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Pool Night, Part 1 of 3
All stories on this web site are purely FICTIONAL. The people depicted within these stories only exist in someone's IMAGINATION. Any resemblence between anyone depicted in these stories and any real person, living or dead, is an incredible COINCIDENCE too bizarre to be believed. If you think that you or someone you know is depicted in one of these stories it's only because you're a twisted perverted little fucker who sees conspiracies and plots where none exist. You probably suspect that your own MOTHER had sex with ALIENS and COWS and stuff. Well, she didn't. It's all in your head. Now take your tranquilizers and RELAX.
Pool Night
It's late afternoon, I'm waiting for the girl to arrive, and
the cat is helping me make up the bed. The bed is too close to
the wall and to the dresser at the foot, so when I need to go
around it to stretch the fitted sheet up to the head I have to
bend over the bed with my back to the dresser to avoid the
windowsill next to the dresser. The cat watches until I'm
balanced in this somewhat uncomfortable position, not quite
leaning over enough to fall forward onto the bed, and then she
jumps onto the bed near the foot, dead center, holding the sheet
down to the mattress.
When I pull on the corner of the sheet she tries to catch
the wrinkles as they float away from her like waves. This action
of hers, this lying on the bed, will leave on the sheet a
wrinkled place which will stay where she is now; I want the sheet
to be completely, perfectly straight, flat, the Navaho pattern
laid out as precisely as if it were a sand painting. I worry
about the wrinkled spot even though another sheet and a comforter
will go over the sheet.
I say "Shoo" to the cat, whose name is Murphy, and she looks
up at me and meows. She's smiling, I think. I say it louder and
make a shooing motion with the backs of my hands toward her, and
she explodes off the bed and out of the room; I decide I was
foolish to arrange the furniture like this, and of the two
bedrooms this is the smaller, and why didn't I go ahead and set
up the larger as a bedroom instead of as a combination library
and office?
She doesn't bother me again, and I hear her in the hallway
playing with her gray catnip mouse; the bell on its tail tinkles,
and when the doorbell rings I stand there by the bed and wonder
how she got the little round bell to sound so loudly and rapidly.
The confusion passes, and I go to the door of the house which I
rented when my wife and I divorced. As I walk to the door I
imagine the house as it must look from an airplane: the small
house with a pool in the back taking up the entire backyard and
the tall wooden privacy fence around the pool; the front yard
stretching out to the blacktop road in front; the driveway
leading down to the road and the two large mimosa trees in the
yard, one on either side of a cast-iron loveseat painted red.
At the door is my daughter Mandy. The afternoon sun frames
her in the doorway, and when I stand back from the door to let
her in I can see the outline of her body through the light cotton
dress she wears. "Hi, Daddy," she says, and I stand for a second
looking at her before answering.
"Hey, baby," I say, and she lets me hug her and kiss her on
the crown of her head; her hair is long enough to reach her
slender hips. "I didn't expect to see you today." When I say
this she looks confused until I add, "But it's always good to
have you visit," and then she smiles and goes over to the sofa to
sit down. Her shoulders are tanned and lightly freckled. I
worry about her, that she is too beautiful, that some man will
hurt her, that she is sexually active already. Mandy is
seventeen, almost eighteen, a young woman just graduated from
high school and taking the summer off before college in the fall.
"Are you okay, Daddy? You look like you've got something on
your mind."
"I was fixing up the house a little. I have company coming
tonight." I sit down in the comfortable armchair which sits at
an angle to the sofa.
She leans forward with her hands on her knees and the
neckline of her dress falls open a bit, and I can see the upper
swell of her breasts. "Hot date, huh?" she says, and I wonder if
it's appropriate for me as her father to mention to her that I
think she should be wearing a bra under such a sheer dress. Her
mother takes care of her, I think, and then I feel better. No
less protective, just less worried.
"Yes. A date," I say. "She'll be here in a little while."
"Good for you. I'm glad you're trying to have a social
life." She looks at me and smiles. "Mom and I were afraid you'd
lock yourself up out here and never do anything."
When she says this I think how much I love her and her
mother and wish we could have stayed together. "What brings you
all the way out here?" I ask. "Just want to see your dad?"
"Yeah, mostly. And to give you a message from Mom. She
says you still need to sign those papers for me to get into
school."
I am a history professor at a small university. It is an
exclusive place, very expensive. They allow the children of
tenured faculty to attend school for half tuition, and I have to
sign a paper which states, among other things, that this is my
daughter, and yes, that I love her, that I claim her as my own.
"I haven't signed them, but I will, and you can take them with
you," I say. I have forgotten about the papers, as if signing
them is an avowal that I have wondered about the heritage of this
beautiful young woman or ever doubted my love for her. "I'll get
them for you," I say.
I go back to the larger of the two bedrooms and rummage
through the student papers on the desk; the forms I must sign are
under an essay by Monica Dodd, a sophomore in one of my just
completed spring classes. I look at the paper, which is about
George Washington's expense accounts. I sign the form which
claims, certifies, declares, states that I love my daughter. I
sign in triplicate for the academic advisement office, the
business office, the dean's office, then fold the papers
lengthwise and walk back to my daughter in the living room.
