Message-ID: <40541asstr$1043140207@assm.asstr-mirror.org> Return-Path: X-Original-Path: not-for-mail From: johndear@softhome.net (john) X-Original-Message-ID: Content-Transfer-Encoding: 8bit NNTP-Posting-Date: 21 Jan 2003 04:08:41 GMT X-ASSTR-Original-Date: 20 Jan 2003 20:08:41 -0800 Subject: {ASSM} (Revision) Of Things No Longer There by johndear Date: Tue, 21 Jan 2003 04:10:07 -0500 Path: assm.asstr-mirror.org!not-for-mail Approved: Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d X-Archived-At: X-Moderator-Contact: ASSTR ASSM moderation X-Story-Submission: X-Moderator-ID: gill-bates, dennyw Author: johndear Title: Of Things No Longer There Summary: A precocious teen plays matchmaker for her father. Keywords: love story Length: 1,931 words Copyright: c. 2002 Of Things No Longer There by johndear Mona watched him hesitating at the curb. Looking lost instead of left-and-right, as if he'd suddenly forgot his name or azimuth, as if a passing motorist had splashed him with senility. "Come on." He'd need a prod, she thought. Patrick wasn't old. Forty wasn't ancient, duh? Not sick, just easily distracted. "Dad?" She tried to take his hand while watching for a gap in traffic, missed, and grabbed instead his stump, the remnant of an index finger. "Go!" * * * * * When she was five, it frightened her. If Patrick gestured with his stubby pointer, she'd shriek in horror, flee into the kitchen where she'd hide by Mother's legs and stare. "Mona? Come play puppets. I see you." Mona closed her eyes and made it go away. "Patrick! Jesus! Stop it! You're scaring her to death." Retreating to his work, she'd watch it twitch in misplaced memories: a signature, a home-row "j", a pinioned shoelace loop. In awe, entranced, an insect to its flame. When ten, she'd frightened others. Bragged in secret how the chainsaw growled that day, how shreds of flesh and pink had drawn an oval on the side of her garage. She'd led her friends into his study, interrupted lesson plans with pleas for cash or silly favours just so they could glimpse the absent finger. Even patted it with, "Thanks," aware her friends would wince and think her brave. At twelve, it was a fetish. Cat-like she'd snuggled on the couch while Daddy watched the news. She'd arched herself in ways that brought the wound against her chin or hair or knee while sparks of energy ignited. In bed, she'd dreamed the scar against her thigh or drizzled down her budding chest. She'd closed her eyes and sucked the knuckle of her thumb the way they did on MTV, pretending wild, clandestine touches. * * * * * Now seventeen, Mona's grasp on Patrick's half-a-finger held no mystery at all. It was a part of Dad, no more no less than his unruly cowlick, his heavy, black moustache, his gentle voice or awkward shyness with his students or his peers. "Are we doing this or not?" She pulled him to the sidewalk from the street before she loosed her grip. A Sunday shopping spree down by the harbour. Fish. But heavy crowds and soaring heat had turned them toward the waterfront aquarium. "We'll get the salmon after. 'Kay? You took me as a kid." "It's cool in there," he'd answered. They'd clattered down the wooden steps. They'd crossed the busy road. They'd queued for tickets. "The heat. Makes it hard to concentrate. Right, Mona?" "Oh, right. Duh. Winters? You're just as bad then, Dad." "I'm fine." "You know? What you need is..." The labyrinthine corridor absorbed her thought, lit by tanks of lionfish and crabs and octopi, the flash of neon, the zebra luminescence that danced through artificial night. Magic. Too magical for words. A tap upon a shoulder, a point, a nod rekindled wonder in each window on a world not theirs, not there. It happened by the seahorse tank, a massive aqua-column at the end of Building One. Refracted seaweed streamers swayed as if to music. Seadragons, ragged centaurs, danced in perfect time, a miracle of camouflage. Mired in silence, the couple stood and spotted creatures with a widened eye or parting of their lips, oblivious of others in the crowd nearby. "Mr. Worthy!" A woman's voice. Young. Mona knew at once it was a student, past or present. It always was some student. "'Member me?" The girl was tall. A piercing in her nostril caught a glimmer from the tank. Gold tumbled to her shoulders, as stunning as the fish. "Connie? How's it going?" Her father reached his damaged hand to greet her. She took it, warmly, covered it with hers and hugged it to her midriff like a kitten lost, now found. "This must be Mona." She turned her flashing eyes to scrutinize the daughter. "It's so crowded here. Check out the seals. 