Maybe it's better that you don't. This way - it's almost as though it never happened. Your first time, your real first time, can be with someone proper, someone good for you." Though the thought of her with anyone but myself was like a punch in the gut. "Someone good for me?" Emily asked rhetorically, a faintly bitter smile struggling its way onto her face. "Well." She inhaled slowly through her nose, clearly trying to settle her emotions. "I have to get dressed pretty quick for school, but do you think tonight we could...talk, like you said on Sunday? I mean," and a note of accusation entered her voice, "I don't know if you meant that at all, or if it was just one of the things you 'had to say.'" "Emily," I frowned slightly, stung. "We can always talk. Just as long as you understand that it isn't going to change what I - what there can be, between us." "I understand," she answered quietly, dully, looking away while she said it. A final sip from her mug, the last dregs of sugar-thickened coffee clinging lovingly to her upper lip. Her tongue slipped out pink and dainty to lick it clean, and I had to close my eyes as my heart leapt into my throat. Such sensuality in even her most innocent motions. My body sang at her presence, resonated with her voice - and it was my responsibility to ignore it. A maddening situation. "All right, then." When I opened my eyes again, her beautifully delicate tongue was mercifully hidden from view. "I think I'm going to take off for work, sweetie. Unless there's anything else you need from me right now?" "Not much," she answered after a moment, a small smile quirking her lips. "Um, just a little hug, to get me through the day." And before I could respond, she moved against me, the side of her head resting against my chest, her thin arms loosely linked behind my back. Her petite breasts softly cushioning my lower ribs. Some abstract, calculating part of my mind said that I should pull away, that I should forbid this as well - but there was no real chance of that. Not only because of the warm delight I drew from her embrace, but because this simple physical affection was our oldest tradition. When she was just a child of eleven crying for a mother forever gone, and I a virtual stranger, I had gently held her much like this, rubbing her back until the flow of her tears was staunched; I could not now turn around and say that so basic a connection was off-limits. Instead my own hands rose around her back, my palms lying atop her shoulder blades, fingertips barely interlaced. And we were silent for a time, finding sanctuary in a touch that was neither wholly innocent nor entirely corrupt. --- At work that day, my mood was surprisingly pleasant. After my abortive attempt at desertion, and the toll it had taken on my emotional well-being, I found a great comfort just in the knowledge that I would be seeing Emily again at the end of the day. More than that, I carried with me the memory of the morning's farewell embrace, its soft warmth touching upon my heart even hours later. I fairly hummed through the day's work, a song not far from my lips, and when it was complete I returned home with only a fragment of the apprehension that I ought to have felt. The 'talk' - it was a worrisome prospect, especially after that morning, seeing how powerful a desire she could spark in me with nothing more than a handful of words and her own hazy memories. On the drive home, I briefly contemplated what I might say to her. That I could not afford for my duties to her as a father to be distracted by any other role. That she was still young, her feelings confused. That regardless of what we felt, morality must come first - though I knew by then how much she hated that argument. Indeed, loath as I was to admit it, I myself felt a kind of hollowness to these polemics. Logic seemed a pale and bloodless thing, when placed beside her smile, her kiss, her embrace. Ultimately I could do little to prepare, not knowing what it was that she hoped to tell me. It was nearly four when I walked in the front door. Emily's car was in the driveway, but I confirmed her presence all the same, calling up the stairs, "Are you home, sweetie?" "In my room," she called back down, and I relaxed, almost unconsciously. However baseless it had been, I had not entirely forgotten my worry of the previous day. Knowing she was there and well, I took my time, changed out of my work clothes, and finally ambled into her room. Stretched out face-up on her bed, Emily wore an off-white summer blouse and blue jeans, soft ivory skin peeking tantalizingly from the low-cut neck and high-cut midriff. She was reading as I entered the room, a softcover book held above her head, but she set it aside with a small smile as I stepped into her field of view. "Hey, daddy." Her voice was like the ringing of a bell, a sound pure and peaceful. "How was your work today?" She did not sit up yet, just remained lying flat on the bed, watching me through her eyelashes. "Not too bad," I admitted. "The markets were down, but with some clever shorts, my division made a bit over a quarter million." "Wow, that is clever." A mote of amusement sparkled in her eye. "I should start wearing them." Caught off guard, I chuckled briefly. "Not that kind of shorts, I'm afraid." Still looking at me from the tops of her eyes, Emily made a playful moue of disappointment before rolling over and rising to her knees. A short silence before I spoke again. "How about you? I trust your teachers didn't give you too much trouble for being absent." She shook her head pertly. "No, not too much. Um, a couple of them asked what happened, and so did my friends." A faintly wry look pressed upon her face. "I told them that I was just really down because my boyfriend left me." The concern must have been obvious in my expression, for she quickly turned reassuring. "But I mean, that's all I said. And my friends just thought I was lying, since they said I didn't even have a boyfriend." "Some friends," I murmured facetiously. Still, I was relieved that the secret was kept. On top of everything else, the last thing I wanted was to face public exposure, and all the legal and social retribution which would come with it. My hands were full with just my personal demons. With that in mind, I took a deep breath and moved to the day's true labor. "So . . . you wanted to talk." How They May Be: After the Fall "Yeah." Emily's gaze turned away as her smile faded almost to nothingness. Crawling on her knees across the bed, she picked up a small brown paper bag I hadn't before noticed from her nightstand, and turned it upside-down into her hand. "Um, I stopped at the pharmacy on the way home today..." Looking quizzically at her, a long few moments passed before I recognized the slim rosette in her hand. I may be excused in my delay - after all, it had been quite some years since I had had occasion to see a case of birth control pills. "Emily..." I spoke with a note almost of rebuke, and did not know how to follow it up. "I need to know if I should start taking these," she replied defensively, a frown lightly traced across her lips. "I mean, if we . . . if this happens again-" "It won't." I cut her off firmly, definitively, hoping to make truth by the force of my words. "So then, I shouldn't take them?" She looked at me appraisingly now, her mouth a small, thin line. "I'm not - I didn't say that." I felt trapped. If she started on birth control, it would be removing a barrier that, God forbid, I might one day need to hold me back. But if I told her not to, and then fell to my temptations anyway . . . I remembered my dream of the past night, the diseased pleasure I took in a fantasy of her carrying my child, and a shiver of righteous revulsion ran down my spine. Accompanied, I hated to notice, by a slick, quiet fascination. I could not trust myself with the choice. "It's not my decision, princess." "You can still advise me," she returned, softly petulant. "I mean, you're my dad. That's what you're supposed to do." "Not in this." My tone solidified. "You're an adult now, and this is an adult matter." I had never been so relieved to treat her as a grown woman, and doubted that I ever would be again. "I don't want to prejudice you, one way or the other." I certainly knew what Father Brown would tell her - but that was a concern that felt very far away indeed. A frustrated snort, followed by silence, as Emily turned the case over and over in her hand. Eventually she spoke again, a faintly irritated tightness to her features. "Fine." I watched as her slim fingers prised open the plastic cover and pulled out one of the tiny pink discs. Her eyes fixed defiantly on mine as she popped it into her mouth, and with deliberate movements, grabbed a water bottle from her desk with which to wash it down. I exhaled quietly, not knowing how to feel about her decision. "All right," I spoke carefully. "Was that all you wanted to talk about?" Half a laugh squeezed through tightly-pursed lips, and she shook her head. "No. Um, this was just kind of a side thing, that I realized today." I shifted my weight uneasily, resting my shoulder against the wall. "Okay. What else did you have in mind, then?" She was quiet, glancing awkwardly at me as she curled her legs beneath her on the bed. Her mouth opened for a moment, only to close again silently, and I cautiously asked, "Do you need some time to think about it?" "No," she denied emphatically. "I just . . . could you sit down or something? It's making me anxious, you standing up there watching me like that." A faintly amused smile curved my lips. Emily could be adorably candid with her sensitivity at times. "Of course." And I took a seat on the corner of the bed, a safe few feet from her, my gaze fixed to where I could just see her in the periphery of my vision. "I..." She spoke after a time, and I could hear the quietly nervous quaver in her voice, forging through despite her attempts to quash it. And then quickly, the words coming all in a rush so they could not stall again. "I had my first orgasm thinking of you." I blinked, not expecting this, and glanced at her. She was staring at the wall, the way I had been a moment before, only the very corners of her eyes visible. "What, you mean..." "When I was twelve, almost thirteen." A low resilience in her voice, strengthened by her confession. "Forever ago, it seems like. I mean, I was just a kid, basically. But even then, I felt..." Another slow breath. "I didn't really totally understand then what I was doing, or what I was feeling." The quiet built up then, until I felt compelled to speak. "Well, look," I tried gamely. "Everyone's first . . . experiences . . . are a little awkward, a little inappropriate. Just because you happened to think about me - that doesn't necessarily mean anything." "Dad." Emily rolled her eyes, her tone mildly exasperated. "I didn't think I had to say, this wasn't a one-time thing. I always thought about you. I didn't even realize for a while that it wasn't normal." Her index finger traced softly at the patterns in the bedsheets. "I only figured that out...um, maybe about a year later. I had some of my friends over for a sleepover, and I guess they were trying to tease me or something, because they were talking about how my dad was totally hot, and asking if you gave good spankings. And I mean, I didn't usually talk about this at all, but it was a sleepover and I was feeling all giggly and open, so I said that yes, you were hot, and yes, you gave the best spankings." Her expression grew doleful, and she was quiet long enough that I began to think of what I might say - perhaps just pointing out that I hadn't ever actually spanked her. But before I settled on anything, she spoke again, her voice low and quiet. "I can still remember the look on their faces. The room just stopped dead, and they all stared at me like I was crazy, like I'd said the wrong lines in a play. They looked so . . . unnerved, disgusted. That was the moment I realized that it was - different, the way I felt. And I realized at the same time that I could never tell you about it. I never, ever wanted to see you look at me the way they did." Ferocity in her voice for that final sentence, her hand clutching tightly at the covers, and slowly releasing. "Um, I had to tell my friends that I was just kidding. They seemed to accept that. That it was just a bad joke." Her expression bent unhappily, heavy with memory. "You could have told me, princess," I offered quietly. "Could I?" An almost ache of accusation suddenly smouldered in her voice. "I kept it all shut up inside for years, because I was afraid I might lose you if I didn't. Even in the last couple weeks, when you kissed me, and touched me, and I didn't see any other reason for it, I still didn't dare say anything. Not until you - you made love to me, because then I knew it was okay, I knew you felt the same way I did." She shook her head forcefully. "And even then, after being so careful, the first thing you did when we got home was...run away. Leave me." And she looked towards the window, away from me. I swallowed painfully. She wielded guilt quite effectively, whether or not that was her intention. "I'm sorry about that, sweetheart." More was needed - I reached across the bed and laid my hand gently atop