The cat is sitting in Mandy's lap when I return, and Mandy
is scratching the cat's ears. "Nice kitty," Mandy says, though I
am not sure whether she is addressing me or the cat. "How long
have you had her?"
"A couple of weeks," I say. "She was an orphan, I think. I
got her at the animal shelter." They have many cats there of all
kinds, I want to tell my daughter, and she can have one if she
wants. I will take her there to pick out a cat.
"She's sweet," Mandy says. The cat looks up at her and
smiles. "What's her name?"
"Name? I haven't given her a name yet," I say. "What do
you think?"
"Scarlett. Like Scarlett O'Hara." She rubs the cat's head
and makes kissing noises. "How do you like that for a name,
Scarlett-kitty?"
The cat doesn't seem to care one way or another, so I say,
"That's a good name. It fits her personality to a T. Yes, to a
T." I hope the cat hasn't gotten used to Murphy yet, but it is
my daughter's wish that the cat be called Scarlett.
I have the papers still; Mandy reaches over and takes them.
"I've got to go, Daddy. Kevin's taking me to a movie tonight and
I have to get ready." She stands up and the cat jumps down.
Mandy brushes black cat hair off her white cotton dress. "I'll
see you in a few days. Maybe at school, huh?"
"It's too late to start the summer session," I say. I want
her to stay and talk to me, my only child who is growing up too
fast for me to bear.
"I was going to be over there for the Earlybird orientation
next week. And besides, I can drop in and see you at the office,
can't I? Just because I want to?"
I hadn't thought of this, how she could just want to see me,
and I am glad. "Sure," I say. She reaches out to give me a hug,
then kisses me on the cheek. I ask, "Do you need any money? For
clothes or anything?" It seems a silly gesture, superficial
somehow, but it is all I can offer her except my love, and she
has that.
"No, but thanks anyhow. Mom and I went out three times in
the last couple of weeks and bought clothes. All I'm going to
need is books, and Mom says I could ask you about those."
"Certainly," I say. Books. I want to be a daily part of
her life again, but all I can do is buy books. "Well," I say.
"Well," she says, and then she is gone. The cat tries to
follow her out, but I stop her by putting my foot out, and she
shies away from the foot and goes back to her food dish in the
kitchen. I hear the crunching of the hard dry food. She is a
good cat; I should be better to her.
Just as I'm hearing the crunching from the kitchen and the
whine of Mandy's car leaving, the little foreign sports car I
bought for her last year, there is a knock at the door, and I am
standing right there, so I open the door and there is Monica
Dodd, sophomore. "Hello, Dr. Lear," she says. "I hope I'm not
too early, but you said seven-ish."
She is a pretty girl, and while I am not in the habit of
inviting students, especially pretty female students, into my
home, I did invite her here for dinner. She did well in my
class, except for missing classes on Fridays when the sun was
bright and the weather warm. Younger students will go out and
socialize on Fridays, beginning the weekend early. This was
Monica's problem, her only one, scholastically speaking. I hold
the door for her. "I'm glad you could make it," I say. "Did you
have any trouble finding the house?"
"You gave good directions. No problem at all." She is
wearing tight, very short cutoff blue jeans and a peasant-style
cotton top much like the top of the dress which my daughter was
wearing. "I met your daughter on my way in," Monica says. "Does
she go to college?"
"Would you like something to drink?" I ask. "She's starting
in the fall," I say.
"Do you have some white wine? I love white wine."
I go into the kitchen and open the refrigerator and push
aside mayonnaise and the pot of soup I cooked a few days ago.
Lying on its side against the back wall on the top shelf is part
of a bottle of Zinfandel, which I remove and open. I take two
glasses and return to the living room. Monica has found a piece
of string and is trying to get the cat's attention. When I walk
in Monica looks up at me and the cat strikes with a forepaw.
Scarlett the cat catches the string and runs away to hide behind
the couch. "Ouch," Monica says. A bright drop of blood grows on
her forefinger. "She got me," Monica says and puts the finger in
her mouth and sucks hard on it.
The girl is not seriously hurt, but while I search the
bathroom for disinfectant and bandages I wonder whether the cut
can get infected and worry about my homeowner's liabilty
coverage. In the living room again with bandaids and peroxide
and a tube of something which is advertised to speed healing of
small wounds, I attempt to administer first aid, but do a poor
job it; I ruin one bandage when the tape falls across the gauze
pad and cannot be removed. "Let me do this," Monica says, "and
you can get me a glass of wine." I pour the wine into glasses.
"It'll kill the pain," she says, and smiles.
I give her a glass. Her finger shows a neat pink band of
sterilized plastic. "I'm sorry about the cat. She hasn't gotten
used to people yet." Monica sips her wine, the bandaged finger
sticking out like a rebuke.
"Don't worry. We have six cats at home, and sometimes they
do these things." She shifts the glass to her uninjured hand and
holds the finger up to look at it. "They usually don't mean
anything by it."
"Okay. If you're not worried, that is." I, of course, am
worried. I worry about her getting an infection, about a lawsuit
over the infection, about the regents discovering that a forty
year-old professor has invited a nineteen-year-old female student
to his home for dinner and wine. I worry about my daughter, who
is just two years younger. Soon she will be living away from
home, and the world is full of dangers which I can warn her
about.
...to be continued
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