'Kay?" They exited the alcove; her father introduced them. Constance Ewing. He smiled and added, "Constant Irritation, is closer to the truth. How's college?" "Hard. Not as good as English Twelve with you. I miss you, Mr. Worthy." "Try 'Pat'?" A smile. "This isn't school." Mona walked between them, less keen about the murres and puffins, aware of drama at her side. "Pat... I'm cool with that." She'd said her father's name as if she'd slid it from an oven, warm, swaddled in a napkin, oozing scents of flour and yeast and cinnamon. Patrick to his daughter: "Connie was a year ago. The best. The best at writing, I can honestly recall. The best at thinking, too." Oh, wow! The best! Her father didn't flatter; he said things straight. The best? Mona eased herself along the rail alone to watch the otters paddle on their backs. Saw instead her father and the girl, laughing in their past. The best? He's old enough to be your freaking father, slut. No. Don't get jealous, girl. Just think. The best! Just put it all together; get it right. He's peeking. Looking at me like I'll prob'ly have a cow. Be cool, just think, she ordered. Laughter from the otters at her dad and Connie Ewing. She'd learned the formula from him. He said it channelled one's perspective; it loosened up the mind. When things get crazy, find two positives, two upsides to your prob. Then, find two ways to make things better. Not gripes; solutions. Don't pick the obvious, he'd said. Just do it, said the ads. Positives? Well, number one: her mom. Or lack thereof. He's starved. Well, yes. For sex. No wonder he goes catatonic now and then. * * * * * She'd solved the puzzle of her mother early on. She'd assembled it with care, without her father's help. Cameos of lunch in second grade. Her mother's cotton blouse. No bra that day. How strange? Buttoned crooked so the tails hung out of synch. Her points pushed out the cloth. The plumber's going to eat with us, sweetheart. Forgot his sandwich, so it seems. And tools and truck, the child observed with dread. Laid his hand on mother's knee as Mona eyed the patterns in her soup. Nancy Drew: The Midnight Meetings. Committees kept Mom busy after hours. Weekends often, too. While Patrick did his marking, Mother took the car. Lavender would linger at the door where Mona sat and dressed her Barbies late at night before they slept. Early in the mornings the lavender remained, now stained with wine and nicotine. Some mysteries are easier than others. Yo The Jerry Springer Show. The arguments, the stage, as if she wasn't there, played out in front of her. They'd hurled their bitterness without restraint, demeaned each other with abandon. They punched with words; the blood was all imagined. Real for Mona, huddled down beside the toilet with her supper mixed with bile. Wasn't It a Party! Her mother left for good on Mona's birthday number twelve, when she was old enough to help her dad with meals, old enough to fold a load of clothes. They'd made it work, the father-daughter duo. Things were easier without her, easier for Mona. Maybe not for Dad. Earth to Patrick. Are you missing Mom again? Hello? Ancient History 101. What about that Saturday when Dad was trimming limbs? Where was Mother then? What thoughts were Patrick's when the chainsaw coughed and made his finger disappear? * * * * * Number one was simple. Five years without a date could get you all screwed up, for sure. He needed to get laid. At least, to have some fun. Okay. Two? Mona peered across the otter prison. Hot. Short shorts revealed a tan that longed to be caressed, begged to be pursued beneath the brilliant white sateen. Well, she was sexy. Her father thought so, too. That wasn't hard to scope. Imagine Dad all sweaty, wrapped up in those