The Girl                             Written by: Jem Aura ©





    On a hot summer afternoon, I pulled into a parking space at Wal-Mart.  I was dreading shutting off the cool truck and braving the heat of the asphalt, only to return twenty minutes later to 120 degrees.  As I waited for the news story I was listening to to conclude,  I looked absently around the parking lot.  My attention was drawn to an old blue car right in front of me on the other side of the aisle: a sixties era medium sized four door dodge. The driver's door was open and under it I could see two feet.  Black socks and worn brown shoes, it seemed obvious that the owner of these feet was an old man. Peering through the reflected sunlight across the windshield, I could see the silhouettes of two other people: One was an equally old woman sitting in the passenger seat up front, and the other was a young person sitting in the back. 

    I watched attentively as people with their carts passing by would realize there was trouble, but would quickly look away and continue on as if they hadn't seen it. No-one was bothering to investigate.  Leaving the truck running, I got out and began to walk a wide circle to get a better view. Glancing over as the reflected sunlight no longer impeded my view, the old man was slumped over, head down, apparently having difficulty. The woman was talking to him. In the back seat, with the windows rolled up, was a young girl of maybe 11 years. As my route orbited closer to the car, I eventually came up to the old man's door.  

    "Hi folks, Is everything alright?"  

    The old man raised his hand and waved me off, as if to say, "I'll be alright in a moment".  

    The woman kept talking to him as if I didn't exist. The country drawl was so thick in her ancient voice that I could not tell what she was saying.  

    Stooping down I looked into the back seat. The young girl was sweating and despondent, not acknowledging my presence.  

    I spoke to the man directly, "Sir, what's wrong?"  

    Squinting up at me, he tried to speak but his short breathing kept halting him. He patted his chest.  

    Taking him by the arm, I lifted him to his feet and half carried all ninety pounds of him to my truck and put him in the back seat. Returning to the car I opened both passenger side doors and announced that we were all going to the hospital in my truck. The woman garbled out something at length, apparently protesting, but I wasn't in the mood for discussion, so  I lifted her to her feet in much the same way as the old man and placed her next to him in the back seat. The girl was still sitting in exactly the same spot, staring at seat in front of her. Going back to her door and reaching in, I took her arm and coaxed her out of the car.  We quickly zoomed away.  I offered the giant soda I had recently purchased to the girl. She drank so fast that as I thumbed 911 into my cell phone, I saw the head freeze hit her.   

    Explaining to the woman on the phone, who objected to me moving the old man, I stated that the heat would have killed him, so I moved him to my truck, and since he's already in my truck, and we're only two miles from the hospital, I thought it wise to head that way. She began to ask questions so I told her to shut up and listen.   "In two minutes I will arrive at Memorial Hospital with a cardiac patient. If there aren't doctors waiting out front, I will personally hold you responsible." and I hung up.  

    Just as I came careening to a stop in front of the emergency entrance, a stretcher and team of nurses came bursting out of the doors. Jumping out I pointed to the door where the old man sat. In two minutes they had disappeared into the hospital.  

    The old woman and girl were happily sipping the soda as if at a movie, still sitting in my truck, indifferent to the plight of the old guy.  

    "Um, excuse me maam, I think you will need to go inside to give the hospital some information."  

    All I got from her was a blank stare and a few garbled words. I wasn't getting through to her. My eyes swept the area, apparently looking for someone or something that could rescue me, while my mind adjusted to the mess I was now in - feeling as if I were in a mire and sinking fast. I brought her and the girl into the hospital. After getting the woman settled into the registration office, I sat down in the waiting room with the girl. I thumbed through a magazine while the girl sat quietly, clutching the soda. Fifteen minutes later a young man approached, looking rather frustrated, and informed me that the woman needed her purse.  

    I checked the truck, and of course there was no purse. Surely it was in their car. When I came back in to inform the young man, he was gone. I checked a few of the cubicles and then told the girl to stay put while I searched for him.

