In for a Penny

I wet my hands in the sink a bit before drying them on my shirt. As I finished rinsing up, I stared at myself in the mirror for a moment. Something was off but I couldn't put my finger on it. I chalked it up to what had just happened down the hall and what was surely post-nut clarity.

I felt shame, and embarrassment, but I also felt... grown? Womanly? Devilish? Selfish? I fought trying to find a single word to describe the myriad emotions toiling and roiling in my head.

But still, there was something else. Something left unsettled, like I was forgetting something.

Oh well it'll come to me, I thought as I pushed my hair back from my face and teased it a little bit, or it won't.

I flipped off the light as I left the bathroom and made my way downstairs. I checked the clock in the kitchen as I passed and saw I still had a couple of hours before day break.

Entering the living room and sprawling across the couch, I was asleep before I could pull the throw blanket over me.

When I woke, subdued sunlight was flooding the room through the curtained windows. I remained still, basking in the pride of last nights accomplishments while bathing in the shame of how I accomplished them.

After a few moments, I swung my legs off the couch as I sat up, feeling the tacky sensitivity and soreness between my legs. It reminded me of the nights when petting myself turned to full on penetration, but magnified.

I could definitely tell my sex had been worked.

I sat there a while longer, listening for sounds from within the house, trying to decide what to do now.

As near as I could tell, all was silent. If I strained, I was almost sure I could hear Mr. Matheson still snoring. I told myself this was the prime opportunity to escape. I could leave now and with any luck, he'd never even know I had been there.

But I knew that wouldn't be right. I was putting myself before him.

Despite what had happened last night, as wonderful and wrong as it was, he was still a hurt man. A broken man. Depressed. A man who had lost all he held dear. A man on the edge.

If I ran away now, trying to hide from my shame, and something happened to him, if he did something to himself, would I ever be able to forgive me?

The choice was obvious. Coffee. I needed coffee.

I made my way to the kitchen and started a pot to brewing before sitting down at the table to wait for it to finish. I pushed my hair back and held my face in my hands with my elbows on the tabletop.

I tried to force myself to succumb to the disgrace of what I had done, but I think I felt more shame for the fact that I felt no shame. I had enjoyed what happened last night tremendously, just not the circumstances that it happened under.

The coffee finished percolating and I poured a cup and added sugar. I opened the 'fridge for the creamer and took note of what else was there. Enough for a meager breakfast, I considered.

After adding the creamer, I opened the breadbox on the counter and found a half loaf that hadn't molded yet. Sipping at my coffee, I removed it and went to retrieve some eggs and that half empty pack of bacon I saw from the refrigerator. We have a meal, I thought as I set about making it.

I baked the meat on a cookie sheet in the oven while I made scrambled eggs in a skillet on the stove top. I readied the bread in the toaster to toast when the eggs were nearly done.

I was pulling the bacon from the oven when I heard creaking coming down the stairs and my heart stopped. Here came the moment I had been dreading.

Would he be furious? Discombobulated? Oblivious?

I was getting a coffee cup down for him when he rounded the corner. He didn't seem shocked to see me in his kitchen, cooking. He didn't seem elated about it, either.

"Coffee?" I asked as I brandished the mug at him. I wondered if he could see how fast and hard my heart was beating, because it sure felt like it was about to pound itself free from my chest.

He was in the same t-shirt and boxers he was in last night. I tried not to notice his penis sticking out the left leg.

"Uhg," he grunted as he waved his hand in front of his crotch. His penis was gone, having been tucked back or stuffed up or whatever he did to make it go away. I was thankful.

His hair was flat on one side and wild on the other, one eye was shut, his mouth was stuck somewhere between a yawn and a word.

"Black, right?" I asked, forcing myself to break the silence as we stared at each other.

"Uh, yeah," he muttered as he shambled to a chair and sat down. "Uh, what?"

"Hmm?" I tried to act nonchalant as I poured him his cup. I tried to act like it was completely normal and natural to wake up with a hangover and find your daughter's best friend in your kitchen making breakfast

My mouth was dry. My pussy too. I was scared, scared enough that my hand shook as I poured. I prayed he didn't notice it.

