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."