    I stumbled across the old man on a stretcher in a hallway, an IV dripping and an EKG ticking away. He couldn't see me standing there at his head, and I overheard the rest of a conversation he was having with another old guy on the stretcher next to him.

    "My Verna's cain't remember anything from one day to the next. She still knows me, thank God for that, but we got this girl... well really she's my grandson's crack whore's little brat, and even though she been with us almost a year, Verna cain't remember her name for nothin.  Keeps triyin to send her home - pushes her out of the house and locks all the doors. Every time I come home there's the little bitch sitting on the porch. "

    The other old guy replied: "At least she don't have Alzheimer’s. My BettySue can't even feed herself no more." He paused and looked over at him, then up at me, his look of disdain for his neighbor after hearing such talk forced him to try and put a face to it. Then he asked, "So that girl's not your great grand daughter?"

    "She ain't no kin of mine, thank God for that. She's got bad blood in her, that one. My grandson got mixed up with some crack-whore and she tricked him into marrying her - said the brat was his but she weren't. "

    "So why's she living with you?" He asked.

    "Oh, he got mixed up with all that bad blood and now he's in prison for 10 years. Cops raided the house and there he was, the only one home. We tried to get the little shit adopted out but her whore mother run off and they can't find her. If she shows her face she'll be in prison too. "

    Apparently they were sharing stories about their woes. I was shocked at his attitude toward the poor little thing.

    I tiptoed back out to the waiting room and collected the girl.  We fetched the old lady's purse and delivered it to the receptionist, then I brought the girl to the cafeteria.  Her shabby appearance was attracting attention from everyone we passed.

Browsing all of the food the girl seemed unable to decide on what to get, or afraid to.  So I filled a tray with pizza, French fries, chicken strips, green beans, corn, two cups of ice cream and two sodas.  

    Sitting at a booth, I encouraged her to eat.  I watched as she slowly took a chicken strip, shoving it whole into her mouth, she reached for another. She wore a white button down short sleeve collar shirt that fit tightly to her slight frame, obviously too small for her. Ancient and not so ancient stains dappled the front, never having seen bleach. Her shorts were denim and too large, gathered at the waist by an old men's leather belt cut short. She wore two-dollar flip flops. Her face was streaked with dirty sweat and her blonde hair was matted. As she ate, I notice her teeth were yellowed, and she bit and chewed only on one side because the other side had two badly chipped teeth, probably very painful.  

    I smiled at her as she glanced up at me, and she returned it, quickly going back to concentrating on eating.  

    As we ate the ice cream together, I examined the tray of food. She had eaten all of the pizza, all but one of the chicken strips, all of the corn and none of the green beans. She finished her ice cream and having set the cup down, she instantly reverted back to her despondent posture, head straight, eyes down, hands folded.  

    "Hey sweetheart, where's your mom and dad?"  

    She glanced up at me but made no answer.  

    "Are those your Grandparents?" I asked  

    She shook her head without looking at me.  

    "Do you want to talk about it?"  

    She shook her head.  

    Well, that's clear enough. I reached out and gently brushed the hair out of her face.  I was asking the questions to see if the old guy was telling the truth. So far it all fit.

    I spotted the young man from registration looking around the cafeteria. "Don't go anywhere." I said to the girl and I went to talk to the guy.

    I came up behind him in the center of the large room. "Ahem."
   
    "Oh, there you are. Mr. Jenks is stable. He has heat stroke and suffered a mild heart attack. He has been admitted, but they don't have enough insurance to cover the cost. How are you related to them?"

      "I'm just your average do-gooder. I noticed them in the parking lot at Wal-Mart."  

    "You do realize, by bringing them here rather than calling an ambulance, that you are responsible for the unpaid charges?"  

    I stared at the young man in disbelief. "Do you realize, that not getting my consent releases me from that responsibility?" I stated.  

    "Actually, sir, your actions in bringing them here serves as consent." He stated rather testily.  