"Um, what?" he repeated himself.

"What's that?" I asked him.

"What're you, um, what're you doing?"

"Making breakfast, Dad!" I laughed as I bent and pecked his cheek. He winced.

Too much! Reel it back, bitch! I screamed at myself and tried to cover my thought with another laugh.

"Last, last night," he stumbled over his words. "I, I called, you?"

"Yeah!" I said it too quickly and loudly, causing him to wince again. I was just excited that he was having trouble remembering how the evening began, let alone what followed.

"Yeah, uh, I don't, I don't," he stuttered as he began looking around the kitchen. "I think I was drinking."

"Yeah," I forced myself to say it quieter this time. "You were pretty sauced when I got here. I had to wrestle the whiskey away from you." I smiled at him over my shoulder as I fixed him a plate of eggs and bacon and toast.

"Yeah, I don't," he started muttering and trailed off.

"It took some doing but I finally got you upstairs and in bed. I slept on the couch. I didn't want to leave you alone." I sat his plate in front of him.

"Alone," he whispered as he hung his head.

Oh God why did I say that!? I cursed myself for the abrupt reminder that his wife and daughter had left him.

I was stuck for what to say that wouldn't make me sound like I was offering pity. I came up short so I simply put a reassuring hand on his shoulder. He shrugged it off. I tried not to be hurt by that as I turned away to make my own plate.

"But I, uh, I had this, this dream," I heard him say from behind me.

I stopped moving, stopped breathing, waiting in frozen anticipation for his next words. It was agony.

"Oh yeah?" I asked over my shoulder, trying to prompt him into speaking again.

You had a dream, but I had a dream come true. I giggled silently to myself before I cursed my own callousness.

"I dreamt, I dreamt Tiff came home," he said quietly.

I finished piling my plate and sat down opposite him at the table. He hadn't made a move to touch his food, still sitting there with his hands under the table while he leaned over it.

As I began scooting in my chair, he brought his hands up. They were holding my turquoise bonnet.

"But it wasn't a dream, was it?" He asked softly as he presented me with my own hair wrap.

My hands were on my head, feeling for my bonnet, before I could stop them. I forced myself to lower them to the table as I looked away from him. My heart had stopped, my throat had closed, my brain flat lined.

I thought 'scared stiff' was just some old expression, but that's exactly what I was.

"Look at me, Sammy," he commanded sternly, belying the frailty he had exhibited moments before.

I couldn't.

"Look at me!" He yelled as he slammed his fist on the table making all the dishes, and me, jump.

I struggled with everything I had to turn my eyes back to him as I sat there holding my elbows. When I finally managed to do so, they were welling with tears.

"I, I'm sorry," I whispered so quietly it came out a squeak.

"Oh my God," he whispered back. "Oh my God!" He sprang from the table so quickly and abruptly that his chair fell over backwards. "Oh my Gaw-!" He tripped over it as he tried to back away from me and went sprawling to the floor in a flash of flailing limbs.

"Daddy!" I screeched as I leapt up and rushed to him.

He had fallen backwards over the chair and was lying half on it and half on his side. He was kicking and clawing at the floor trying to get his feet under him.

As I knelt beside him and offered my hands and arms for balance, he rolled and began kicking in the opposite direction, trying to scramble away from me. He managed to get himself up on his rear, shoving the chair aside as he did so, and used his feet to scoot away from me.

His eyes rolled wildly in his sockets, like a frightened wounded animal caught in a trap, as he flailed about. His jaw and mouth were working, producing a strange gurgling moaning as he waved an arm at me, as if to ward me away.

I was beyond hurt, rejected and dejected, by the sheer terror on this man's face.

"What... what did you do!?" He wailed at me, his eyes unable to focus as he continued scooting back. "What did you do, Sammy!? Oh my God what did you do!?"

"Dad... Dad!" I yelled as I walked on my knees toward him, trying to snap him out of his hysteria with my voice. He kept kicking with his legs, trying to get then under him, but managed only to scoot back until he hit the cabinets.

