Flashback a few years – Rachael and Luke
The Mistake
How does one fuck up a perfectly good relationship? And I mean "perfect" in every way – my sister, Rachael, and I loved each other, loved fucking each other and loved hanging out, just being together. It was more than just 'good'; there wasn't an adjective that I could think of that would adequately express what we had – something beyond brilliant. In fact, I had to tear myself away to spend time with my buddies, the clan of troglodytes, to prevent them (and, more importantly, Dad) from getting suspicious. So how exactly did I fuck it up? Chalk it up to my deep rooted insecurity and a stud named Dennis Stolle. There was a bit of history so bear with me.
Subsequent to Mom's confession at the Rookery about her own past involving her brother, we had an ally at home and that was really cool. True to her word, Mom ran interference with Dad, taking him out of the house as much as she could, to give us privacy. Rachael and I took full advantage of that. We fucked every chance we got; mornings, afternoons, evenings, nights and whenever our schedules permitted. It ran contrary to logic. Instead of getting jaded (with each other), the more we fucked the more we felt the need to be together. Rachael would often skip class and call me, whispering vulgar innuendos in her little girl voice, and I would race home like a madman just so we could make love. We couldn't get enough of each other.
Mom was happy for us but with Dad, it was another matter altogether. He had his suspicions about us, or more accurately, about me. His curfew checks became more frequent and unpredictable. He would stop by Rachael's room after dinner; sometimes early and often times late, before he retired for the night, but never at the same time. If it wasn't so inconvenient, it would've been funny. Unlike my mother, Dad lacked the subtle nuances of deception. He was an open book.
He would knock and I would dive under the bed and play possum while he chatted with her about the most mundane of things.
"How was school, honey?" or "How was your day, Rach?" or "How was practice?" Anything to cover up the fact that he was really there checking to make sure she was alone. His eyes would dart with parental efficacy, scrutinizing every nook and corner or he'd wander to the bathroom and poke his head in, "We need to replace those tiles, honey, remind me, okay?" or some other ambiguous observation while making sure that I wasn't hiding in there. But he never bothered to check under the proverbial bed – the oldest of sanctuaries for those irreverent lovers! He must have thought that I was too big to fit under there.
It was obvious that Rachael was his favorite – I mean, she was blond and blue eyed like him and looked a lot like his sister who lived in Wales. And like mothers and sons, there was a Freudian closeness between fathers and daughters. I was okay with that – I understood the relationship because Mom and I were very close. No, it was nothing sexual; I took after her side of the family and was a lot like her brother, Phillip.
One day while Rachael and I were kissing, he knocked. It was really late, almost midnight, and we thought he had gone to sleep but we were wrong. His sense of paternal duty and his archaic beliefs, cemented in the societal norms of morality, drove him to maintain control and prevent this disapprobation. It compelled him to make sure that his daughter wasn't being seduced by her brother willingly or otherwise. I was obviously the villain in this Cyprian play.
"Rachael? Are you sleeping, honey?" his deep voice cut through the door, "It's your father."
Like she wouldn't know who the voice belonged to!
"Just a minute, Dad, I need to put something on!"
I waited for her to flush the toilet to camouflage the sounds of me scrambling under the bed. It wasn't very comfortable but there was just enough space for me to squeeze in. She slipped her bathrobe on, straightened the bedcovers and after making sure that there were no telltale feet poking through the bedskirt, she opened the door.
"What's up, Dad?" she asked, "It's late. I was just getting ready for bed."
"May I come in? I know, honey, and I'm sorry but it's important." He was always very proper.
My sister left the door open and walked back to the bed and sat down. From my strategic perspective on the carpet, I could see her reflection in the closet mirror but my dad was just beyond my peripheral vision. She leaned back against the headboard, pulling her knees up under her chin. My father sat down near the foot of the bed, facing her. I could tell by the placement of his feet.
"Is something wrong, Dad?" she asked.
"No, honey, nothing's wrong. I wanted to talk to you about something that has been on my mind. It's a little personal but I think it's important." He took a moment before proceeding, "Your mother seems to think that this whole thing is a phase and that both of you will grow out of it and she may be right, but I feel differently. As your father I need to make sure that both of you are okay. That neither one gets hurt. Does that make sense?"
"I think so, Dad but," she paused, "... but why would we get hurt?"
He thought about it or pretended to; knowing the professor, he had prepared well for this and every other contingency related to this. He would have had all the bases covered.
"It's like the butterfly effect. A small indiscretion today can have major ramifications tomorrow. Putting aside the moral aspect of incest, there are serious psychological repercussions – especially for you. Boys and girls are wired differently; physiologically and emotionally. It is the anthropological evolution of human sexuality, a process that has evolved over millions of years to ensure that our species will survive."
What? What the heck is he saying? The Butterfly Effect, Chaos Theory, Anthropology? This sounded like Greek to me but gaging from my sister's expression, it made perfect sense to her; like she understood every word. I definitely needed to stop hanging out with the trogs as much and expand the horizons of my reading material. I don't think Men's Health, Penthouse and Extreme Cage Fighting are going to do it.
Dad continued, "Luke is at a stage where his hormones make the decisions. It is not emotional or moral. Any girl who appeals to him and is available is fair game. As a young man, it's simple for him, have sex and move on. The more women he's with the better his chances are for his genes to be promulgated. Not literally anymore but that's how we evolved."
Now wait a minute, wait one fuckin' minute. I was tempted to wiggle out from my subterranean refuge and defend myself. Any girl? I wasn't brain dead, Dad, and neither am I totally void of emotion – you're wrong; dead wrong! And just maybe your theory regarding evolution is all fucked up!
It was like he read my mind when he resumed.
"Now, I'll admit that that is a broad generalization but I doubt I'm wrong. I was once his age so I should know. Girls, on the other hand, develop emotionally; they have to because of child bearing and rearing. They are also more likely to bond with their sexual partners. I'd hate to see you get hurt and miss out on all the wonderful experiences that are waiting there for you. You need to meet other people, other boys and figure out what it is that you are looking for in a man. This is an exciting phase of your life. Experiencing it and discovering yourself is part of human development and now, now is the time for you to do that."
They were silent. I could see Rachael, crouched over, hugging her knees, staring at the bed like she was cogitating on the spiel that Dad just laid on her. She looked so vulnerable that my heart ached for her.