thighs. Oh, God. She'd never be a wife. No chance of that. She'd know the dif between a 'rave' and a review, that 'techno' wasn't legos, that rock and roll had died. He'd never groove that mind. She'd never be forever, just for fun. But maybe fun for now. Back to college in the fall. No complications, two. Improvements. Things were good already. Just a prod. Just a push to get a start, just a hint I'd understand, a little less of me, a little more of her. Just do it, said the signs. "I bet girls fantasized about him. In his class?" Mona interceded like a cherry bomb in Math. "Mona! Behave." Her father's hand was on her shoulder now, crimson at his cheek, the missing digit at her neck. Control yourself, it said. "As if. I've heard girls talk." Then to Connie with a smile, "You had them too?" "Yeah, they did. We did." She laughed. "We tried to flirt. You never saw that, Mister W...? Pat?" "Girls! I'm embarrassed! I'm too old for this." "Right. Spill about the flirting, Connie. He's loving it, yaknow." "There's no flirting in my class," her father sputtered. "Did he?" Mona asked. "Get nervous? Flirt back?" Connie smiled her answer. "Well... He didn't seem to mind." "What if a parent heard you two? That's enough." "Chill, Dad. It's okay to be a little normal." She dropped her voice in deference. "Some were sluttier than others. Remember, Pat, Elaine? She'd pick up stuff to show her legs? Or lean across your desk to talk to you?" Patrick blushed his answer. "What'd *you* do, Connie? Truth." "Mona. Stop." "Da-ad. Be cool. It's just a flirt. I wanna know, okay? Go on." "Yeah. True? I did. Once or twice I didn't wear a bra. Well... Took it off before your class. I was just a brainiac to you, I thought." "So cool! You had to notice, Dad. You did." "Mona. What's got into you today?" He took her by the arm. "Excuse us, Connie?" He moved his daughter down the path and whispered, "What?" "Nothing. It's cool, Dad." "She's a student." "A woman, Dad. Not your student anymore. Just loosen up." "She's half my age." "She's legal, Dad. She's hot for you. Anyway, it's just a small suggestion." "You mean I still have choices?" "Maybe. If you're dumb." She squeezed his finger. "Mona." Connie stopped them. "I'm sorry, guys. I didn't mean to interrupt your day." "No, no," her father stammered. "It's settled. Have we done enough sea mammals?" "'Nough for me. You're sure I'm not intruding?" "No way. He's shy. He said you're hot. The days you didn't wear a bra." "I told her she should act her age in public." "Said there's this quiet place to talk across the street. He thinks I'm old enough to buy a fish alone and find my way back home." Her father's smile was just a question mark to Connie, his awkward invitation to a date. "I *know* she's old enough. Just pushy." Connie raised her eyebrow in assent. Just do it, girl. "Dad? I forgot to tell you. I'm going to Mom's for supper. Probably spend the night." "Mona?" "Be cool. I gotta go. I'm gone." The rest was up to them. "Nice to meet you, Mona." "Behave yourself, young lady." He touched her cheek with just three fingers. The fourth, a phantom, nodded in the air. Said, thank you. Said, love you. Said more than she could hear, as Mona slipped into the crowd. No longer there. ====================================================== Please comment to johndear@softhome.net This story first appeared as a tribute on the anniversary of Desdmona's Fish Tank. The original draft and comments are posted at http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/Desdmona/www/FishTank/. Other works by johndear can be seen at http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/johndear and http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/johndear -- Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated. +---------------------------------------------------------------------------+ | alt.sex.stories.moderated ----- send stories to: | | FAQ: Moderator: | +---------------------------------------------------------------------------+ |Discuss this story and others in alt.sex.stories.d, look for subject {ASSD}| |Archive at Hosted by | +---------------------------------------------------------------------------+