hers. "I am sorry. But I did that because of how I felt, not you. If I had known earlier..." I trailed off, uncertain. I could not truly say what I would have done, if she had revealed her feelings to me years prior. Perhaps I might have set her on a better path, and inoculated myself against my present infatuation. But with fewer years tying us together, I might have tried to solve the problem by sending her to live with relatives, so she would forget me. Or, worse still, the knowledge might have ignited my desires while she was still very much a child, and made of me even more a sinner... "I had this fantasy." she said quietly, still looking away. "A daydream, a regular dream. I'm taking a shower, and you burst into the bathroom, not knowing I'm there." Her tongue peeked out for a fraction of a second, wetting her lips. "I try to cover up with my hands, but not before you see me, and just having you look at me when I'm naked makes me feel so . . . so vulnerable, so weak. I don't want to cover up, but I do anyway. I'm supposed to. And you apologize quickly, and leave, and that's it." "But then I'm in my room later, and you walk in the door, and something is different. There's this hunger now in your eyes, and I feel like I'm still naked when you look at me. You say you want to apologize again, and you ask if I'm okay, but you're standing so close to me that I can't even think to say yes or no. So close I can smell you, a little hint of sweat, and that deodorant you use that makes my knees tremble. I can't help myself. I step forward into you, and you're holding me. I can feel your every finger on my back as you squeeze me tight against your chest." Her eyes were closed, lost in the retelling. She might have been talking to herself, with me not even there. "You whisper to me, you never realized how beautiful I was, and your hand slips down, lifting up my shirt, rubbing bare against my skin, and I want to give you everything." "I don't have to tell you." There was a haunting, quietly desperate undertone to her voice, a half-decade of worries finally spoken. "I don't have to worry about what you'd do, if you'd be grossed out or hate me. You already know, and I know, and there's nothing in our way. I'm naked on my bed, on this bed," my heart skipping a beat as she connected her dream to reality, "and you're kissing me, soft little baby kisses on my lips and my chin and my throat. And then gentle bites, your hands running over my body, warm and rough. I'm melting with your touch, and you're so hard on top of me, against me. I'm opening to you." "Emily, why are you telling me this?" I had to jump in, had to interrupt her before she got any further. Her account was too provocative; my heart raced from the telling already, my body sparked to its urgency. Her own cheeks were flushed, and her eyes opened slowly, as though reluctant to leave this fantasy. "Why?" She hesitated, her voice small again after its silken strength in speaking of her dream. "Because . . . because I never could. I wanted to tell you everything I felt, but at first I was too shy, and then too afraid of what might happen if I did." A helpless shake of her head. "And because you keep talking like we just need to put things back to normal, but this is normal, for me. This is what I've felt, what I've wanted, and if I'd known that you..." She trailed off, her meaning clear. "I see." I could think of little more to say. Indeed, through all the complexities of the moment, I found myself oddly impressed. From the sound of things, she had suffered through years of this mad desire without betraying it by word or deed, while I had stood scarcely two weeks before loutishly groping at her. Perhaps it was just that my lusts were the stronger. Perhaps. "It wasn't supposed to be like this, though," she intoned quietly. "I mean, when I thought about it, when I dreamed about it. If some miracle happened, and we came together...that was supposed to be it. We would be in love, then. Happily ever after. Not . . . throwing up, and running away, and saying it's wrong." A note of bitterness in that listing. "That's the thing about life," I offered back gently. "It isn't very good at 'happily ever after.'" "I guess." She turned then, looked at me squarely for the first time in what must have been half an hour. "So, um. I don't suppose I've convinced you that it's really totally fine if we sleep together." And the side of her mouth quirked upwards, struggling for her usual good humor. "Tempted," I admitted, and immediately chastised myself for doing so. I could not afford to let the prohibition appear as anything but absolute. "But no. The rules here, they're bigger than both of us." "Too bad." Despite her words, a wry little smile was solidifying on her lips. "But you know, I do feel a little better, just talking about it. Having you listen, knowing you know." Hesitation, as she touched her fingers to mine, a gentle gesture of gratitude. "Thanks, daddy." "Of course, sweetheart," I spoke, and was faintly surprised to hear my voice thicken, to feel affectionate tears welling in my eyes. God, but the soul on this girl. Denying her wishes, abandoning her, breaking my promises - and she thanked me just for listening. Beneath the beauty of her body, her spirit shone with a radiance divine. "That's what I'm here for, right?" --- It was movie night the next evening - another tradition which I could not bring myself to end, despite its dangers. To my surprise, rather than making our usual excursion to the video rental store for a new B-grade horror flick, Emily rummaged through our own small stockpile of movies until she finally produced a battered and much-used copy of The Little Mermaid. It had been a favorite of hers when she was a little girl, before time and her growing maturity consigned it to storage, and I raised an eyebrow to see it returned to active duty. "No 'Bride of the Blood Beast' tonight?" I asked lightly. "I don't know that I can manage without my weekly dose of gore." Emily just laughed and rolled her eyes good-naturedly. "No. Maybe it's silly, but I felt like watching this again. It's been a long time - I thought it would be kind of appropriate, you know?" I didn't quite see it. "Appropriate?" "Yeah." Seeing my blank look, she asked slowly, "You do remember why it's special, right?" I frowned uncertainly. "I know you were once very fond of it. Is there something aside from that?" "Um, yeah, kind of." She looked a trifle disappointed. "It's - it was the first movie we watched together. After mom..." She trailed off, not wanting to speak the word. "Oh!" I didn't remember that, not really, but the timeframe certainly fit. "Of course. Sorry, sweetie, your dad's just a little scatterbrained sometimes." And I gave her a warmly apologetic smile, trying to smooth over the offense. "That does sound appropriate. Do you want to go ahead and get it started, while I finish up with the popcorn?" "Sure." Sugar in her voice, forgiving me already. "Don't take too long, though. I don't want you to miss anything." The movie made for a pleasant interlude. For all that I had managed a vicarious appreciation of her usual schlocky horror, I still preferred my movies to be on the gentler side, and this certainly fit the bill. As well, it had been long enough since I had last seen it that I could not predict the characters' every line of dialogue, as I could when she had had the movie in regular rotation. With the bowl of popcorn on my lap, it was not long before Emily was curled up against me in her usual pose, her head resting gently on my chest and her hand upon my stomach. I worried quietly at this closeness, at the intimacy of this arrangement, mindful of how a similar situation had served as a prelude to my first failure. Had we in fact been watching another of those low-budget slasher films, made to push hormone-driven teens into one another's arms, I think I would have disentangled us and enforced a greater distance. But this was a children's movie she had picked out, and that seemed to change the light cast upon our touch. As far as I was able to judge - as far as there was, in fact, a distinction to be made - I felt that this was an intimacy I could accept, the kind any father would have with his daughter. After some tens of minutes, I even draped my arm across her shoulder, my hand lying lightly at her waist. There was a pleasure in that, which I dearly hoped was innocent. I could no longer tell, could not separate any more the romantic from the paternal. All my feelings about her ran together in a single stream, one ambrosial current. There were a few points of awkwardness, trying to keep my thoughts on the straight and narrow, as I found that even the antiseptic romance of a Disney movie could set my heart to flutter, when suitably warmed by the grace of her touch. And when the chorus of riverside creatures began singing to 'kiss the girl' - well, I had to fix my gaze on the wall beside the television, hold it there, far away from the threat of any stray eye contact with Emily, until they were quite finished. I felt her laugh against me, soft and self-conscious, and her fingers curled lightly at my abdomen as she perhaps contemplated pulling them away. But she did not, and neither did I take my hand from her side. There was too great a comfort in our little nest. Likewise, reluctance, when the movie was over. I hesitated to release her, and remained sitting there with my arm around her shoulder as the credits rolled, drinking in her warmth, feeling the gentle rise and fall of her chest against my side. Only when the tape ran out entirely, and the screen flipped to a featureless blue, could I finally pull myself away, her body slipping grudgingly from mine as I took to my feet. We were both of us quiet while I turned off the television, put away the empty popcorn bowl. Then I turned to regard her, and as my eyes settled upon her lovely features I felt a great trembling of irrepressible emotion, as though my heart was growing larger in my chest. Emily sat upon the couch, her head resting comfortably against the splayed fingers of her right hand, watching me with that same silently thoughtful expression I had seen from her the last morning, a look that spoke of hidden dreams I suddenly ached to see. On her perfect pink lips curled a tiny, joyous smile, carrying with it such a loving warmth that her countenance seemed to glow, all but lighting up the room around her. But it was her eyes - those eyes bright and beautiful, with which I had twice fallen in love - that truly gripped me, that made my heart beat with such force I almost feared she would hear it from across the room. In their silvery depths sparkled that adoring shimmer which cut straight to my soul, a sign of the love and the trust which I had never earned but which she gave freely nonetheless. I saw in that moment the most beautiful creature on the earth, and wondered how I could ever stand to be apart from her. It was no good. Conscience was quiet now, but I knew what it would tell me, if I could still hear its strident tones. Separate. Sleep. Let the morning bring reason. My mouth moved before I knew what I would say. "It's a good movie." Meaningless words, to fill the silence. "It is." Soft agreement, lined with amusement. "Let's..." I stumbled desperately for virtue. "We should get to bed, I think. You have school tomorrow." A moment of quiet, her eyes resting on me, searching my features. Then, softly, "All right." She brushed past me as she made her way to the staircase, and the thrill of contact rushed through me, electricity along my nerves. I closed my eyes, seeking balance. Telling myself that I could adapt to this, that I was strong enough to treat her chastely, as a father should. But somewhere in the back of my mind, I wondered why I resisted. Morality - until this affair, before being tempted, I thought it the guiding principle of my life. Now it seemed a weak and pallid thing, next to the promise I saw in Emily's eyes. --- I found a greater control at dinner together the next day. Distance helped, having her at arm's length across a table rather than pressed close against me, as did the public setting. With others around us, I could call upon propriety to keep me upright, and the most dangerous topics of conversation were kept at bay. We spoke, in fact, of rather light things - the gossip of her school, her upcoming track meet, a concert she wanted to attend. It seemed so utterly normal, so safe. I wondered what she felt, what she thought about, behind those softly quirked lips. Her voice gave no hint of it, light and melodic as birdsong, but I caught sometimes a flicker in her smile, a distant look in her eye. Footsteps of a silent thought. She must be used to such things, I reflected, having kept secret her feelings for so long. I could not hope to guess what she kept buried in her heart. How They May Be --- If my reaction seems overblown or excessive, I can say only that it seemed nothing of the sort to me. The bond I shared with Emily was one that any father would love to have with his daughter, and this unwelcome attraction threatened it in the worst of ways, a corruption from my own soul. And cutting all the more deeply was the knowledge that I did not deserve that bond in the first place, that