Neighborhood Dad

This is a new venture for me. This story is about developing characters and building attachments.

This is not a quick wham-bam sex story. In fact, there is no sex at all in this chapter, but I hope the story still entertains. If you like the story, please cast a vote.

*

"Hey, Dad!"

"Hi, Dad!"

"What's up, Coach?"

Thump, thump, thump, thump, thump.

Thud.

It was an afternoon routine I'd come to rely on over the years. My daughter, Paige, coming into the house after school followed by anywhere from one to five friends. Tromping up the stairs, then the slam of her bedroom door. Usually followed by lots of giggles.

It was the sound of normalcy.

Paige was always an outgoing child, making friends easily, and the group more often than not wound up at our house. Even when her mom became sick -- no, especially when her mom became sick -- the noise meant that everything was as it should be.

Beth and I had planned on three kids, but after Paige was born, Beth's health first became an issue. So while we had only one child, it always felt like more.

"Doesn't all that laughing and squealing drive you crazy?" asked Lori's dad.

"No. I always know where they are."

Lori was Paige's best friend and such a frequent guest that she called me her second dad.

When Beth succumbed to leukemia three years ago, I wondered if the visits might cease. Would parents feel safe letting their teen-age daughters sleep over in the house of a single man? But Beth had been their Brownie troop leader, and I coached their youth league basketball team. After all this time, the girls were part of the family, and I never felt any awkwardness around them.

"Dad, can we order a pizza?"

My study door was open, so she knew it was okay to holler down the steps. When the door is shut, I'm working on a magazine article and don't want to be disturbed.

"Just one? Am I gonna get a slice this time?" I asked, turning from my computer to yell back.

"Okay, I'll get two."

"Oh, and honey --"

"We know, Mr. D," interrupted Lori. "Yours'll have black olives."

Forty minutes later, the doorbell rang, and like Pavlov's dog, my mouth watered. I rose from my seat and headed for the door. It swung in to reveal a beautiful young woman with dark brown hair, green eyes and a sultry mouth that pulled into a smile. I reflexively said hi, then my eyes took a quick peek down at her T-shirt: a modest neckline, but a clingy design showed off perky breasts.

After she answered my greeting, I regained myself quickly and reached for my wallet. "Um, we usually pay up front on my Visa. Do you have a receipt?"

"Uh, what?"

Then I noticed she wasn't carrying pizza boxes -- and that she was wearing shorts that showed off nicely shaped calves.

"You're not the pizza guy, are you?"

She laughed, a regular sound, not the higher giggles of my many daughters. "Wrong on both counts. I'm Miranda, but you can call me Randi."

I smiled until a discomforting thought interjected. I knew all of Paige's friends, so this couldn't be a high school girl. But then again, senior year had just started ... .

"Do you go to East with Paige?"

"Yeah, I do. Just moved here, trying to make new friends."

I realized I was still standing in the doorway like a bodyguard. "Oh, come on in. We were just about to eat."

"Lemme guess, moo goo gai pan and pork-fried rice?"

It was my turn to laugh. I started to close the door behind her when I heard a car approaching.

"Now that would be our pizza guy. Go on up to her room if you want. At the end of the hall."

She headed up the stairs with my eyes following the movement of her firm butt cheeks. Left, right, left, right.

Jesus, Henry, I thought. Get your mind out of the gutter; she's just a kid.

We don't have a dining room, just a small table in the kitchen. The kids seldom eat there with the TV room upstairs. The girls filled plates and headed off, while I came along behind; Dad the Vulture eating what's left.

While refilling my plate half an hour later, feet shuffled down the hardwood hall. I paused while shutting the box as Randi eased into the room. Her earlier shirt had been replaced with a stomach-revealing baby doll crop top.

"Don't close it; I like black olives."

"About time we had someone around here with refined taste," I said with a smile. My eyes were drawn to her belly button, but I forced them down onto my loaded plate.

As she lifted a slice, she said, "Sounds like you do this a lot."

"Hey, not always. Sometimes I cook."

"No, no. I meant have people over. And I can see why -- that upstairs is awesome."

"Yeah, sometimes when we watch movies, I go up there because it's nicer."

"You're a pretty cool dad, Mr. Donaldson."

I chuckled. "Except for that long, clumsy name. Most of the girls call me Mr. D for short. I like short. I insisted on Paige because it was just one syllable. Thought about shortening it to just Puh but I figured that would just confuse her teachers."

She laughed again, that melodic sound, then turned on one bare foot and left. I was surprised to find my face reddening and reminded myself that she had barely turned 18.

Randi was right: the upstairs is awesome. When Beth had trouble making it up and down the steps, I converted the downstairs dining room into our bedroom. There were two small bedrooms and one master bedroom upstairs, so I had a contractor knock out the wall between the two smallest ones to create an entertainment area. It has a 42-inch flat-panel TV, surround sound, sofa, easy chair and beanbag chair. It's no wonder that the girls always want to come to our house.

I make do downstairs with the old gigantic 32-inch Sony picture tube TV that's deeper than it is wide and a recliner. Sometimes I doze off there, and Paige wakes me up to go to bed.

The girls must have been watching some romantic comedy upstairs because I didn't hear any screams like during the horror films. In the relative quiet, and the boring cop show in front of me, my eyes closed.

