A Taste of Incest - Turey (dad)

Author's note: This experimental entry in the Winter Holidays 2014 Contest is an alt.version of A Taste of Incest: Turkey (Mom) - same fictitious story but gender-swapped. All sex involves humans aged 18+. Views expressed are not necessarily the author's, who once lived in the quaint Gold Rush village of Volcano, California. Constructive comments are welcome.

*****

An Taste of Incest: A Taste of Turkey (Dad)

*****

"Got everything of yours loaded, honey?"

"All packed and copacetic, Dad. Everything's jammed-in tight. Looks like both our checklists are fully ticked. I'm ready to roll if you are."

"Hang on, then."

Aaron pressed the floor pedals, twisted the key to ignite the reliable straight six, slid the floor stick into gear, and eased off the clutch. The forty-five-year-old pickup barely lurched as they motored away from the curb. Sheryl adjusted her windwing for a faint breeze.

Damn, they don't make'em like this any more, Aaron thought. The rebuilt ex-Forest Service truck's engine purred like a tiger kitten. Restoring the longbed stepside Chevy to mint condition had been a two-year project, almost a work of desperation after Moira's death. He blinked back tears at the memories.

The wide bench seat felt empty with only the two of them.

Neat streets of suburban Sacramento faded behind them. The sun had not yet peeked over the Sierra Nevada crest; with this early start, they would be high enough in the mountains to avoid eye-burning glare when dawn arrived.

Sheryl turned the radio dial to the capitol's public station. The overnight NPR network music feed would die soon, to be replaced by local daytime programming, what her dad called Coffee-Table Classical. Better than the Geriatric Jazz infesting the evening airwaves. Bay Area radio was exciting. Sacramento radio sucked.

Dull background music as they drove and chatted was a family tradition.

---

The Wyeth family lived on traditions, especially those taking them into the Sierra Nevadas. Some were weekend or week-long camping excursions to remote National Forest campgrounds or even rough clearings beside hidden lakes to pitch tents, hike, swim, and play. Some were regular occasions. Up to Volcano village and Daffodil Hill for the spring bloom. On to Lake Tahoe for Fourth-of-July fireworks or New Year's snow play. Or past Volcano to Kit Carson Pass for quaking aspens and other tree colors at the start of autumn.

And every year, on the weekend after Hallowe'en decorations came down (weather permitting) they drove past Folsom Prison and through Placerville -- it was Hangtown in Mark Twain's day -- following the Pony Express route up Mormon Emigrant Trail and off a narrow dirt track to Panther Ridge, and turkey-hunt heaven.

That was their winter holiday tradition. Fresh wild turkey.

To Sheryl, it was all part of growing up. Trick-or-treat, then clean up, and pack up, and roll uphill. Lots of chattering and laughing on the road. Take the right camp spot. Set up housekeeping. Wait for the right time for Dad to take the Remington 20-gauge out into the brush and shoot the day's limit; he always knew where to find them. More tomorrow, and then break camp and head back home.

Tenting was the fun part. Only one tent at first, then two tents when Sheryl started primary school. She liked snuggling with her parents but she liked her own big-girl space even more.

On all their drives, Sheryl and her mom Moira traded spots on the bench seat. Moira's knees often straddled the stick shift when she sat in the middle. She seemed to enjoy that.

Sheryl tried to follow suit when it was her turn to be sandwiched. Moira always pulled her close. "That's not for young ladies," she admonished. "You'll be ready soon enough. Hey, let's count license plates! There's a Tennessee!"

Distraction is the better part of childrearing.

They made up stories as they rode.

"Look, that station wagon with Manitoba plates! They're smuggling maple syrup for the black market."

"That little girl is really a dwarf polar bear -- and she does NOT sit on the stick shift, so pay attention, young lady!"

"Look, they're turning off for Angels Camp in Calaveras County. Maybe they have a carload of jumping frogs."

And so on.

Stories increased in complexity as Sheryl grew. These drive-along stories helped tie the Wyeths together. So many girls entering adolescence disdained their families. Their fast-aging parents knew nothing, NOTHING really, of any importance, like the engrossing interplays of girl- and boy-friends. "You just don't understand!" (pout)

Not Sheryl. Stories enmeshed the Wyeths. Made-up stories, and real stories. Aaron and Moira made sure Sheryl knew her heritage, the good and bad branches of the family tree, the interesting or disgusting or insane black sheep and all. One not-too-distant uncle was a bank robber; another had been a pioneer balloonist; yet another ran a Reno brothel. Stories flowed even before studies showed such family knowledge was a major factor in offspring's self-esteem and success.