this sickness promised to destroy a gift given in mercy and wholly unearned. A large part of my need to be a perfect father for Emily was born of the fact that, for nearly half her life, I was hardly a father at all to her. Work had been my first priority, in fact if not in principle. When I married my wife, Irene, I was working as a financial analyst at an institution which I will not name, lest they be tainted by the association. It was difficult work, demanding, but I had time enough for my new bride and for leisure. By the time Emily was born, I had worked my way up to the position of regional development director for the southwestern United States. Such progress meant longer hours at the office, and even when I could get away, there was always some background project competing for my attention - but it also meant more money, which at the time felt badly needed. Irene quit her job as a department store saleswoman then, to be a full-time mother, and we moved into the gated community outside Los Angeles where I still live. Materially, we were quite comfortable, but I had little role in raising baby Emily, who cried for her mother whenever I held her. Eventually, I stopped trying. When Emily was four, I was offered a promotion to the position of lead economic and infrastructural development consultant, in the corporation's international arm. I knew it would mean extended business trips far from home, a life spent on jets and taxis. But it also meant a high six figure salary, with generous benefits - a bright future for me and my family, better opportunities for my young daughter. And with the way my star was rising, I felt certain that another promotion would soon bring me back stateside, to stay. So I talked Irene out of her doubts and accepted the job. I was fairly successful at it, as I had been in the positions before. I even think I did some good in my work. But the separation, the isolation from my wife and child, were worse than ever, worse by far than I had expected. I was able to return home for only a few days every two or three weeks. Sometimes months passed while I coordinated with local leaders deep inside Peru or El Salvador. And when I did come home, my attentions were focused on Irene, desperately trying to keep our relationship alive despite the gulf so often between us. I always brought home gifts for Emily from my travels - tiny, hand-carved wooden animals, puzzle boxes, rings and necklaces from local traders - anything I ran into that I thought she might have the slightest chance of liking. But I also avoided her, passively, secretly uncomfortable around this daughter I hardly knew. In those days I was at best a Santa Claus, not a father, and I knew it. But all plans to rectify the situation I left for the future, when I finished climbing the ladder, when I had the wealth and the leisure to do what I really wanted in life. The future, though, was slow in coming. Away from the savage dance of corporate politics, I might as well have been invisible, forgotten. My efforts seemed to gather no attention, good or ill, and my career was stalled at the worst possible point. Damningly, I cannot even say I hated it at the time; there is certainly something of the workaholic in me, giving a kind of contentment from burying myself in my job. The hard part was the isolation. I often found myself the only English-speaker for miles around, save for the interpreters I employed. But I did not follow in the footsteps of many other men in similar situations and sample the local flavor of woman. I cannot call myself a devout Catholic, least of all now, but I am observant enough to have no appreciation for infidelity. My libido I kept on a short leash until I could bring it home to be indulged. There was a passion between Irene and myself that I think helped sustain us, even as it increasingly felt that our love had been eroded by time and distance. So I continued onward, waiting for the break that would someday bring me back, allow me to be a part of my family again. It was a long wait, and when the end came, it brought no joy. For nearly seven years I flitted about the third world, while my daughter grew up without me. Then one otherwise unremarkable day, in the middle of a conference with Chilean officials about logging regulations, I got the phone call that shattered my dreams for the future. My wife had been involved in a serious accident on the way to pick up Emily from school. She'd been rushed to the hospital in critical condition, they said. Her chances for survival were poor. Out of those entire seven years of my life, the only dot of pride I have is that I left the conference with barely a sentence of explanation and headed straight for the airport. I bribed an attendant there to bump me onto the next flight headed north, and worked frantically to arrange a chartered plane from my destination to bring me the rest of the way back home. Ten hours of flights and cabs passed, so shot through with panic and a sense of unreality that they seemed as an eyeblink. All I can recall of them now is praying desperately for Irene to be spared, swearing that I would be a better person, a better husband and father, that I would find a way to set everything right. When I rushed into the hospital to be told by a grim-faced doctor that my wife had died on the operating table in her second surgery, three hours prior, I felt no surprise - just a distant, icy mix of acceptance and horror. There were forms to be filled out, papers to be signed, and while I handled them the hospital staff gave me the details of the accident. A drunk driver, apparently, celebrating the holiday season by racing through red lights at two in the afternoon. He'd been killed on impact in the crash, never seeing the repercussions of his actions. I took no satisfaction from his death. I would rather he'd have known what he did to me, to my child. Emily had been picked up by a friendly couple Irene had trusted enough to make our emergency contact, the Laeners, who lived in the same neighborhood. I had only met them twice. I pulled up to their house just after 3:30 in the morning, but the husband, John, still managed to open the door for me before I had the chance to ring the bell. He and his wife Linda were red-eyed and somber, offering up condolences and platitudes, explaining that they'd been in constant contact with the hospital until the terminal news came. Our conversation also gave me the distinct and depressing impression that they had known Irene better than I had, talking as much to one another as to me about camping trips and concerts together, happier times that I had never even known about. Eventually, Linda offered to wake up Emily so I could take her home; I followed to the guest room while John explained, somewhat shamefacedly, that they had already informed her of her mother's passing. They were very fond of little Emily, he said, and hadn't felt right deceiving her about a matter so important. I could only accept the news with resignation. Emily was just past eleven then, and small for her age; curled up under the covers of a king-sized bed, she looked tiny, helpless, like a wounded fawn. Even in the dim light that streamed from the hall I could see the redness about her eyes, the remnants of desperate tears wept just hours before. I began to have doubts that she should even be woken, that we should strip away from her the comforting veil of unconsciousness, but before I could voice them Linda reached out and gently shook her into wakefulness. I can still recall the next moments with a perfect, terrible clarity. Emily sat up under the blue-and-white striped covers, rubbing the sleep from her eyes with her palms. Linda, her voice hushed in the darkened room, asked soothingly "Are you awake, honey? Your daddy's here to bring you home." Emily looked up across the room at me and my half-hearted attempts to give her a comforting smile. Then she turned back to face Linda, and in a voice tremulous with sorrow and fatigue, plaintively asked "Do I have to go? Can't I stay here with you?" And for the first time in the entire affair, I wept. My knees buckled under me as I suddenly saw with the clarity of divine revelation how badly I had erred over the past decade. How every step I took, meant to help my family, instead brought me further and further from them, until I had only a dead wife and a daughter who was better comforted by a neighbor than by her father. As the Laeners, plainly mortified for my sake, attempted to cajole Emily into wanting to go with me, I made a vow to myself - that I would start over, that every fiber in my being would be dedicated to becoming the best father humanly possible for Emily. I knew it was too late to truly make up for my neglect, but I hoped that I might at least begin to atone. I started by cashing in every last scrap of vacation time and sick leave I could lay my hands on, giving me something like three solid months with my daughter - and depressing me anew to realize that I might have done this at almost any time. Now I had to use it to try to mend a broken heart, a task I set about with greater dedication than skill. Despite my own silent doubts on the subject, I made certain Emily knew that death was not an end, that her mother had merely passed on to another and better world, in which she watched us still and waited for the time when we would join her. But most of the time, I tried to keep Emily's mind off the matter of death and her mother entirely. I took her to parks, plays, zoos, movies, anything that would occupy her thoughts with lighter matters, anything that could get her to smile. Above all I gave her what I had failed to give her for so long - not presents, but presence. I was with her constantly, morning to night, even to the point of sleeping on the floor beside her bed, so that when she woke up in tears - as happened all too often in the first few weeks - I would be there, with no delay, to soothe her. She was reticent around me in the early days, quiet and often reluctant even to express her grief. I was powerfully relieved when this eventually dissipated, and she seemed to accept me as her father, no longer hiding her tears but allowing me to hold her while she cried, to stroke her hair as she poured her sorrows into my shoulder. I wept often at these times as well, and we grew closer from our mutual grief, the catharsis of these moments allowing us to bond more quickly and deeply than I had any right to expect. I had been prepared to quit my job entirely at the end of my few months of freedom, and to live upon our savings until I could make real progress in getting through to Emily. But by that time, she seemed by a miracle to have achieved something approaching happiness again, and we two were getting along better than I could have prayed for. So I did the next best thing, calling in a dozen favors to get myself reassigned to a position as a department manager back in Los Angeles. It paid almost an order of magnitude less than my previous assignment, but it meant barely thirty hours of work a week, a maximum of flex time, and ample opportunities for telecommuting, which was becoming fashionable in those days. I was determined to never again allow my career to distract me from my family, and this seemed the best possible way to guarantee that. Time, now, was an ally, instead of the enemy it had been. As it dulled the pains and regrets of the past, I heard more and more often the high, tinkling laughter of my newly-known daughter, saw more frequently the small smile that danced around her face and twinkled in her eyes. Beneath the scaffolding of familial obligation, my time with Emily built a monument of genuine love. She was, is, a wonderful girl; clever, beautiful, and with an ineffable something about her that seemed to light up a room whenever she entered. Her emotions were mercurial, shifting readily between dolorous sadness and radiant joy, and very occasionally an anger that I found adorable. Physically and mentally, there was a lot of her mother in her, but Emily seemed somehow to carry hidden depths that I could not honestly say I had known Irene to possess. But ultimately, as the years began to pass and the harmony between us persisted, I knew it was Emily's spirit, her forgiveness and her good nature, which moved me the most. We never fought, hardly even quarreled, and always made up afterwards, and I knew that beatific peace could not be credited to me, with my clumsy and much-delayed parenting. After the way I had neglected her, I knew that I did not deserve her love - thus, every day that I had it, every moment that she looked at me with those eyes full of adoration that any parent would long to have, was an unearned benefaction which warmed me to my soul. Now I saw all that threatened by this untoward desire, springing from some forgotten, bestial quarter of the mind, a temptation more compelling than it had any right to be. I dearly hoped that my feelings that night would prove transitory, that they would vanish like a nightmare in the cold light of dawn. And for a time, I almost thought it so. Morning found me with a calmer cast of mind, free from the fixation on Emily's liaison which had consumed me the previous night, and I felt greatly relieved at the thought that