My children come home. I hire a woman to watch them—a beautiful young member of the Church, a junior college girl who looks much younger. My casts come off. I regain my feet fully, go back to work. My children move smoothly past my wife’s death. I regain my authority at the Church, the excommunicated women slowly fall out of attention and then disappear altogether. Everyone is happy and I am healthy, a new man. I promise the Lord I will serve him in all things. I ask him to forgive me for the faults I have, for the mistakes I have made. I receive witness that I have been forgiven.
Nothing ever comes to court. They test the sample and say it is a possible match, that they will do further tests, but never get back in touch with me. My bloody-headed friend has arranged everything.
I begin to think about taking a new wife. I owe it to my children, I owe it to myself.
My eldest daughter becomes more and more lovely each day. She is well on her way to becoming a woman.
“What is it, Daddy?” she asks when she sees me looking at her.
“Nothing,” I say. “I’m just glad that you chose to come down from heaven to be part of my family.”
“Oh, Daddy,” she says, embarrassed. Then a few minutes later she asks, “Do you think Mommy is happy in Heaven?”
“She is,” I say. “But I bet she misses us.”
I come into my daughter’s room at night and look at her as she sleeps. She is so lovely. If she wakes up, I don’t know what I will do.
My daughter stays up late at night watching television with me. Sometimes she lets me put my arm around her and pull her close. I kiss her on the forehead, smell her hair.
“Now that your mother is gone, you’re the lady of the house,” I tell her. “That’s a lot of responsibility.”
“Oh, Daddy,” she says. But I know she likes me to say it. It makes her feel important.
I buy her things, little trinkets, and leave them on the table beside her bed. She finds them and I see her privately treasure them, but she never says anything to me about them.
I can’t stop thinking about her. It makes it difficult to concentrate.
“I love you,” I tell her.
“Why do you keep saying that, Daddy?”
“I really love you, I guess,” I say.
She lets it pass. She is pleased by the attention, but cannot see that I am courting her. I would marry her if I could, if society would allow it.
On the way home from work I see in the crowd ahead of me one of the boys from my congregation, the Bavens boy. He is drifting slowly, aimlessly, bouncing a tennis ball, a racket case slung across his shoulder. He is a handsome boy, good enough to swallow.
I follow him through the crowd, hurry to catch up with him.
“Bavens,” I say. “James Bavens, right?”
He turns, startled, and sees me. “Provost Fochs,” he says.
“How long has it been since we talked, Jimmy?”
“I don’t know,” he says. “Have we ever talked?”
“We should,” I say. “We should be talking every six months. How’s your spiritual welfare?”
“I dunno. Fine, I guess.”
“Come by and see me.”
“Well,” he says. “Maybe.”
“Sure,” I say. “I don’t bite. Tomorrow night. Nine o’clock. At the church.”
“I guess,” he says, embarrassed.
“You’re a handsome boy, Jimmy,” I tell him. “You’re becoming a real man. We need to talk about that.”
“I got to go.”
“Sure,” I say. “If you have to. See you tomorrow.”
The next night he doesn’t show. I am all afire with disappointment. I wait for an hour and then give up, tramp the streets home.
On the way home I pass through the woods, the moon limning everything pale and visible. I stop at the clearing where the girl died and sit on the rock. It seems a place like any other, completely ordinary.
I leave and go back home.
The children are already in bed. The babysitter sits at the dining room table with books spread all about her, writing a paper. When she sees me she starts closing the books, gathering them into a stack.
“How were the children?” I ask.
“Fine,” she says. “You have such good kids, Provost Fochs.”
“Thank you,” I say.
She gathers her books and stands.
“No need to go so soon,” I say.
“Oh,” she says. “No, I have to get back.”
I take the books out of her hands, put them on the table again. I lead her over to the couch.
“Come on,” I say.
She sits awkwardly down on the very edge of the cushion.
“Relax,” I say. “You’re still being paid. Stay awhile and talk.”
She relaxes a little, but not much. I ask her questions about herself, her family. About the classes she is taking in school. I inch toward her until I am very close to her indeed. I reach out and brush her hair behind an ear.
“You know,” I say. “You are a very beautiful girl.”
“Please don’t say that,” she says. She keeps shrinking back into the corner of the couch. I put my arm around her.
“Please,” she says.
I kiss her. A chaste little kiss is all.
And then before I know it she is crying, trying to get her clothes back on as quickly as she can. I am not sure of all the details, but I am lying there watching her, savoring the way my body feels. My youngest is crying. The twins are at the top of the stairs looking down. I get up to put my pants on, shout at them to go to bed.
“What did you do to her, Dad?”
“Nothing,” I shout. “Go to bed.”
The girl is crying so hard that she can’t find her way to the door. She keeps stumbling into the table. If I weren’t in my own house, this would be murder number two. I yell at the twins to go upstairs and they go. I go over to the girl and take her by the arms. She shudders, tries to get away.
“Harlot,” I say. “Jezebel.” And thrust her out of the house.
I take a rag from the kitchen and wipe up the blood. I sit down at the table to think. Her books are there. I scoop them up and take them outside and dump them on top of her.
“Don’t tell anyone about this,” I say. “They will blame you.” In fact around here that is generally what they do.
“And get off my porch,” I say. “You can’t stay here.”
I go inside and close the door.
I stay downstairs a few hours, calming down. I watch the television until the national anthem comes on, but I am not tired. My skin is buzzing.
I climb up the stairs, look into each room. My youngest has cried herself to sleep. The twins are asleep as well, crouched against one another in the same bed.
Going into my eldest’s room, I lean over her bed. I reach down and kiss her lips. When I lift my head I see her eyes open, watching me.
“What is it, Daddy?” she says.
I lie down beside her on the bed, kiss her again, longer, with my tongue.
“What’s wrong, Daddy?”
“I don’t like that, Daddy.”
“Please, Daddy,” she says. “Don’t!”
“Daddy!” she screams. “No, Daddy, no!”