The traditions almost died with Moira. Her metastasized cervical cancer took a year to kill her. The best oncologists at the capitol's best medical centers with the latest technologies could do nothing.

A year of hoping, praying, and denying; of constant care, at home, in hospital, and finally in hospice. And another two years of mourning, and of Aaron's immersion in restoring the truck. Three years of absence. Sheryl felt like her sixteenth year onward had been bloodily cut from her life.

Neither Aaron nor Sheryl socialized much during those years of pain.

They slowly restarted the traditions when Aaron completed the restoration that summer. They drove to the Mendocino coast to watch waves and seals and to San Francisco for the World Series. The Giants won again, of course.

And now, a return to the turkey hunt. Life goes on.

---

Aaron occasionally glanced at Sheryl as they rolled. They wore similar jeans-and-flannels outfits, his overshirt a red-black plaid, hers a blue-on-pink butterfly print, and both in well-faded Levis and scuffed hiking boots. He wore a 49ers ballcap and hers said RAIDERS. Well, nobody is perfect, right?

Damn, she looked so much like her mother at that age! That long and lean stretched-hourglass body; flaming red ponytail hanging to her tight ass; eyes like jade, nose a cute button, freckles spangling her pale face and shoulders, and beyond; gems dangling from pierced ears. He sighed. No more tears.

Radio reception faded as they cut between canyons and ridges. They missed the last official Winter Storm Watch announcement; the front would move south from earlier predictions.

A good drive today. Bye-bye asphalt. Crunch the unmarked lane to Panther Ridge. Bounce the old white pickup along the rutted track. Shift the split-differential into compound low, almost as good as four-wheel-drive, to make it up a particularly steep grade. Climb through sugar-pine and Douglas-fir and red cedar swathes of forest, up to a bare ridgetop overlooking carved valleys and distant haze. Drive to a favored nook between mammoth granite boulders sheltering a rock pool.

Then, pitch camp: pop-up tents with sleeping pads and bags thrown inside; folding table and chairs; a Gaz stove to heat water for cocoa+coffee fortified with tequila (not quite legal for the girl but nobody needs to know). Talk softly, awaiting turkey time.

"...and then Professor Tahernejead tapped Jamie, her T.A., on the shoulder. She smiled and told him, 'Studies show that rectal thermometers are still the best way to take a baby's temperature. Plus, it really teaches the baby who's boss. Now, who do

you

think is boss here, and how can we establish that, hmmm?' The class cracked up. Jamie just blushed."

Aaron grunted. "Insubordination is its own reward, sure. That's what my granddad always said. He should know; he was busted often enough."

"At least in college," Sheryl said, "an uppity T.A. just gets fired, not thrown in the brig." She sipped her spicy mocha. "Sucks being right at the wrong time. Or wrong anytime."

"Granddad liked insubordination. He still managed to put in his twenty years. Never did get past sergeant-E5. Said he never wanted to be a gunny, and he made it."

"But you're proud of him anyway, yeah, Dad? He never took crap, always did what he knew was right, took his lumps like a man, and lived to brag it out."

"He was an old-school rebel, all right. I don't know if I've lived up to that role model. Don't know that I ever wanted to. It's a hard way to build a life."

"Depends on time and place, right? Didn't he say that a hero is just a lucky asshole? And a leader is just a lucky rebel. Maybe he didn't get that kind of luck, and his kind was better. For him, anyway."

Aaron resisted the urge to add more tequila to his mocha. After the shoot would be okay, but not now. Drunks and guns don't mix.

"Or maybe Granddad just knew his limitations. I've found I have different limits. And maybe you don't have any limitations at all. I'm real proud of you, honey. Proud that you're pre-med, that you take life seriously."

Sheryl blushed at her father's praise. "Yeah, it's serious. Y'know..."

"Yes, I know." He touched her shoulder. "I'm still... I can't be solid all the time. I'm just..."

She stood and bent over and hugged him. "You've been solid as a rock, Dad. But rocks crack under pressure." She squeezed tighter. "We just do what we can, what we have to; we carry on. All that sweet crap, right? What

*I*

can do is go into oncology and try to save other mothers, and fathers, and children, keep them from going through this, too."

He squeezed back. They embraced in silence. She stood and stretched. He grinned crookedly.

"You're solid too, honey. But you're also flexible. I don't know how far I can bend. But I'm trying to... loosen up. Hope I'm not too old."

"What, too old? You're not even forty. I won't

let

you freeze up. Even if I have to find girls for you to date."

"Now, honey, don't you..."