the depraved desire which had possessed me had merely been some queer aftereffect of surprise and wine. But my relief lasted no longer than the time it took me to go downstairs and find Emily fixing herself a bowl of cereal. For some years, she had been using oversized t-shirts for her pajamas - that morning, all I could see was the way the very bottom of her panties peeked out beneath the hem of her shirt, a thin cotton palisade to protect her secret kingdom. The white fabric accentuated the creamy hue of her thighs as they gave way to her smoothly rounded buttocks, just a fine layer of fat over firm gluteal muscle. It was all I could do, as she turned around and greeted me with an angelic smile, to tear my eyes away to meet hers. "Good morning, daddy!" Stepping up, she gave me a quick hug and a peck on the cheek that crackled like electricity against my skin. "Did you sleep okay?" "I...yeah." Swallowing hard, I lied uncomfortably. "Yeah, honey, I slept just fine. How about you?" "Mmm," Emily hummed pleasantly and raised her arms in a stretch that gracefully curved her spine and lifted her pert breasts into prominence. "Wonderfully. I had a very nice dream - I think you were in it, too." "Oh?" An unhealthy interest gripped me. "What was it about?" A moue settled on Emily's face, and she shook her head. "I don't really remember. You know how dreams are." But a smile soon swept away her faint annoyance. "Maybe you can tell me what it was about. Did you have any dreams with me in them?" Did I dream about her? Gazing at her mischievous face, I suddenly wanted to agree, to engage in a flirtatious fancy - I had to take a deep breath and remind myself that I was talking to my daughter. "No." That much, at least, was true. When I finally fell asleep the previous night, after hours of agonizing, my slumber had been an uninterrupted blackness. "No, I didn't dream last night." "Oh." Emily returned to her cereal with a deflated look. "Um, do you want me to make you some shredded wheat?" "That's okay, sweetheart," I replied heavily, "I'm not really hungry this morning." Indeed, I felt sick to my stomach. How had this happened? What was wrong with me? And how long had I been hiding it from myself? While before the previous day I had never consciously felt any attraction towards Emily, I could now recall certain actions, certain feelings, which in retrospect seemed suspect. How many times had I happened to be near the bathroom when she emerged rosy-cheeked and moist from her showers, her towel enfolding her like a lover's arms, reflecting her womanly contours? It seemed to me now that I had always taken any opportunity to touch her, to hold her, never thinking that there might be some darker impulse behind it, never questioning the gratification I felt when her body was next to mine. "Are you sure?" She persisted, ever attentive. "Remember, it's the most important meal of the daa-aay." Her voice rose in a sing-song trill as she drew out the final syllable playfully. Even my inward turmoil could not entirely quash the elation her levity normally inspired in me, and I managed about half of a laugh. "All right, honey. If you insist." "That's more like it," she flashed a quixotic smile, and pushed her bowl across the counter to me. "Here, you can have mine, and I'll make myself a new one. I promise I don't have anything too contagious." I could return only a feeble smile as I sat down at the counter and stirred listlessly at the sodden chunks of wheat and sugar. Emily busied herself again with the refrigerator, and a silence grew that to my ears felt awkward, unnatural. What could I say? The subject that filled my mind was no fit topic for idle conversation. In my preoccupation I could not recall what we normally talked about in the mornings, or even if there was any pattern to it. Perhaps - I looked up again and immediately regretted it. Emily stood barely over five feet tall, and we kept the cereal in the far back of the cupboard - to retrieve it, she was bent almost ninety degrees over the counter on the opposite side of the kitchen, her perfect posterior wobbling slightly in the air with only the tight cloth of her panties struggling to protect it from view. I stiffened at the sight, in more ways than one. Those slim hips looked as delectable to me as a twelve-course banquet to a starving man; I wanted to grab hold of them, tear off her wrappings and gorge myself upon her body. To take her with a savage tenderness, make her scream with joy... "Oh," Emily spoke suddenly, glancing back over her shoulder and jolting me back to reality, with a panicked shame at the avenue of my thoughts. "I was thinking we could go out to the beach today, if you want. It could be a fun little outing, you know?" Retrieving the cereal box, she mercifully stood up again, her shirt dropping back down to give her a modicum of modesty. "I don't know, sweetheart," I stalled, my heart beating faster at the thought of her in a bikini. And me in trunks - no, it was impossible. Emily was too inclined to spontaneous affection; her impulsive hugs could readily reveal this horror that I had to keep hidden. "Are you sure it's even a good idea? It's a bit of a drive. Plus, you know how fair your skin is. I'd hate for you to have to suffer through another sunburn." "I know," she answered quietly as she poured the milk. "We could bring the beach umbrella, though, and sit in the shade. And I mean, we should go before winter and it gets too cold to go in the water, right?" "I..." Hesitating, pained, I shook my head, hating to deny her so simple a request but unwilling to risk exposure of my shame. "I'm sorry, princess, but I really can't. I have some, some paperwork from the office that I have to finish and mail off today. You understand, right?" I felt hollow inside, lying to her, but did not see that I had another choice. "Yeah, of course." Emily smiled wanly, the lilt jammed into her voice. "It's fine, daddy. Don't worry about it. I'll just, um, head out to the mall or something instead." "Another time, honey. I promise." I insisted with quiet desperation. Once this perversion had passed. Once I was in control of myself again. "Next weekend, maybe, huh?" In the face of her plain unhappiness, I foolishly upped the ante. "Or even tomorrow." How They May Be "I can't tomorrow." Not looking at me, she spooned some cereal into her mouth and chewed it thoroughly. "I have Sarah's party to go to, remember?" I did recall her telling me something like that, vaguely, and was quietly relieved that she couldn't call my bluff. "Next weekend, then. Or whenever you want. You just let me know, okay, sweetie?" I almost sighed as she silently took another bite of cereal. Maybe I doted on her too much, was too available, if she was this hurt just by the denial of a last-minute trip to the beach. I could have really had work, after all. But I couldn't imagine treating her otherwise, couldn't stand leaving her desires unfulfilled; indeed, I already moved instinctively to comfort her, unwilling to let the conversation end on a sour note. "Okay, sweetie?" I repeated, standing behind Emily and rubbing gently at her shoulders. "Hmm?" And my arms around those shoulders now, carefully leaning into the hug, Finally, with a snort of laughter, she relented and spun round in my arms. "Okay, daddy, okay. Jeez." Her breath tickled softly at my ear. "Good," I released her as I stood up straight, halfway surprised that I could still touch her without losing control. "You just enjoy yourself today as much as you can without me. Not too much, though; don't-" "Don't want me getting ideas, right," Emily finished for me with a giggle. At one time, I had said that to her every day as I dropped her off at school; now it was our little catch-phrase. "That's right." Briefly, I raised my hand to caress her cheek, an unconsciously possessive gesture. "You're going to have to learn to get by without me soon enough anyway, when you go away to college." "Oh, I don't even want to think about that," Emily groaned. "Me, either," I admitted. "But there we are. Life's just a long process of losing the things and the people you love." A playfully petulant sigh escaped her lips. "Daddy, don't be dark. Really, now." I managed to smile, wryly. "All right, all right. There's plenty of good moments along the way, too. Little joys, and new loves made." "There'd better be," she warned me with mock severity. "I'll hold you to that." Evidently I had sufficiently cheered her, for she returned to her breakfast with her normal energetic appetite. I, in turn, went back to poking moodily at my own untouched cereal. By the time she had finished and headed upstairs to get dressed, I'd eaten only two spoonfuls, and the bowl had degenerated to a mushy, unappetizing mess. I didn't notice. My mind was on my sickness, on Emily, as I half-listened to her footsteps rapidly ascend the stairs, hesitate, and scamper briefly back. An angelic face peered out sideways from the landing, seeking my eye. "Daddy?" I turned my gaze to meet her there, hesitantly. "Yes, honey?" "I love you." I choked up at the words, and Emily started back up the stairs without waiting for a response. Thus, she almost certainly didn't hear me when I finally regained enough composure to call out "I love you too, sweetheart," in something like a normal tone of voice. That love, the innocent affection of a girl for her father. My discomfort, my desires, even my happiness all were worthless nothings - the true danger of the wormy rot in my soul was its promise to betray that love, to insinuate its gangrenous grip into Emily's heart. She had already lost her mother; if I did not expunge this taint within me, she would lose her father as well, have him stolen away and turned into a monster. I could not permit that to happen to her. That I needed guidance could not be more apparent, and I had no small want for absolution as well. It is therefore far from surprising that my thoughts that day turned to the church. Principally, of course, I am a man of the world, more so even than I ordinarily like to admit; I seek practical solutions, rather than prayer. Religion for me was an occasional devotion, a pastiche of dubious hopes with which to cover up life's chilling uncertainties. But this was a transcendental threat I faced, a problem whose very nature demoralized me, and it seemed that was what it took to make God sound like an answer. When Emily returned home that evening, clutching a half-full department store bag, I let her know that she should be ready to go to church the next day, before her friend's party. "Why?" she asked, the puzzlement visible on her face. I just raised an eyebrow, as though the answer were obvious, and Emily tried again with a laugh. "I mean, I know why, but why now?" "We haven't been in months," I said simply, and perhaps evasively. "I'd say we're due." "Uh-huh." Clearly not enough of a reason - I could hear the skepticism in her voice, blended with a low apprehension. "Daddy, is this about my...about Rob?" That connection had not occurred to me before this moment, but I seized upon it immediately, as it made a plausible excuse. "Let's just say he made me realize how long it's been since we've attended Mass." There was even an element of truth to that. "I see." Her voice was quiet now, hesitant. "You said yesterday you weren't mad, but...do you think less of me, for what I did?" "No," I answered firmly. The very notion was ridiculous. "Absolutely not. Princess, it's perfectly natural and healthy for you to be forming relationships right now, including physical relationships." Though the mere thought of her doing so fired a fresh stab of jealousy through my nerves. I hastened to add, "I may not celebrate about it, but that's my problem, not yours." "Thanks, daddy." An uncharacteristically shy relief washed over her face. "So, am I still your favorite daughter?" I laughed, taken by a bittersweet humor. "First in all categories, sweetheart." "Good." Stepping closer, she did not quite hug me, but rested her head tenderly against my chest, a small fraction of her weight pressing against me so I was holding her upright. "You really mean a lot to me, daddy. I mean, I..." She trailed off, and leaned against me in silence for perhaps five seconds before finally withdrawing with a shake of the head. "Anyway, um, I should put this stuff away." I was lost, adrift in the pacific waters of her touch, and replied only after a delay. "Ah, what did you get?" "Just some clothes." Amusement curved her lips. "Do you want to see? I could model them for you." My pulse quickened at the thought, and I had to wrestle down my demons. "No, honey, I don't think so. Just go ahead and put them away. And if you haven't eaten yet, I made couscous and stew; they're still on the stove." "That sounds good," Emily said as she headed off to her room. "I had some pizza earlier, but I could eat." Morning came with alacrity, my sleep again dreamless. We woke early, in order to make the forty-minute drive out to the church in time for services, and got breakfast along the way at a fast food drive-through. It was the drive, as much as anything else, that had reduced our once-regular church attendance to a merely holiday tradition; losing well over an hour from our Sundays driving back and forth