    "Look, sport, I know this crap works great on the uninformed, but I'm not one of them. Ultimately you're going to try to shove a piece of paper in front of me to sign, and if I'm foolish enough to sign it, then you might have something. Kapish?"  

    His ears went red and he turned to leave, crumpling up a piece of paper he had been holding.

    I shouted after him, "Hold on a second," coming up beside him "What about the woman, is she right in the head? I couldn't understand a word she said."   

    He shrugged off his defeat, letting his professional indifference take hold. "She's very old. They both are in their nineties. She's not all there. But the old guy is still sharp. “He paused.  "Ornery as hell too."

    I was tempted to ask him about the girl, if he knew anything about her, but he seemed anxious to get back to his work so I let it rest.   

************************************

    Only a week had gone by since I first rolled back into town. My life was going pretty well until this little distraction. I had been living in Florida when the work dried up. I sold my boat and was making arrangements to have my furniture delivered to the rehab I had just purchased. You see, I have become a nomad of sorts. Several years ago, right after my divorce, I lost my job and started doing home remodeling to survive. It went a lot better than I thought and I started buying, fixing up, and selling old sorry houses in nice neighborhoods. I'd move in and work on them in my spare time. The money piled up. However, it was a lonely existence, mostly working by myself. I had dreams of living on a boat in the Caribbean, and injecting myself into the social club whose only requirement to join is ownership in a vessel capable of doing the Jamaica hop. So when hurricane Katrina hit, I got an idea.  

    With a fist full of cash and pulling my trailer full of tools behind me, I headed for the gulf. I searched the internet for the addresses of all of the marine dealers along the gulf coast. At first it was very difficult to move around, but after a week or so, I had talked with several dealers. One in particular seemed to be a perfect find.  

    Harvey, of Harvey's Yachts, had several damaged boats. Without actually discussing my idea directly, I saw the gleam in his eye once it dawned on him that I was packing cash. I located a boat that had been on blocks near the yard. It was a beautiful ketch style motor sailor of 43 feet. It was ten years old and in perfect condition, except for the caved in transom and other damage to the hull and keel from falling off its blocks. Another boat had skidded across the yard and plowed into the back of this one. It was full of electronics and extras that had me drooling. The damage was significant, especially since it was structural damage, but not beyond my capabilities. And since it was on blocks rather than moored when the storm hit, it had very little damage. Being an aircraft mechanic, trained by the military to repair composite structures (After I was laid off due to 9-11, I couldn't find work in the field. Boeing had laid off 30,000 employees just like me. That's why I refurbish homes now) I am completely qualified to perform the repairs necessary to bring the "Sweetheart" back to glory.  

    What I suggested to Harvey, without saying it, is that if I purchased the wreck and got it out of there before the insurance adjuster arrived, He could submit his claim using photographs (which, when viewed from the rear, made it look like a total loss). All I needed from him was to get the boat back up on the blocks, allow me enough time to get it floatable, and put it back in the water for me. He was anxious to do the deal. Since I had cash,. It meant twenty thousand dollars in his very greedy hand, and I strongly suspected that he was working on something between his ears to allow the whole wad to end up in his pocket. For me, it meant that I would soon have a place to live, and for about ten cents on the dollar.  

    I stayed there along the gulf for two years, repairing other boats for insurance money, and improving my own boat as if it were one of my rehab houses. When the work dried up, I had a big bash for all the friends I had made, sold the Sweetheart for two hundred and seventy five thousand dollars, and headed back to my home town, St. Louis, Missouri.  

     So right now I was jobless, nearly homeless, but financially sound. Here in town I still own a few leased houses, ones I fixed up and leased rather than sold.   

***********************************************

    Back at the table we sat there in silence. My mind was desperately trying to figure out how I could get out of this mess and back to my life. It took a while before I could even remember why I had gone to Wal-Mart in the first place. Eventually the girl excused herself to the restroom, and while she was gone, the young administrator came back in, still clueless as to where we had been sitting - and with that look on his face. Again I went over to him.