"No! Oh God! Oh God!" He kept waving his arm while shaking his head from side to side, refusing to look at me. "You're, you're my daughter's, you're my daughter's... you're just a little girl!" He cried out, wailing almost incoherently, as he slid against the cabinets to escape me. "What did you do!?"

I was a hurricane of emotions, hurt and scared, angry and empathetic, as I crept closer to him with my arm up to guard my face should he begin physically lashing out at me.

"Dad! Daddy, stop! Stop it!" I screamed over his howling as I neared him. "We, stop! We didn't do anything wrong! Stop it! Dad!"

"Stop calling me that!" He screamed back as his eyes focused on me for just a split second before rolling wild again.

"Da-Thomas!" I corrected myself mid scream as I tried to grab his face in both my hands while dodging his flailing arm. "Look at me, look at me!"

We started slap-fighting with our hands, what would have been comical had I not been a participant, as he tried to push me away. He was weakened by his hangover and lost stamina quickly, finally giving up and letting my take hold of his head.

I turned his face to mine but he squeezed shut his eyes, refusing to look at me.

"No no no no," he moaned as he gulped breaths. "This can't, I didn't mean, oh God, this is bad. This is so bad!" His frantic wailing had become low groaning as he tried again to thrash his head free from my grasp. I held firm.

"Shh, shh," I hushed at him trying to sooth and still him. "We didn't do anything wrong," I said softly. "We didn't do anything wrong."

"Any-anything wrong?" He asked as he cracked open his eyes. They were wet and red with fear and rage. "How, how can you say that? We, we..."

"We shared a moment, that's all." Now that I had him calmed down a bit, I realized I didn't have any words to fix this. I tried to bite back the panic rising in my throat and convey confidence as I assuaged him. "We shared a moment we both needed and, and, no one ever has to know."

"A moment, needed, share, what?" His eyes snapped open and he looked at me with so much anger, so much fury, my heart cracked. "No! No! You! You-?"

"Okay! You're right, okay?" I knew what he was trying to say through his spluttering. "You're right, I took advantage. I took advantage of you and I'm so sorry."

Every whirling emotion I had been feeling instantly became regret and solidified in my throat. I choked on it. The tears that had been leaking from my face became streams as I tried to hold back my sobs.

"I'm so sorry," my voice cracked as I whispered at him. "Daddy, I'm so so sorry." I dropped my hands from his face and let them fall to my lap as I sank back and sat there, like the giant pile of shit I was.

"Get, go away, get away from me," he growled. His panic and fear had become steadfast rage.

"Da-Thomas," I whimpered. "Please... I, I, I'm s-."

"No!" He pushed away from me again, sliding across the cabinets even more. "Get out! Get out of my house!" He yelled as he rolled to the side and, clutching the edge of the counter, got his knees under him.

I made no move to either help him up or hold him down. I just sat there with my shoulders shaking, succumbing to my sobbing.

"Get out!" He screamed as he scrambled up the cabinets and onto his feet. "Get out! Go away! Go away and don't you fucking ever! Come! Back!"

"Daddy, no! Plea-!"

"STOP CALLING ME THAT!" He bellowed so loud I could feel the vibrations in my bones. "GET OUT!"

I tried to look up at him but I was blinded by my tears. I was hitching and wailing uncontrollably. I felt a snot bubble pop on my face. I wished I was dead.

I could see only a watery blur of movement before I felt his fingers dig into my shoulder. I wailed and tried to pull away, but he was already dragging me across the kitchen floor.

I twisted, clawing at his arm, trying to stop him. But I only ended up on my knees and hand, crawling frantically behind him and trying to lurch to my feet as he threw me out of his life.

"Please! No! No! Please! I'm sorry! I'm sorry Daddy! Don't!"

He jerked me to my feet as he opened the front door. I grabbed at the threshold, trying to brace myself, trying to grab at anything that would anchor me.

He pushed me out onto the porch before I could stop him. I stumbled, caught myself, and heard the door slam behind me. I whirled around as the deadbolt clacked into place.