began to grate, and I started to find little excuses not to go, until inertia took over for me. I regretted that suddenly, thinking that in some way my carelessness towards my spiritual obligations might have made me more susceptible to my present moral catastrophe. The church itself was an underwhelming example of the breed; modern construction, small stained-glass windows that were only a grid of colors, and a shabbily Spartan internal decoration. In my childhood I worshipped at a proper cathedral, and my experiences there shaped my intuitive understanding of what religious observance was meant to be. The smell of old wood and varnish and burning candles, the vaunted ceiling that seemed to reach all the way to heaven, the low, bellowing tones of an ancient pipe organ - these were like an alchemical recipe to summon the divine. Sitting in a stuffy room with white plaster walls was only play-acting. There was at least a comfort in the familiar routine of the Mass. I spoke my lines eagerly, fervently, as if to prove that I was a good man, a holy man, despite my debased desires. But the priest's sermon made less of an impression; I am ashamed to say now that I cannot even clearly recall the matter on which he spoke. The importance of charity, I believe it was, or some similar issue which scarcely seemed relevant to my concerns. Indeed, I found my attentions on Emily through most of it; she wore an airy white summer dress that day, and sat close enough beside me that our legs lightly touched, a constant reminder of her presence. I had only to turn my eyes left and downward to gaze upon the top of her petite bosom as it dove beneath the thin-threaded muslin. It was a sight to which I returned often, unable to keep my eyes away, while she in her innocence attended diligently to the priest's words. She was like an angel, sitting straight and white and pure in the pew, and I felt a devil beside her, stewing in my perverted wants. I was relieved when services ended and I had an excuse to absent myself from the temptations of her company. I had come primarily for confession, and luckily managed to be one of the first there to receive it. The church hadn't a proper self-contained confessional, of course, just an arrangement of chairs in the priest's office, separated by a screen such that believers might receive Penance anonymously. I was too glad for that anonymity as I settled into the seat gamely, intoning the familiar words. "Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been four months since my last confession." "And what are your sins, my child?" The priest spoke in a warm, aged tenor. For all my disparagement of his church, he had always seemed to me a devoted man of God, with a genuine concern for his parishioners that shone through even now in his voice. "I have...lashed out at others, verbally, in anger." I began with my smaller offenses, unwilling to immediately set down the great burden that weighed upon my mind. "I have lied, in order to spare myself embarrassment. I have failed to come to church for communion, when I might have done so without difficulty. I have taken the Lord's name in vain. And I have lusted..." The tongue stilled obstinately in my mouth as I came to my darkest confession. Could I truly stand to tell him this? He might be acting in the person of Christ when he performed the sacraments, but he was ultimately still a man, a man who would be horrified and disgusted to hear the nature of my lusts. And for all that the seal of the confessional was meant to be inviolable, I could not help but consider with a shudder the consequences if it were to be broken. Police could be involved. Emily might be taken away, separated from me. Could I accept even the slightest risk of that? Taking my silence to mean that I was finished, the priest asked "Have these lies harmed anyone, my son, or caused them significant distress?" "I do not believe so, Father," I answered heavily. I had come here for this. I had to see it through. "But if you will pardon me, I wasn't quite done. What I wanted to say was that I have . . . I've lusted after my daughter." There was a long silence from the other side of the screen, and I could see the outline of the priest as he shifted his weight in the chair. But when he finally spoke, his voice kept the same soothing, sympathetic tones. "I see. Your biological daughter?" Miserably, "Yes, Father." "How old is she?" "She's eighteen, Father. As of two months ago." "And how long have you had these feelings towards her?" Patiently, he grilled me on the details, and I told him in abbreviated form the events of the previous two days. There was something like relief in sharing my suffering, notwithstanding the revulsion I knew he must be feeling. Finally he asked, "Do you believe that she harbors similar desires towards you?" I did not miss his phrasing. "No. I'm very much aware that she doesn't." "We may thank the Lord for that." Another few moments of contemplative silence. "My son, the role of the father in a family is symbolic of the role of God towards all humanity. It is your responsibility to care for your children, to provide them with guidance, to give them the closest thing we have here on Earth to God's divine love and mercy. For that relationship to be corrupted by carnal intentions is very troubling." "I know, Father," I answered quietly. "Good," he intoned firmly. "It is encouraging that you acknowledge the evil of these desires, as that is the first step towards ridding yourself of them. Do you believe that you can refrain from acting upon your feelings?" "Yes, I think so," I breathed, wishing I could be sure of that. "Then this is what you must do. Prayer will cleanse you, my son. When you find yourself in the midst of this lust, you must stop and pray to the Lord that very moment for guidance, for relief from your sinful nature." It sounded almost too simple, and I hesitantly asked, "Do you really believe that will be enough to cure me of this, Father?" "I am certain of it," he answered resolutely, and in the face of his certitude I found my own confidence growing. "If your faith is true, if you humble yourself to accept God into your heart. It may take time, of course, but the Lord does not disappoint the patient man." "I . . . thank you, Father." "You are very welcome, my child. In penance for this, and for the remainder of your sins, I would like you to pray the rosary five times." "Is that all?" I asked, surprised. For such an offense, I expected a heavier atonement. "You above all must know, my son, that a man does not truly control his desires," the priest explained gently. "Recall that Christ himself suffered temptation in the desert, at the hands of Satan. Such temptation alone, no matter how shocking its nature, cannot condemn a man. It is whether you fall to it that matters most." "Yes..." I agreed distantly. It was sensible, though difficult to accept emotionally in the face of my self-loathing. "You must be strong, my child. You carry a great burden, and if you should falter, you will not be the only one to suffer." There was a great deal of truth in the priest's words, and I reflected upon them as I worked through the various prayers and rituals that stood between me and the expiation of my sins. I had looked upon these desires as my fault, as a sign that I was already broken. To see them as a threat from without was suddenly revitalizing. I had not, after all, failed Emily yet; indeed, the wrongs I had done her - lying, sending her off alone - I had done out of fear of that failure. I saw now that I had to deny this awful temptation without compromising my fatherhood. A difficult task, to be sure, but I did not doubt for a moment that Emily was worth it. And there is nothing like a plan to make a man feel that anything is possible. That plan, such as it was, was sorely tested over the next few days. Despite my mumbled prayers, my perception of Emily as a sexual being did not dissipate. Instead it seemed to come further into bloom, each day bringing to my attention a new flowering of her young womanhood. I saw the way her tongue peeked curiously between her lips when she struggled with her homework. I ached to watch the slight two-step hitch in her gait, which made her taut derrière jump in time with my heartbeat. And I wondered at the height of her skirts, which I had never before realized showed so much of her smooth-shaven leg, of even her milky-white thigh. Every morning I did not know whether to weep or sing upon seeing her, as her beauty struck such chords in my heart that I almost despaired of further resistance to my attraction. I was exquisitely tuned to her presence, a compass to her magnetism; she could not walk into the same room as me without the hairs on my neck standing on end, as though she filled the air around her with static electricity. But men can become accustomed to even impossible situations, and I found that resistance did become easier, even as the feverous desire burned ever brighter within me. Routine, of all things, was my savior - when I could fall into old customs, allow myself to be guided by habit, there was no risk of my expressing feelings that should not be voiced or taking actions that should not be realized. And as the shock of this new perspective on my daughter began to subside, I found the great terror which had consumed me, that I might desecrate her, retreated along with it. I could touch her without being overcome with lust, hold her without ripping off her clothes. I could even admire her anatomy, silently, without being compelled to grab hold of it. I was in control, I felt now; though hardly comfortable with the situation, I decided that I was able to handle it. All too soon, even this small complacency was shaken. Thursday was movie night, a tradition we had maintained for something like six years, during which Emily's tastes evolved from Disney flicks to quirky teenage dramas to old comedies. We would make a bowl of popcorn, cuddle together on the couch, and pop something into the VHS to watch before bed. In the last few months Emily had been on a cheesy horror kick, which is why on that particular Thursday we were watching 'Blood Feast,' a horrid little film from the sixties about a caterer killing young women for a human sacrifice. It was far from being my favorite sort of movie, but watching it with her I could find a vicarious kind of enjoyment all the same, laughing together at the chintzy special effects, groaning at the awful dialogue. Today there was a guiltier pleasure as well, as I had a new appreciation for the way she jumped and clutched at me when the screen suddenly exploded into gore. The movie's artless shocks were made for the comfort of closeness, and it wasn't long before Emily was nestled under my arm, her head resting lightly on the side of my chest. I did not even realize until most of the way through the film how my hand had drifted down to her hip, holding her jealously to my side. I worried at that, somewhat. But Emily seemed not to care, or even to notice, and with perhaps imperfect objectivity I decided that removal would only call more attention to it. It was a fairly innocuous bit of familiarity, I told myself. In truth I felt so wonderful with her there that I was loath to change anything. I had the feeling of a young man again, remembering the times in my youth that I had taken girls I fancied to movies very like this one, just to get a chance to squeeze up close to them. Though even in the pink glow of nostalgia, none were half as lovely as Emily. Sitting there beside her, feeling the quiver of her laughter against my chest, I could make believe that she wasn't my daughter, that we were really a couple in the bloom of love, and the fantasy sent such a shiver of delight up my spine that I knew I must not entertain it again. Nothing more untoward than that happened while we watched the movie. It was afterward, as I turned off the TV and VCR with the remote, that Emily stretched with a nearly feline grace and slid down to horizontal on the couch, curling up with her head in my lap and a contented hum on her lips. This, now, was awkward for me, and I tousled her fine black hair affectionately as I said "All right, honey, upsy-daisy." Emily took a deep breath before answering with a cutely definitive "Nope." A mischievous smirk danced on her face. "Too tired. I'm just going to stay here." "Well, I can see that," I played along in deadpan tones, "it being all of half past ten. Really, I'm surprised you can even keep your eyes open. But I have to get up, so you'll just have to do your best." Emily pouted back at me, eyes large and adorable. "You know, you used to carry me to bed when I was tired after watching a movie." How They May Be "That's true," I chuckled quietly. "But that was a long time ago, when you were a lot smaller." "Oh, I see how it is," she pretended to be offended, turning her gaze away from me crossly. "You're saying I'm too fat to be picked up now. Is that it?" "Fat like a fashion model, maybe." A genuine laugh, now. "I wish I could, sweetie, but your dad's not as strong as he used to be." Emily turned back to face me, an amused half-smile on her lips, and said pleasantly "I don't believe you, daddy." Reaching up, her hand casually brushed at my chest, squeezed