    "I'm sorry, I didn't get your name before..." he stated, leaving the period off the sentence, making it a request.

    "No, you didn't" I responded, and when he finally figured out that I wasn't going to give it to him his shoulders slumped slightly and then said. "Well, he's dead.” pausing for affect, then continued. "They think it might have been an aneurism, or a massive stroke.

    "Well, Fuck." I growled, expressing my feelings exactly.  "What about the woman? What are you going to do?  Their car is at Wal-Mart, and I wouldn't let her drive a wheelchair."

    "I don't know. They are calling in a social worker. Probably go to a state run home unless some family member wants to take her in, but I doubt it."

    I was expecting to launch into a parallel conversation about the girl when I noticed he was preparing to leave me and go back to his office. Immediately a warning bell went off in my head. ...That means he didn't know about the girl.  And as I considered for a moment, there was a good chance that no-one knew the girl was even with them unless the old guy told someone.  And it's likely the only person he did was that other patient. Being stunned into imobility, I stared at the back of the young man as he left. By the time I woke back up, the lost puppy was standing beside me. Having finished the meal, we walked slowly out of the cafeteria. Aimlessly we walked the long hallways - as if in a dream, my mind trying to come to some sort of resolution.

    Arriving at the main lobby, the information desk clerk had her head down, typing at a computer terminal with three people in line. I stopped and turned to go back the way we came... but at that moment I decided to leave. The hospital seemed to have a lot of bad energy: couldn't save old Mr. Jenks; the dishonest young administrator trying to rob me blind; and my feeling as if I were in the Hotel California "...but you can never leave."

    I considered leaving her with the help desk, then seeing the line thought it best to return her to emergency. It would be shorter to walk around the outside than to navigate the laberynth of halls and elevators, so we exited the main lobby and out into the hot sunshine. Along the way I became aware of an argument raging inside me: One side saying how guilty and low I will feel for the rest of my life; the other listing all of the ways it could blow up in my face. Seeing my truck only twenty yards away I quickly considered the chances of anyone being aware of the girl. I made up my mind at last.

    I stopped and knelt down in front of the girl. "Sweetheart, I need to get somewhere where I can think. Would you be afraid if I took you with me?" I didn't want to break the news about Mr. Jenks being dead, and then a long explanation... because I had nothing to say other than we'd figure something out.  
   
    She looked back at the hospital and said "He'll be mad at me."

    "He knows your with me." I said, wondering if it were actually true.

    This scruffy little girl was not my idea of a pet. And pets don't fit into my lifestyle of constantly moving around. But then it occurred to me that if it didn't work out, I would still be able to give her back. And then I realized that several times in my life I had said the exact same thing to myself when helping a stray dog or cat and even though I would have preferred not owning them, I always kept them, and never regretted it. Of course this was a human being, not your average animal. The red tape and consequences might be endless, or just plain impossible - and in that case she would end up in foster care, or even worse, back to drug addict mother and/or convict step-father.

    We walked the remaining distance to the truck hand in hand. Pulling away, I decided to get a hotel room. I didn't have an extra sleeping bag at the rehab where I had stayed the night before - or air conditioning, or electricity, or water.  

    Sitting on the bed with remote in hand, the girl listened as I explained that I was going out. "Now listen, don't answer the door, don't answer the phone, and don't go anywhere. Can you do that for me?"  

    Looking right at me, she gave no indication of an answer to my question.  

    "Hey, I don't even know your name. What is it?" I asked hopefully.  

    She stared at me for a moment, then said "Polly."  

    "Polly, that's nice, is it Polly Jenks?"  

    She shook her head, "Polly Paxton"  

    "Ah, I like that. Okay Polly Paxton, I have to go out and get a few things. you just watch the TV until I get back. Okay?"  

    This time she shook her head.  

    "What's wrong?  Are you afraid to be here alone? I won't be gone long."  

    "Can't I come too?"  She asked sheepishly.  