I pounded on the door with my fists. I kicked at it, hurting my toes. I tried to plead and beg him to open it but everything I screamed came out as unintelligible yells and banshee wails.

Eventually, after I pounded my fists raw and cried myself dry, I gave up.

I turned around to face the street, lifting my wet puffy face to the warm late morning sun, and drew in a deep ragged breath. I decided there was nothing to do now but go home, crawl into bed, and wait to die from despair.

The door opened behind me.

My heart leapt from my throat with elation as I whirled on my heels and prepared to dash against his chest and feel him crush me in his steel cable arms.

The door was only open a crack, his hand sticking through holding my purse. He let go and it hit the wood with a thunk. The door shut as I stared at my handbag. The deadbolt clacked again. It sounded like a casket being closed. The finality of the silence that followed roared deafeningly in my soul.

I dropped to my knees, laying my hands on my purse, and sat there dry-hitching with racked sobs at the damage I had done to the both of us.

After a tiny eternity, I got up, got in my car, got home, got in bed, and stayed there for a long long time.

* * *

"Girl," my mother's voice made me jump so hard I dropped the picture. I immediately hid my embarrassment with my hand to my face as I turned away from her. "Ya gonna ruin that picture you keep cryin' all over it."

"Yeah," I sniffled as I wiped at my cheeks and rolled my eyes in an effort to dry them. "Yeah, sorry Mama." I cleared my throat and tried to force a chuckle.

"Oh hey!" She exclaimed as she picked up the photograph that had fluttered to the floor. "I remember this!" She halfway handed it back before pausing to study it a bit more. "That was, yeah, a long time ago," she said softly as her own memories rose in her mind.

"Yeah," I whispered and cleared my throat again. I held out my hand to take the picture from her. "Yeah, I'm just getting carried away with myself out here. Sorry."

"Don't be," she tried to force a smile as she tentatively handed it back to me. "Careful. It's wet, but then what's a memory without a few teardrops on it, eh?" She laughed, but it was sorrowful and somber. "Shame, everything that happened."

Her eyes met mine and I could see they were shimmering with their own wetness.

"Yeah," I conceded as I tucked the photo back in my yearbook, and the book back on the stack. I still wasn't sure if it was going in the trash or not. "So, uh, like," I stuttered a bit. I wanted to ask if she knew anything about what had happened with the Matheson's, if they were even still around. But I also wanted to let that dog sleep, too.

I had buried my childhood in these boxes and left it all behind. No good was going to come from unpacking all that baggage now.

"Your father's grillin'," she announced as she wiped her hand on her pants, as if to wipe away the residual sadness left by the picture. She scanned around the garage as she ignored the question I had been skirting."Nothin' fancy, just burgers," she said before putting her arm around me and kissing my temple.

"Yeah, Dad doesn't do 'not fancy' when it comes to the grill," I forced a smile and returned her hug.

"Take a break and come eat, maybe tell us why we ain't got no gran-babies yet." She squeezed hard before letting go and turning back to the door.

"'K Mama," I said as I rolled my eyes at her back.

"Keep rollin' them eyes girl, I'ma slap ya so hard they stay that way!" She called over her shoulder as she disappeared inside. How does she always know?

I shrugged with a sigh as I turned back to the box. I decided it could all go in the trash, but I should keep the photograph. I felt it would be wrong not to.

I retrieved it from between the pages of the yearbook, taking care not to look at it, and set it aside for the 'keep' pile. The book went to the box that was bound for the landfill.

I picked up the remaining stack of annuals to add them as well. When I stood, my Sophomore edition slid off the top and hit the floor, expelling a large dogeared envelope onto the concrete.

My mind told me to kick it away and forget it before I could think too much about it, but it was already too late. I sat the books back down and picked it up.

Though the address had faded with the passage of time, the name 'Sammy,' in Mr Matheson's blocky penmanship, was still easily legible.

I didn't have to open it to remember what it said. I didn't have to open it to remember when I had gotten it, or what had happened after.

But I opened it anyway, just like I opened my mind to the memory.

If I'm in for a penny, I'm in for a pound.