my bicep through the fabric of my shirt. "I mean, you feel plenty strong enough to me." "Well..." I preened, a surge of crudely masculine pride washing over me at the compliment. I wasn't sure what to say, but refusal no longer seemed like an option. For a few seconds, Emily just stared up at me, eyebrow raised with an artfully expectant look, until finally I grinned back at her. "All right, I'll give it a shot. But you'll have to call the ambulance if I break my back." One arm thrust beneath her back, another hooked under her knees, and I swung her into the air with a grunt of exertion while she giggled and kicked her legs delightedly. I was struck first by how easy it was, surprised at how light she felt in my arms. Perhaps I shouldn't have been. Being near Emily had always invigorated me, and that effect had only become more dramatic in the past week. I felt so alive around her, so vital, as though she lent her youth and her energy to the tired blood in my veins; in the face of that strength, she seemed to mass little more than a feather, and I hardly strained to lumber with her to the staircase. It should have been a reformative pretense, casting her in the role of a child again, with me putting her innocently to bed. But baser thoughts stirred in my mind, aroused by our contact on the couch, and by the way her head now nestled at the crook of my neck, breathing warm and moist upon my skin. I was put in mind not of Emily's childhood but of my wedding night, of carrying Irene in just this manner across the threshold to our hotel suite, and of the pleasures we shared thereafter. It did not help that Emily had taken so much after her mother. Those eyes, yes, soulful and beguiling, but also the shape of her face, the ears just slightly oversize, the slim, seductive body that pressed against me as I carried her. Emily's rear rubbed with every step at the top of my right leg, perilously near my groin, which stirred and stretched with excitement at the electric tingle of her touch. And, I suddenly realized, I could smell her; the healthy waft of her skin mixed with the fruity medley of her hygiene products and the faint but definite scent of sweat to create a unique perfume, subtly feminine and powerfully compelling. By the time I reached the top of the staircase I was dizzy with desire - I had to hope that she would assume the heaviness of my breathing was merely from the effort of carrying her. Emily huffed softly as I hitched her up higher, desperate to prevent any stray contact with my growing tumescence. But this had its own danger, as her right breast now was pressed against me, a supple temptation whispering insistently into my flesh. I swear I even felt her nipple through the twin layers of cloth, the fleshy nub sparking fireworks in my mind as I recalled how it had looked, firm and proud from the attentions of that punk I had discovered her with. I could not bear the thoughts, the sensations she evoked in me- she was a hot dish that I had to set down, and I accelerated my pace to something just short of a jog, barreling down the hall and into Emily's room. In many ways, it still seemed the room of a little girl. Stuffed animals littered the headboard of her bed, bears and rabbits and horses, some picked out of a store and some carefully hand-made items, gifts from my days abroad. She still had her old yellow toybox in the corner of the room, though it looked as though it hadn't been opened in quite a while indeed. The eggshell-white walls were a better marker of her development. Once they had been littered with pictures of bubblegum pop singers, all she used to listen to, but in recent years these had been replaced by posters for alternative rock groups, art prints, and a collage of photographs of her and her friends. Against the far wall, an easel sat holding a half-finished watercolor of a garden vista, passably done. She'd decided some four years ago that she wanted to be an artist, and would occasionally engage in a flurry of painting for a week or two before forgetting about it for months. I thought she had real potential, but could never bring myself to enforce the kind of discipline she needed for serious practice. But my attention then was not on my surroundings. Flicking on the light switch with my elbow, I tossed Emily to bounce twice on her queen-sized bed and come to rest with an intoxicating smile, blissfully unaware of the tempestuous desires that roiled in my heart as I gazed upon her form. Oh, but she looked beautiful there, long legs askew, hair delightfully disarrayed, clothing rumpled and begging for a man's hand to remove it. Only belatedly did I recall how my arousal was on display, and I turned about to sit at the foot of her bed before she could notice the suspicious bulge at the top of my slacks. "And you said you couldn't carry me." Emily accused playfully, sitting up on the bed while I watched her over my shoulder. "You were practically running there." "Well, I...I didn't think I could," I explained lamely, struggling by sheer force of will to lose my erection. "You're a lot lighter than I expected. But, ah, I hope you don't mind if I take a minute here to catch my breath." "Of course not, daddy," she answered in a bemused tone, as though surprised I even bothered to ask. In truth it was a bit unusual, as we normally treated one another's rooms as public property. It was only in the face of my attraction to Emily that I had started to feel as though hers was a private place, that I had no business being there. There was a fugitive thrill even just sitting on her bed, in being so close to where she lay down in the serene elegance of sleep. Such thoughts, though, did not help my predicament. I faced away from her, my body still groaning with desire, aching to reach back and grab hold of the delicious girl behind me. Merely trying to wish it away did not much help. Recalling the advice of the priest, I closed my eyes to mouth a silent prayer. Almighty God, take pity on your humble creature, and help me to banish these lusts that... The words died on my lips as I felt Emily scoot up close behind me, leaning against my back as she straddled her legs outside mine. Her head came to rest comfortably on my shoulder, and her hands snaked under my arms to loosely entwine at my stomach - I almost cried out, feeling again the soft peaks of her breasts pressing into my back. But she was heedless of her effect on me as she spoke beside my ear, her voice uncommonly circumspect. "So, um, I was thinking." My throat felt painfully dry, but I croaked out "What's that, pumpkin?" "What if I didn't go away to college?" I could feel her body tense up with the question, an infinitesimal tightening of her arms around me. "What if I just stayed here?" I was silent for a time, uncertain, ill-equipped to focus my attention on serious questions when distracted by the heady glow of her embrace. "I don't think I understand, honey," I finally answered, cautiously. "You got into Berkeley and Brown. Around here, there's what, a couple of community colleges?" "No, I know. I didn't even mean..." She hesitated, and I glanced back over my shoulder, her dark, troubled eyes not quite meeting mine. "I mean, what would you think if I didn't go to college at all? If I stayed here with you instead?" Again she clutched me nervously, her hands fidgeting at my stomach, and suddenly I thought I understood. A soft explosion of tender pity filled my heart, sharing space there with my attraction. She was afraid of losing me, afraid of leaving me behind, and once more I anguished that I was unworthy of her love. "Oh, Emily," I uttered gently. "Change really hasn't been too kind to you in the past, has it?" She didn't answer. The question didn't really need one. "I - for me, sweetie, I would be overjoyed if you stayed here forever. There's nothing in the world that makes me happier than having you around." A trifle too much truth in that. "But for you, I'd be disappointed. College is important, both for your future career and as an experience. It's where you really start to build an independent life for yourself. I'd be remiss as a father if I let you...if I didn't encourage you, as much as I could, to go." My abdomen still felt the delicate flutter of her hands - I reached down blindly and comfortingly clasped them in my own, enveloping them in my far larger grip and holding them warmly as her small tremors faded away. "Honey, I know it feels like a huge step, and I know that can be scary. But when you head out there into the world, you're going to have such a great life that you won't even think to miss me." It hurt to say it. Now more than ever I hated the thought of her leaving, my fatherly feeling of loss blended with a lover's desperation at being abandoned. The prospect of coming home to an empty house, of having no one to brighten my mornings, filled me with a silent, aching dread. Not to see her adorable face. To hear her only as a voice on the telephone. She had become such an integral part of my life, it was like imagining a world without color, joyless and grey. Emily smiled half-heartedly and shook her head, her chin rubbing against my shoulder. "That's pretty hard for me to believe, daddy." Her voice was soft and intimate, almost whispering into my ear. "There's not many ways I can think of for my life to be better than it is right now." "Well, all the same," I maintained weakly, feeling the tiny prick of affectionate tears welling in my eyes. Words came only with difficulty - I was drunk on her touch, muddle-headed with the finest vintage of woman I could name. "I just know there's some magic waiting for you. Call it - call it a father's intuition." "Okay, daddy." There was the slightest air of the patronizing in her voice, of indulgence for her father's foolishness. But it came with so gentle a smile that I could not dream to take offense. A beat passed, an inhalation of breath, and she asked simply, "Goodnight kiss?" I knew even in that very moment that I must not kiss her, that I could not hope to maintain this façade of a dutiful parent if my lips met hers even for an instant. But knowledge was not strength, and I was lost when I saw her lips pursed, moist and alluring with anticipation. As a moth to the flame I leaned in, planted upon them a kiss that was born of passion, an echo of those I had given my wife so many years ago. Emily was soft and yielding in all the delightful ways a girl could be; her lips squeezed gently beneath mine, slippery and sweet with the flavor of strawberry lip gloss. The kiss was like a snapshot of heaven - every nerve in my body sang with rapture, thrilled at the pleasure of contact. My hands quivered and reached for her of their own accord, held back only by our awkward positioning on the bed. I cannot say how long that kiss lasted. Too long, to be sure, but by a second, five seconds, thirty . . . I don't know. Time itself seemed to vanish in the face of the joy I drew from her lips. I cannot say either what I would have done, where I would have stopped, if it were not for the primal sense of moral panic which stepped in and took control of me, wrenching me away from Emily and standing me up on legs that were rubbery and weak with want. I did not risk looking at her again, just choked out a "good night" as I strode from the room as fast as my condition allowed. I did not pause until I reached my bedroom, and once there I nearly collapsed, my back pressed against the wall, my heart beating like a jackhammer as I slowly slid to the floor. Terror tightened my throat, my muscles straining against each other as though seeking to escape the reality I had just created. I wanted to scream, to protest at the unfairness of it - I had thought myself firmly under control, only for her scent, her touch, her look suddenly to power past my defenses and strengthen my desire until it could not be denied. Worst of all, I still suffered from it, longing to return to Emily's side, to shower kisses and caresses upon her body. I could taste her yet, a luscious poison on my lips, and thought that I felt the beginnings of addiction. "Oh, merciful God," I prayed under my breath, bereft of other options, my hands clenched desperately together in something like supplication. "I beg you, give me relief from this sinful want. Please," I almost choked with the intensity of the request, "please, I am a wretched creature. I do not have the strength on my own to resist. I need your help, Lord, if only to protect my daughter. I beg you. I beg you." I spent some minutes there against the wall silently repeating those three words, my eyes firmly shut, waiting for an answer, for a change in my feelings. For anything, really. But the heavens were deaf to my prayers. Emily still held the center stage in my mind, still damned me with memories of curves and kisses that inflamed the Id. Once again I despairingly wondered what I had done to bring this upon myself, what I could do now to escape it. Was I not yet humbled enough? Was my faith too weak? I cannot deny that I contemplated a third possibility, that if God even existed He didn't give a damn about one man's perverse attraction to his daughter. That I was alone with my problems in an uncaring universe. I could not agonize forever. As the minutes passed, my horror weathered