"Shush. You have no say in the matter. Didn't you learn anything from Mom, like not to argue with determined women?" She leaned toward him.

He swatted her inviting ass. "Yeah, I know better. And it looks like about time for turkeys to be out." He left his folding chair. "I'll just shift into Great White Hunter mode and go bag us some birds." He extracted the gun case behind the truck seat and loaded the Remington. "See you in a little bit, honey."

"Stay safe, Dad," she called as he walked into the scrubby brush.

One turkey per hunter per day; that was the legal limit now. They had never seen a game warden here but they still played close to the law.

POW! Aaron brought in the first bird a few minutes later and headed back out. No one would catch him with two birds at once. She could claim it as hers, if needed.

Hunting was the fun part. Plucking and dressing the bird was not, but was necessary, and she had been support squad for many years now.

POW! POW! That must have been a fast mover, Sheryl thought; Dad's aim is usually dead-on. Aaron was back a few minutes later with the day's second and last bird. Sheryl set to work while he cleaned and re-packed the shotgun.

Sheryl loaded the cleaned carcasses into the cooler to take home. Aaron built a campfire. He cracked his usual semi-racist joke.

Injun build-um small fire, keep-um warm.

White man build-um big fire, keep-um warm... hauling wood.

Ugh.

Sheryl had learned to groan quietly at such humor.

Hunting was serious work; campout cooking was not. The turkeys were for holiday feasts. Sheryl skewered ears of maize corn and juicy Polish sausages to roast over the small blaze. A smoke-stained porcelain pot of vegetable soup bubbled on the flames. A few impaled-and-roasted apples comprised dessert, washed down with hot cocoa liberally fortified with raw tequila. Yes, they dined in style.

"Does it seem extra cold to you?" Sheryl had thrown a heavy wool blanket over her shearling coat.

"Sure does. Maybe we got an old weather forecast. Wasn't supposed to get down to zero tonight." He refilled their hot cocoa and tequila blend. "We'd probably better crawl in soon." A flurry of snowflakes fell around them. "Oh crap. This weather was supposed to be all north of Donner Pass. Might get nippy here."

Might get nippy.

That was almost New England-funny.

They finished their drinks, smothered the fire, hugged goodnight, and retired to their separate tents. Sheryl pulled off her boots and climbed fully-dressed into her oversized high-loft sleeping bag. She got as warm as possible before changing into polar-fleece longjohns and heavy wool socks for the night.

---

A logical proposition: Hot cocoa and even tequila are merely forms of dirty water. People do not buy water but only rent it. Humans are water's means of transporting itself from place to place. Thus, water I/O (input-output) must balance. That is simple logic, yes?

Which is why Aaron, cold-dressed in woolies, crawled out into what would have been a near-whiteout if the sun was up. Sure, he

could

have unzipped the piss-fly in his tent bottom and drained his bladder without venturing outside. But that would have been messy and smelly and the ground there was not quite loose and absorbent enough to capture his outpouring without backflooding. So he went out to water a rock.

Flashlight? He don't need no stinking flashlight! He's been here a million times. Well, maybe with not quite so much tequila in him.

Which is why after draining his lizard Aaron did not notice the wet slickness of granite slab he stumbled on, the slick slab next to the sharply-cut rock pool, the rock pool filled with icy water.

"OH FUCK!"

Sheryl dragged herself from slumber. What?

"HELP! Help! ...help..."

That was Dad's voice! And growing fainter! What?

Sheryl grabbed her flashlight (she actually had one handy) and pushed from her tent. She swept the beam around -- and saw splashing in the rock pool. Dad! She ran to the pool's edge, careful to avoid the slick granite slab.

"Dad! Reach over this way! Dad! Give me your arm! Dad! DAD!!"

Aaron managed to push himself to the pool's edge. Sheryl strained like a third-world stevedore and pulled her father from the water.

"C'mon Dad, you can't just lay there! Get up! Get up!"

Aaron was too numbed by cold to respond. He lay limp on a bed of moss beside the pool.

Sheryl thought quickly. Dry and warm. He has to get dry and warm. Now!

She ran to the truck and pulled a tarp from the back, then to her tent for a cotton blanket. Cotton is much more absorbent than wool. She threw the tarp over her father's soaked form and crawled under it to towel him off as best she could.

"Dad, c'mon Dad, get up, you can't stay here. You'll freeze here, Dad, you'll die! C'mon, Dad!"