    "I'd rather not. I can go really fast if I can go by myself. And I'm bringing you back some surprises."  I walked over to the desk and wrote my cell phone number on the pad by hotel phone. "Here's my cell phone number. Come here and practice calling me."  

    Polly hesitantly slid from the bed and listened as I explained how to dial the hotel phone. Soon my cell was ringing and she smiled at the small triumph.  Lifting her back onto the bed, I handed her the receiver and we talked nonsense until I was running down the aisles back at the Wal-Mart.  

    I would have taken her with me, but her appearance was in such contrast to mine that I didn't want anyone to see her, especially someone that might know me, before I had a chance to get her cleaned up.  

    The blue Dodge was still there in the parking lot, I stuffed a cart with snacks, soda, milk, lunchmeat, cheese, bread, peanut butter, grape jelly, potato chips, doughnuts, pop tarts, cereal, plastic bowls knives, forks, spoons, beef jerky, panties, socks, pants, shirts, three sizes of tennis shoes, hair ties, curling iron, barrettes, brush, comb, soap, toothbrush, nighties, bathrobe, cards, and monopoly.  During the spree I remembered what I needed before the interruption - motor oil and filter - I got that, and on my way to the chechout I saw a large display of girl's clothes that included a very pretty dress with removable puffy sleeves, lace and ribbons. White pantyhose and shiny white shoes were bundled with it as a suggestion. What a weird thing to buy for a girl I had no conscious intentions about - good, bad or indifferent. Some strange cog in my head clicked and onto the pile of other stuff they went. I had to use a porter's cart to get it all up to the room.  

    By the time I had finished unloading and putting everything out of sight it was dinner time. But I wanted her clean and dressed before we left again.  

    "Hey Polly... sweetheart... lie back for me on the bed."  

    She looked at me suspiciously but slowly complied.  

    I hovered close over her. "Open your mouth." As she slowly opened her mouth, I pushed her lips up so I could see her teeth. Plaque was encrusted everywhere: So much so that several of her teeth had no space between them. Brushing them seemed pointless, except for the smell that was wafting up and into my nostrils.  

    "You know what?" I asked, releasing her lips.  "We are going to get you all fixed up. You are going to be one of my rehab projects, my little Cinderella, and I'm your fairy godfather."  

    That made her smile, even though crookedly.  

    "First thing is a bath. Can you manage that by yourself?"  

    Surprisingly, she shrugged, as if not sure.  

    "Sure you can. I'll run your water and you just scrub all over with a soapy washcloth. You can do that, can't you?" She nodded and then shrugged again. .  

    "And wash your hair. I brought some nice smelling shampoo."  

    At this she shook her head.   "Huh? What’s wrong? You don't wash your hair?"  

    "I get soap in my eyes."  She whined.  

    I stared down at her. A nagging suspicion was growing somewhere within me. Her demeanor seemed a little contrived. But it was soon brushed aside as I considered her shabby, ill-treated appearance. In response I said, "That is something I would expect to hear from a girl half your age. You just do the best you can and if you need some help, let me know."  

    But she just sat there. I pulled her off the bed and gently nudged her toward the bathroom. She stood just outside the door in front of the vanity as I ran the water. Once the temperature settled down I waited for it to fill. Looking toward Polly she had unabashedly begun to undress - her shirt on the floor, she was working at the old belt. Once undone, her shorts fell to her ankles. She had no underwear on. Everything she owned in the world was on the floor beside her, and would soon be in the trash. She entered and stood facing me.  I could smell her body odor.  

    "You can get in. It's not too hot".  

    She stepped in carefully, not turning her back or taking her eyes off of me. Slowly she sat down. She was not concerned at all about her nakedness. But I was her guardian, and perhaps she sensed that. Even so I still thought it odd that at her age she was not self-conscious about her appearance, considering she was certainly in peuberty. I left the room and left the door slightly ajar.  

    I called the hospital.  "Yes. Hello. I was wondering if the social worker that was called in for the Jenks' had arrived. I'm the one who brought them in and I just wanted to confirm that she is being looked after properly."