into a duller malaise, and I found that I could breathe again. The situation, of course, was not at all improved, but it was what it was, and there was little I could do to change it. I briefly contemplated returning to Emily to explain myself, to apologize, before discarding the idea. I couldn't stomach telling her of my feelings, and without that, there was nothing I could say. Instead I crawled miserably into bed, longing for the relief of oblivion to remove me from my troubles. Frustratingly, even this was denied to me. Hot and bothered from my interactions with Emily, I tossed and turned on the bed, unable to rest, and all too soon my mind wandered to dangerous speculations. I wondered what her bosom would feel like in my hands. Her breasts like fleshy teardrops, with just that delightful spongy resilience when pressed against my back. There was nothing quite like breast flesh, really, nothing that captured the feel of it, the deep, animal satisfaction of taking a handful and squeezing it softly, letting it bulge slightly out in the spaces between your fingers. Emily had just the right size to squeeze, I had seen that; enough to get my hand fully around, with nothing wasted. And her nipples, a rich pink, on the verge of red - I could close my eyes and see them in front of me, dangling like Christmas lights. I wanted to lick them, suck them as though I were a nursing infant. I wanted to hear Emily's moans as I stroked her chest with my tongue, attended to her bosom with the reverence it deserved. God, such thoughts. Conscience gave me a broadside, made me step back. I was painfully erect, my member grinding slowly of its own accord against the mattress as this madness circulated in my brain. I couldn't think these things, not about her. But I couldn't stop, either, couldn't control the libidinous diversions of a tired mind. Or I just wasn't trying hard enough. It hardly seemed to matter which. In my mind I was there on the couch again, my hand at the top of Emily's leg, her head in my lap, staring up at me with that mischievous smirk of hers. As though she knew the effect she had on me, as though she enjoyed it. Here and now I was under no compulsion to move her away; I rubbed at her leg through the rough denim of her jeans, my hand sliding inch by inch inward to where inner thigh met pelvis. Stroking there along the crease of flesh with my index finger, again and again, stoking the fiery heat that poured out from her. My left hand grasped the flesh of her shoulder just inside the collar of her shirt and massaged it roughly, my thumb extending barely across the pale, elegant flesh of her neck. I squeezed softly, and she did not resist - just let out a quick, quiet gasp, tilted her head back further, presenting her throat in a gesture of surrender. My erection throbbed under her, pressed insistently at the top of her spine, only encouraged by the pressure of her head holding it down. "What are you doing, daddy?" It was barely a question, asked between her suddenly shallow breaths, and I did not immediately answer. My hand slipped off her leg, up and under her blouse, resting with splayed fingers on the warm skin of her stomach. My pinkie slipped beneath her jeans, hiding amidst the downy hairs at the top of her panties; my thumb nestled just at the valley of her breasts. "I'm showing you how much I love you, sweetheart." Emily hummed in that pleasantly happy way she had, closed her eyes while I dropped my hand lower, turning so the tips of my fingers traced her panties' elastic trim, rubbing it ever so gently against her hidden, velvet flesh. Her murmurs started then, echoes of those that had started me on this path, and she crossed her arms at her chest, a gesture somehow both protective and vulnerable. Then lower still, forcing my hand down the tight waist of her jeans, I cupped her mound through the moistening fabric, rubbing with the bottom of my palm where I felt the hooded bud of her clitoris. And oh, she reacted to that, twitching her hips up to meet my hand, to press herself against my palm all the more firmly. Softly pleasured exhalations escaped her lips, her head thrown back ecstatically in my lap. My left thumb probed at her lips, much as it had that last Friday, but now pressing its way past them into the wet heat of her mouth, where her tongue lapped at it attentively, her teeth nipped it lovingly between her cries. She looked up at me then, opening her eyes to reveal such love and longing that I almost cried out with want. Her panties were now soaked, my hand sticky with her honey, and with a single motion I slipped it beneath to glide across the dewy black hair of her muff, burning with a sultry heat like swampland in July. I could feel her labial lips, puffed up with blood, so sensitive she moaned uncontrollably when I tickled at them. With a deliberate, teasing slowness I forced my middle finger past these slippery gates and into her slick depths, hooking her like a fish on the line. Even with just my finger she was tight, her legs closing around my hand, squeezing together as though forbidding me to leave. I pulsed my hand insistently against her, fucking her with my finger, and she shuddered with pleasure, twisted spasmodically against me with a groan of transcendental rapture. For a moment her spasms pulled her head off my lap, and my erection finally pushed past her, a conspicuous bulge that her face was quickly pressed up against. Wordlessly, her hand reaching out to grasp with an adorable hesitation at my fly - she looked up at me for a moment, and I saw a question there, nodded ever so slightly. Delicate hands released me from confinement, and my cock rose up proudly, bobbing with my every heartbeat before her wide, hungry eyes. She looked at it. I looked at her. There was a moment of stillness, of anticipation. And then she bent her head forward and kissed it, right where the foreskin met the glans, a closed-mouthed peck that would have been innocent anywhere else. There was only the barest contact, the slightest pressure, as it fell back before her touch. But it was as erotic a feeling as any I had known, and I tensed my finger inside her, ground my palm against her clit, trying to repay her in kind. A moan opened her mouth, and before it closed again she leaned in and took my cock inside - just the head, just the tip, tickling it with her tongue, her lips sealing in the groove behind it, soft and wet and warm. I couldn't stand it. Ecstasy surged forth irrepressibly as she suckled daintily at my shaft. I held on only long enough for her gaze to lock on to me again, to look at me with those adoring eyes that were mine alone, her gift to me, and I felt myself stiffen and spasm in rapture. How They May Be Reality trickled back to me slowly. I was on my back, on my bed, one hand still pumping furiously at my shaft as I fouled my chest with my own seed. Disgusting. Repulsive. Sick, these fantasies, and I was sick to indulge them. I cursed myself silently as I wandered to the adjoining bathroom to clean myself off with a damp washcloth. I didn't deserve to call myself a father, didn't deserve the wonderful daughter that I had. God, but I ached with self-loathing. I just wanted to rip out the part of me that lusted after her, to be clean again, honest, proper. If only I knew how. The sole consolation I had was that with my arousal relieved, I was at least able to sleep. I dreamt that night of prison, of being trapped in a box that slowly closed in on me while Emily looked on pleadingly from without. --- I was almost afraid to go downstairs the next morning, ashamed to face Emily after my actions that night. But when I mustered up my courage, I soon found to my surprise and relief that she met me with her usual cheer, as though nothing at all was wrong. She raised no queries about the kiss, nor even any eyebrows, and I began to hope that it might have slipped under the radar, that the kiss which to me had burned with so incandescent a passion had seemed to her nothing more than an ordinary goodnight peck. I must confess that a part of me was hurt at the realization, wanting her to feel the intensity of my craving. As though, if she only had a taste of my desire, it would infect her as well, drag her with me into this pit of incestuous lust. But the better part of me, the sensible part, was relieved that I had avoided alienating her, if by no merit of my own. Later, at work, I received a reminder that made me wonder if my prayers had not been answered after all. The corporate retreat for upper management was only a week away - I had until Tuesday to confirm attendance. It was too perfect. A three-day weekend in Hawaii, a chance to get her out of my system. With perhaps undue optimism, I was suddenly sure that this was exactly what I needed - just a little time away from her skirts and her smiles, a bit of relaxation on the beach beside women to whom I was not related. Nominally, of course, the retreat was for 'leadership building,' but that barely even qualified as a smokescreen. In previous years, there had only been around six hours, total, of seminars and meetings, with the rest of the time given over to enjoying the scenery - as well as other distractions. Indeed, the retreat had developed sufficiently questionable a reputation that this year, accommodations were offered for spouses as well, in hopes of curbing some of the worst abuses. I allowed myself to be heartened again. A week's resistance more, and then a curative vacation. I had to believe that it would work - the alternative was unbearable. By whatever contrivance, I did manage to believe it, and I was unreasonably cheerful as I returned home that afternoon, if not quite as carefree as I had been a week earlier. I waited until dinner to tell Emily, an affected casualness in my voice as I brought the matter up between bites of saté, as though it had only just come to mind. "Oh - you should know, I've got a company retreat to go to next Friday, so you're going to have the house all to yourself that weekend." Her fork clattered softly against the plate as she looked up at me, chewing slowly, a daub of discontent in her eye. "Already?" There was a wintery disappointment in her tone. "It feels like you just had one." "It does, doesn't it?" I laughed quietly, apologetically. "But really, it's already been a year since the last one. Time flies, huh?" "I guess." Her eyes fell to the table as she pushed around a piece of tofu glumly. "Do they really need you to be there?" "Not exactly," I admitted. "But honey, we went over this two years ago, when I went the first time. There's a lot of, well, keeping up appearances in my job. I kind of need to poke my head in occasionally, look like a team player. You said that you didn't mind, or I wouldn't have started attending these in the first place." "I know, I know," she flashed a sheepish little smile that made my heart skip a beat. "I mean, I don't mind, not really. It's just..." Her sigh sent a shiver down my spine. "The house feels so lonely without you there, you know? I don't sleep well. I get - not scared," she said defensively, as though pre-empting an erroneous thought, "but fidgety. Like I go a little bit crazy without you." And she glanced at me through her eyelashes, her lips quirked in amusement. "Well, I, um." I stammered softly, my damnable mind insisting it saw flirtation on her face. "Ah, I think most girls your age would be glad to get their parents out of the house for the weekend. You could have a little party, or-" I was honestly glad when she interrupted me, a sudden energy in her expression. "Wait, hold up a minute. You said this is next Friday? A week from today?" "That's right." I nodded, took a steadying sip of my iced tea. "The sixteenth, I believe." "But that's perfect!" Emily smiled a dazzling white, wide enough for me to see the one crooked tooth on the left side of her mouth. "The school has some teacher training program thing that day - we don't have classes. I could go with you!" She looked so pleased with the idea, I knew I had to let her down gently. "I wish that were possible, sweetheart. Unfortunately, it really isn't supposed to be a family vacation. The company makes all the arrangements for the plane tickets and the hotel, and they don't want us taking our kids along." I chuckled softly. "At least, not right now. They just started making room for spouses - who knows, maybe in a year or two, I'd be able to take the whole extended family with me." "What?" Emily demanded sourly. "So you could take someone you're married to, but you can't take me?" "That's about the size of it," I nodded. "Well, that's just idiotic." She shook her head petulantly. "If they let you take someone along, it should be whoever you want." "You're quite right," I agreed with an easy unconcern. "But you can't fight bureaucracy, corporate or otherwise." With a snort of frustration, Emily turned her gaze back to her plate, idly twirling some noodles around her fork. There was a bit of empathic discomfort at her irritation, but I knew that she would recover soon enough, and I was pleased besides that everything still seemed to be set. I had high hopes at that moment. Hawaii would be my sanatorium, to cure this disease of the soul. But I felt a stab of unease a minute later as I saw the mischievous smile begin to break out on Emily's face. "You know," she began slowly, "if you're allowed to take your wife with you..." I saw immediately where this was going, and firmly shook my head, trying to cut her off. "Honey, no, that's a terrible-" Emily continued on, undeterred. "We could just say we're married, and then I'd be able to go along!" "-a terrible idea," I finished with a sigh. "Really, that's...God, I can't even express how much is wrong with that." And I buried my face hopelessly in my hands. Emily giggled at my melodrama, reprimanding me lightly. "Oh, don't be so mopey. Come on, what's wrong with it, then?" "Okay, number one, let's go with the fact that we'd be lying." Despite the seriousness of the situation, Emily's cheeky manner inspired a certain giddiness that I could not entirely suppress. "A harmless, tiny lie, to get around a rule you admitted is silly." She gesticulated broadly. "To go to Hawaii." A slight pause, then she asked "Um, it is in Hawaii again?" I nodded confirmation, and she repeated adamantly, "To go to HAWAII." "Fine, fine. Two..." I desperately tried to solidify some objections that I could actually dare to voice. "Two, you can't just say you're married. There's all sorts of official supporting information involved." "Oh, don't be absurd, daddy." Emily rolled her eyes cutely. "They're not going to ask you to fax in your marriage license or anything. At most, you might have to talk to one or two people and say 'Hi, I'm Mark West, and this is my very darling wife Emily.'" This prodded a laugh out of me. "Just like that, huh? 