“And how’s that?” I asked weakly.
“With me pregnant with our son. Because that’s how it works with us, with our family. Mom and her father had a son, who ended up breeding with her to create a girl… and he will give that girl, ME, a son, who will, one day, make me pregnant again with a daughter that he will breed. And each generation will be more beautiful, stronger, smarter, better than the last. With us, Dad… Mom used to say that the apple falls NEAR these trees, not far.”
The exacting certitude with which she laid it out took my breath away. Almost literally, I was devoid of breath. I just gaped at her, at this creature I had made, the fruit of my own loins, who was so absolutely sure of herself and her place in our lineage that it bordered on destiny. Or fate. Or both. And perhaps it was.
But I wasn’t ready to own that yet, to accept it. I wasn’t ready… for any of it.
I leaned back from her and stood, my face a blank slate. I stood there for a moment of shared silence and finally said, “I… can’t.” And I turned to walk out of the kitchen, hungry but too stunned to feel it just then.
As my feet crossed the doorway, she said from behind me. “Yet. But you will. The game is on, Father.”
Have you ever played a game against someone, knowing that there was no possible way to win against them and that the odds were stacked against you? The first time you played chess, maybe. Or hide and seek. Any move or tactic you employed was against an opponent who knew the tricks before you did.
Playing a game of seduction with a beautiful woman is like that.
And if the seductress is your own daughter, you are doomed to failure from the start.
But you play the game anyway. For no reasons you can put into words, you enter into a game where your loss is a foregone conclusion and everything will be a long process of just going through the motions. You play the game anyway.
Amity didn’t play fair.
I didn’t see much of her the rest of the day. And on the occasions that I did see her, she behaved as though we’d never discussed the fact that she wanted me to be her lover. And I sure as hell wasn’t about to bring it up. Indeed, she was her perfectly normal self, as breezy and life-loving as she’d ever been. To be honest, it was the happiest I’d seen her since Mother died. She seemed like a puzzle piece had suddenly fallen into place in her mind and life and the tragedy of her mother’s loss was, while still painful, something to put behind her. By the time dinner rolled around, which she’d prepared seemingly out of thin air and without me noticing it, I had honestly almost forgotten that there was supposed to be an air of discomfort between us, that there was a challenge before the two of us- her to seduce me, and me to resist it.
The next morning, however, was when the warfare began. And she wasn’t subtle about it in the least. As per usual, I awoke to the sound of my daughter’s lovely voice calling me to the kitchen for breakfast. I got dressed as I normally did and stumbled into the kitchen smelling good, country home cooking and a fresh pot of coffee. Of the three of us, Amity is the absolute master of coffee in our household, having learned from our mother, whom I thought was the world’s best barista Starbucks had never discovered. But Amity took coffee brewing to a whole new artform, mixing and blending flavors and oils like a maestro. For her fifteenth birthday we had gotten her a very expensive espresso/cappuccino/coffee machine that would make most café baristas blush with envy. And she worked it masterfully. Never was a dull moment when it came to mornings in our home. Amity was able to make the most subtle flavors sing and combine in such a way that it would force you to stop and appreciate the first few sips the way you would a fine wine and, once your palate had adjusted to the taste, you’d want to chug it down and WOULD do if it wasn’t for the fact that you might burn your throat in the effort. My favorite concoction of hers was a caramel/crème brulée/vanilla blend that would warm your soul and make love to your taste buds.
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