Paige's soft hand touched my shoulder. "You should go to bed," she whispered at my left side.

I looked up to see my daughter's blonde hair and blue eyes, but was met instead by Randi's green eyes. I jolted sideways in the car, and the remote clattered to the floor.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to frighten you," she said, sliding more into view and leaning in to put a hand on my forearm.

I wasn't scared, at least not in the way she meant. No, it was because in my brief nap I'd been sitting by a pool when Randi pulled herself up by the ladder, water dripping off her sun-glistening skin. The dream was a little unnerving itself, then seeing her right there when I awoke made it worse.

And then I noticed that with the way she was leaning forward, her top was drooping slightly. I could see the tops of her breasts, but I couldn't quite see low enough to catch a glimpse of her nip—

"Are you okay?"

Shit. Did she catch me peeking? I shook my head briskly like a dog in a bathtub. "Sorry. I uh ... was pretty out of it."

I was afraid to look her in the eye because she might see the guilt on my face, so I rubbed my eyes like I'd been asleep for ages.

"I thought you might get a crick in your neck sleeping in a chair."

"It wouldn't be the first time -- sleeping here or getting a crick." I leaned away from her, over the right side of the recliner and pulled the handle letting the footrest down. "Shouldn't you be asleep, too, or are the girls keeping you awake?"

It might not have registered with Randi, but I couldn't help but notice how I'd mentally separated her from "the girls" upstairs. I was having a very hard (pun slightly intended) time thinking of her as just another daughter.

"Yeah, I mean, they went to sleep, but I guess I'm still getting comfortable being in a new place. And I don't mean anything bad about your house; it's rough switching schools for your senior year."

"I imagine so," I said, standing up slowly and turning to my right, which, I mean to say, was away from Randi -- I had a little bit of wood from that short dream and worried that my pants might bulge slightly. I was pretty sure I'd made it behind the recliner before she could see anything.

"Feel free to help yourself to a midnight snack."

With that I began to head for my room, telling myself not to look back over my shoulder for one more glance. But she exclaimed, "Oh wow, you play guitar?" She slid across the room to where my Yamaha acoustic sat on a stand. I took the moment to adjust my underwear.

"I really wanna learn how to play one of these someday."

"People say that, then they find out how hard it is, how much you have to practice, and they move on to the next infatuation."

"You saying I can't learn?" There was a certain steely glint in her eyes. I raised my hands in surrender.

"My apologies. If you want to do something, don't let anyone talk you out of your dreams."

"Thanks," she said, that sudden tension in her stance easing up. "I can't stand when people tell what I can't do."

"Perseverance and determination will always rise to the top," I said. "I think that was Churchill, or maybe Vince Lombardi. Possibly Jimmy V." Shut up, you're babbling.

"Jimmy V? Who is that, some Chicago gangster?"

I chuckled. "No, basketball coach." After a pause, I asked, "So, ever try?"

"Coaching basketball?"

"No, to play guitar. Go ahead and pick it up. It ain't gonna bite."

"No, no. I've tried before. Why don't you play something? Please?"

I was just about to protest, to say something about it being late, but then she said please with those deep, emerald eyes and ... I never stood a chance.

"Okay, but just one, and then we both gotta get to bed."

"Deal."

I picked up the Yamaha and sat down in a cushioned parson's chair I keep in the room because it doesn't have arms to bang the guitar. She sat down in the recliner, but near the edge with her hands on her knees.

After flexing my left hand a couple of times, I slid up the neck and began an old James Taylor song. When I reached the chorus, I heard her join in on "I've seen fire and I've seen rain." Rather than continue on with the next verse, I stopped.

"Nice voice. You know that old song?"

"Of course, it's a classic. And you do it really well."

"Thanks."

"My grandma is a big James Taylor fan."

"Grandma? Now I'm feeling very old."

"You're not old. You look a lot younger than my mom. How old are you?"

"I'm 38."

"You're 38? My mom is 44; you look like a kid next to her. But wait, if Paige is 18, then—"

"Paige's mom and I were high school sweethearts. She got pregnant during our sophomore year of college. We got married after finals that May. We had 15 great years together."

I suddenly missed Beth strongly. I stood up and replaced the guitar on its stand.

"I think it's time I called it a night."

"Yeah, sure. Oh hey, I hear you're a coach, too. Maybe you could coach me to play."

"Maybe so. Good night, Miranda."

"Night, Mr. D."

I lay in bed that night thinking not of Randi's perky breasts, but of how much I wished I could be with Beth again.

She was the mature one in the bunch. I was this silly college kid always making jokes and doing just enough schoolwork to maintain B's and C's.

When she said she was pregnant, I felt this chill run through me, but I never considered making a run for it. I knew how much I loved Beth, and I knew somehow things would be okay because she was there. She would hold us together and help me grow up.

The worst nightmare I've ever had wasn't one of those where someone is chasing me or I'm fighting for my life. No, the worst came about a year into our marriage after Paige was born. I dreamed that I came home from work to find an empty house. I looked everywhere but couldn't find either of them. Walking around the yard, I decided to check the mailbox and found a Dear John letter.

I woke sobbing and was completely inconsolable for a couple of minutes even as she held me and told me everything was going to be okay.

She was the strong one, the grownup. And since she'd passed away, I felt old. Not just older, but old -- like the fun that made life worth living had gone out of the world.