'Very darling' and all?" "The best lies," she intoned sagely, "are those that contain a grain of truth." More laughter bubbled irrepressibly to the surface. When Emily was happy, she simply sparkled, and it was impossible not to be elated in her presence. "God, you're terrible. Um." I shook my head. "Well, that takes us to the third problem - nobody could actually look at us and believe that we were married." "Oh?" She arched an eyebrow inquisitively. "Because nobody would buy that you would marry an unsightly little Greek-nosed girl?" Her mouth dropped into a moue, her eyes daring me to agree. "Heaven forfend," I returned drolly. "Just the opposite, in fact. It quite stretches credibility to claim that such a beautiful young woman would willingly shackle herself to an old fogey like myself. We aren't exactly a natural couple." But she had an answer for this, as well. "I'll say I married you for your money." A moment's reflective glance. "Well, not actually say it, obviously. But, um, put forth that impression. Honestly, daddy, that's not a hard one at all. I'll bet a bunch of the men at this thing have wives that are half their age." "Well..." I admitted weakly. "Exactly." With a definite smirk now, Emily drummed her fingers triumphantly against the table. "Anything else?" Running low on objections, I straightened up my expression and edged as close to the truth as I could manage. "Honestly, Emily, I just don't think it's very appropriate. Even pretending, it doesn't seem right. I'm your father, after all." "So?" She met my gaze levelly, staring me down. "It's just a little bit of play-acting. It's not like we're going to have to make out to convince everybody we're really married." "Ah..." I blanched at that, eyes nervously darting away. "I guess that's true, but still..." "Besides," she went for the jugular, "I seem to remember you promised to take me to the beach whenever I wanted. I've decided I want to go next Saturday. And not just any beach will do." "Oh, come on," I protested half-heartedly. "That is not at all the spirit in which I intended-" "You promi-i-ised," Emily interrupted musically, with a playful grin. "Unless you'd rather go back on that. And destroy every last bit of faith I've ever put in you. Your call, daddy." I clasped my temple in exasperation, but could not keep from smiling. "Sweetie, you really need to teach me how to be so charming while being so unbearable. It seems very useful." She hummed happily as she shook her head. "I'm afraid it can't be taught. It's a knack." "Well, maybe that's best, for everyone's sanity." I sighed as my hopes for cleaning my mind disappeared down the drain. "I guess I don't have much of a choice. At least I might get a nice severance package when they fire me for sneaking you in." "That's the spirit," Emily effervesced. "Focus on the positive." --- Emily's victory held her in high spirits for the remainder of the evening, and me along with her. Only after we retired did I really have the chance to worry about what it implied for me. Pretending she was my wife - there was a nervous little thrill of excitement in the idea, joined by a twofold guilt. Guilt at the romantic interest it implied, of course, the miserable failing with which I had been struggling for a week now, but also at the subtle disrespect to Irene. It wasn't that I couldn't let go. I had accepted her passing, I think, as much as a man can ever accept the loss of someone he genuinely loved. I stopped wearing my ring perhaps a year after her death; it rested now with its twin in her old jewelry box, atop my dresser. That I had not tried to find a new wife had less to do with Irene than with Emily. I had not wanted my attention and care for her to be distracted by attempts to woo some new woman. I wondered, now, if that had not been yet another mistake. Perhaps having a step-mother would have been better for her. Maybe I would not be so fascinated with her now, if I had not lacked someone to share my bed for so long. But the memory of Irene remained important to me, and this new scheme was troubling. It was as though Emily was taking on the persona of her mother, and that seemed somehow profane, even beyond the sexual implications. To masquerade oneself as the dead, as part of a petty ruse. Perhaps I was merely being too sensitive. Emily rarely spoke of her mother, and no doubt did not see this as so specific an imitation. To her, 'my wife' was a role, not a person. I shook my head and resolved to put the matter out of my mind. I had enough troubles as it was, without worrying if this pretense would arouse angry ghosts to haunt me. The week before the trip passed with surprising rapidity. I managed to avoid any further slip-ups, thanks in part to a greater caution in my behaviors towards Emily. I tried wherever possible to keep some small barrier between us; a table, a newspaper, even the bowl of popcorn when we sat down for a movie that Thursday. The bit of added psychological distance helped me keep my head. But I was always sorely tested when she swooped in for a hug, and there was nothing I could do to keep her out of my dreams. She featured in them nearly every night now. Sometimes innocently, a simple companion in the surreal wanderings of imagination. Often unabashedly lewdly, nude and writhing beneath me as I sated myself upon her body. But in the dream which bothered me most she was neither. I dreamt myself in the cathedral of my childhood, the air thick with incense, staring up at the figure of Christ on the crucifix. The sculptor must have been truly skilled, for the expression on the face of that effigy remains clearly with me to this day - at once agonized and at peace, brow heavy with the wrongs of those who came before and those who were to follow, but with eyes that forgave them all. I turned to see her, standing in the aisle, glowing with an inner light. She wore a dress of white lace, so long and layered I imagined it must have weighed as much as she did, and a veil which gauzily streamed down past her shoulders. Emily, my little girl, so lovely my heart seemed to swell up in my chest. She walked up next to me, and suddenly I saw how the cathedral was crammed full of people, every pew full of faces I couldn't quite resolve. But then, I didn't truly try. My gaze was fixed on Emily, on the small but joyous smile which graced her lips, the faint redness of her cheeks, the tiny tears in the corners of her eyes. Words blew over me like a summer wind, warm with promise, and our eyes closed shut as I leaned down to kiss her. There was no guilt in it, no racing pulse or aching soul, nor any fear at sharing this kiss before such an assemblage of people. Before God Himself. Instead, there was a feeling of peace, an overwhelming sense of rightness. It seemed in the dream that this was love perfect and pure, love as it was meant to be, as though there was no contradiction between the roles of father and lover. She was my nirvana, and I felt complete in a way that I have only briefly touched, a handful of times in my life. When I awoke, it took several minutes for those feelings of peace to fade away, for the gnawing of worry and self-loathing to clutch again at my mind. This dream in particular troubled me for its very restraint, for the purity of emotion it raised in my heart. Lust is always unreasoning; a lust that offends the senses can almost be forgiven on those grounds, that it is only an expression of the bestial in man. But this was something more than that, something deeper, and I shuddered to think what it might signify. Emily, for her part, was quite excited about the coming excursion. She purchased what seemed an entirely new wardrobe for the three-day trip, making even heavier use than usual of the credit card I had given her three years back. I spoiled her, yes - I would be among the first to admit it. But we had the money to spare, and there was nothing I liked better to spend it on than her. Normally she was only too eager to show off her new acquisitions, but this time she secreted them away, insisting with a supercilious wag of her finger that she wanted me to be surprised. Finally, Friday rolled around again, and I stood at the bottom of the staircase with my luggage at my feet, glancing impatiently at my watch. "Come on, honey, we don't want to miss our flight," I called upstairs. "It's a long drive to the airport." "I'm coming, jeez," Emily's voice drifted back, and I winced to hear the clatter as she wheeled her bag down the stairs. It came to a stop just around the landing, and I heard her announce "Okay, daddy, now close your eyes for a second." "Sweetheart, we don't have time to play around here," I protested. "Oh, the flight's not for hours yet," she chided firmly. "It'll only take a minute." I sighed and shut my eyes. Showing off her new clothes, no doubt. While Emily was hardly as obsessed with fashion as some girls, she definitely found a certain satisfaction in it. "All right, they're closed." Her footsteps twinkled lightly down the staircase and came to a stop perhaps a yard in front of me. "Okay, you can open them again." I opened my eyes, and almost didn't recognize the woman before me. "My god." I was stunned into cliché. "Who are you, and what have you done with my daughter?" Emily giggled and twirled about, the skirt of her dress flaring up a few inches. "Do you like it?" "I can't tell. I'm in shock." Emily had virtually transformed herself - she looked half a decade older, like a woman in her early twenties, and I struggled to see by what sorcery she had managed it. Her dress was the most obvious change. It was a light affair, patterned in tightly chaotic black and green, with puffy shoulder cuffs and a skirt that dropped down to just under the knee. Its neckline was mature but fairly modest, a vee that just barely touched the uppermost bulge of her bosom. Studying her face, I could see also that she had applied subtle cosmetics; her lips were a deeper red, her lashes darkened with eyeliner. Her hair was styled in artful disarray, loose midnight locks dropping down to obscure her lambent eyes. And I noted the glittering of tiny diamonds at her ears. "I don't usually like to wear heels," she confessed, raising her right foot up on its toe. "They're uncomfortable, and they're supposed to be bad for your feet. But I thought they would be a good fit for this." My gaze drifted down her leg, hesitating briefly at finely-toned calf, to take note of the charcoal pumps that raised her a good three inches from the floor. It was a sign of how radical her makeover was that I had not immediately realized how much taller she appeared. "Well, you look..." I shook my head, amazed. "You look very nice, pumpkin. Very professional. Grown up, really." "Mmm," Emily hummed as she took a step closer, a distantly floral scent wafting off of her - she'd put on perfume, as well. "What do you think, should I dress like this every day?" She did look lovely. But then, when didn't she? "I don't think you need to." Reaching out, I absently brushed an errant lock of hair to the side of her face. "You have a great natural beauty about you, honey. All this - the fancy clothes, the makeup, the jewelry - just strikes me as painting the lily. It might make you fit in better among the people who need such things to be beautiful, but to my eyes you look your best unadorned." "Aww." She smiled and bit her lower lip shyly, an endearing blush spreading on her cheeks. "That's sweet, daddy." "Well, it's true." I didn't really have anything else to say, but her gaze held me spellbound. I stood there beaming foolishly at her for a while, until my quickening pulse kicked me back to my senses. "Anyway, ah, we've got a plane to catch."