Aaron was not a small man; his wiry six-foot frame was scarcely taller than his daughter. He grasped at consciousness, hardly able to move by his own effort. But that effort was enough for Sheryl to boost and hold him. She pushed the tarp away and half-dragged, half-carried her father to her tent. She pushed him inside to wrap him in her heavy wool blanket and cover him with her opened sleeping bag.

Sheryl ducked out through the swirling snow to Aaron's tent. She retrieved his sleeping bag and blankets and stuffed them into her own shelter. She crawled inside and sealed up tight. She quickly zipped the matching sleeping bags together, put them aside, dug-out two pairs of wool socks from her pack, and steeled herself for the next step.

She peeled the icewater-soaked socks and longjohns from Aaron's cold, wet body and toweled him as dry as possible with another cotton blanket. She slipped socks onto his feet -- a snug fit, but workable. She rolled him onto a wool blanket and lightly covered him with the joined bags. She stripped off her own damp clothes and replaced her socks. Nothing else.

Sheryl had taken Emergency Medical Technician training before enrolling as a pre-med major at Sacramento State. She recognized hypothermia; her father needed to have his body heat boosted NOW. She knew the standard drill for dealing with hypothermia. Naked full-body contact. That was the prescription.

She unrolled her father from the blanket and rolled him into the paired sleeping bags. She crawled in with him, zipped in fully, and pulled wool blankets over them for greater insulation.

She held his icicle body tighter than she had ever clutched anyone before.

And she cried. But only briefly.

Sheryl's mind had gone into full-auto mode when her flashlight picked out Aarons's splashing. No time for panic; REACT! Now, having done all she could, she switched back to normality and allowed herself to feel.

She felt fear, and anger, and impending loss, and hope, and more fear... and determination. She would NOT lose her father, too! Failure was not an option.

She chanted softly to Aaron as she pressed and rubbed against him and massaged his thawing body and limbs.

"Dad, Dad, you're going to be okay Dad, I'll keep you warm, I'll keep you alive, I love you so much, oh Dad, don't go to sleep Dad, stay awake, stay here with me, don't go away Dad, I'll keep you warm. I love you Dad, it's all going to be okay, stay awake Dad..."

His flesh was chill but not frigid; the rock pool was not near freezing and he had not been submersed long. He was nowhere near frostbitten. He would survive, intact.

Aaron had the most wonderful dream. He was warm and buoyant, almost floating; and spicy soft flesh against his; and oh, his beloved Moira was holding him and kissing him and whispering to him, such a lovely voice; but why was she calling him Dad?

"...Moira...?" he whispered.

Sheryl suppressed her sobs. "Dad, it's me, Sheryl, your daughter Sheryl, not Mom, not Moira, I'm sorry Dad, Mom's gone, and you were almost gone too, but you're here, you're okay Dad, I'll keep you warm. I love you Dad, I love you." She pressed closer to him.

"...Sheryl? What...?"

"Dad, we're on the turkey hunt Dad, and it's snowing, you fell into cold cold water and you could have died, oh Dad you would have died, but I pulled you out, and the only way to keep you alive is to keep you warm, and I'll keep you warm Dad, I'll keep you alive, oh Dad I love you."

Damn, he thought groggily. Damn. She felt like Moira, smelled like Moira, sounded and kissed and held him like Moira, but she's not Moira, she's Sheryl, but she's so much like Moira, oh damn, oh damn...

"Dad! Stay here Dad, stay with me, don't fade on me, I love you Dad, stay here."

A guttural croak. "Yes, yes Sheryl, it's you, I know you, I love you too honey, oh god, it's just so... oh Sheryl, oh Moira, no no, oh Sheryl, you've got to-"

"I've got to stay right here. I'm not going anywhere. Oh Dad..."

Aaron was very aware of his daughter's beautiful breasts warming his chest, and her slightly-trimmed muff brushing his pubes, and her strong but soft arms wrapped around him and stroking him. And her stiff nipples, and his. And her face pressed to his. And her lips. And her tongue, right on his.

They kissed. Not a father-daughter kiss. A lovers' kiss. A kiss such as he had not felt since before Moira crumbled. With a strength Sheryl had not seen in him since then.

That strength did not last long. The cold had drained his energy. He fell into dreamland with his lips pressed to his daughter's.

---

Sheryl felt her father asleep and warm. She slipped out of the sleeping bag and pulled on dry longjohns. Damn, she had to piss! She donned her coat and mud slippers and dashed outside for her own rock-watering. She took her flashlight, of course.

The winter storm front had passed. Overhead were clear, cold, starry skies; underfoot, the thin snowfall powdered the ground. The track where she dragged Aaron from the rock pool was only slightly filled.