    "Please hold..." after a couple of minutes she came back saying "She is here now, would you like to speak with her?"

    "Yes I would, thank you." I said.

    "Her name is Ms. Fielding." the phone was muffled with her palm, "Uhm, Tracy Fielding. Please hold. "

    Two seconds and we were talking. "Hello, Have you met with Ms. Jenks yet? "  I peeked in on Polly.  She was lying down with her head and knees sticking out of the water. No sign of soap.  

    Tracy Fielding had a very pleasant voice.  "Yes, I've seen her, and you are?"

    "Ms. Fielding, the hospital expressed a desire to hold me responsible for the Jenk's charges. It's absurd, but just in case, I would prefer to remain anonymous. I am the one who noticed then having difficulty, and brought them to the hospital. I was hoping you could put my mind at ease that Verna is being cared for, and tell me what you plan to do with her."

    I covered the receiver with my hand. "Pssst!  Hey, you gonna wash?"   

    She slowly sat up and reached for the washcloth.  

    "I'm sorry sir; I can't discuss any of this with you unless you are a relative or legal guardian."  

    "Oh, I'm sorry, what a coincidence: I just remembered she's my grandmother."

    "Nice try.”

    "Seriously maam, I feel responsible for her in a way. Can't you at least tell me if she is aware of what's going on? She seemed totally lost in her own little world."

    "Well, you don't sound like the type to be causing trouble for old ladies. You're right, she has severe dementia.  The only thing she seems aware of is that her husband isn't here. She's been asking for him constantly. We brought her to him, but she couldn't understand that he was dead."

    "So, speaking hypothetically, what do you do with someone like her?"

    "She will go into a home. A state attorney will be assigned and they will dig up her family and try to put her affairs in order. The primary objective is to find a relative to take over as trustee."

    "And so far you don't know of any family?"

    "No. The staff here said it was just him and her, and they didn't have a chance to question the man before he died."

    That was what I was fishing for.  "Okay, well, I have your name and I can find where you work I think. You might hear back from me about her in the future."

    The woman left me her office number and was gracious to the last. At least I knew now that I could take my time and decide what to do about the girl, that there wasn't an all points bulletin for some guy kidnapping a girl.  I knew what I was doing was in her best interest, but try explaining that to the police.  I could relax and sort out the mess after sleeping on it.  I checked on Polly again. There she sat with washcloth in hand. No soap.    

    "Are you okay?" I asked. But all she did was turn her head and look at me.   "What's wrong sweetheart?"  

    Again she looked up at me, not really hearing me it seemed.  Then another warning bell went off in my head, about her passive nature amid direct questions. I sensed she was bracing to be punished, like a dog that cowers when you reach out to pet it.  It was just a feeling, something familiar in her reactions to me, but nothing concrete. Abuse often takes the form of unwarranted kindness, followed by explosive tirades, so that an abused child will soon become suspicious of kindness.

      I took the washcloth from her hand and soaped it up. Squeezing it out, I carefully washed her face, being sure not to get any soap in her eyes. Taking another washcloth, I wiped the soap away. Similarly, but with much more vigor and suds, I washed her arms, shoulders, back, and chest, and rinsed her off cupping water in my hands. Polly's head had slumped forward, eyes closed, apparently enjoying herself.

    "Stand up sweetie," I said, and she stood.  

    Soaping up the washcloth again, I washed the front of her down to the waterline. When she turned around, my breath caught in my throat. On her buttocks and thighs were several reddish raised lines. One clearly showed the outline of a belt buckle and a puncture.  

    "Oh! My God." I said while rubbing my hand over the injuries as if to wipe them away.  

    Polly turned around quickly, trying to hide the marks.  

    Anger flashed through me like a lightening bolt. "Who did this to you?" I growled.  

    Polly shrunk back away from me, trying to hide behind upraised arms. The curve of the tub made her footing slip, her feet coming completely out from under her. Flailing arms grasped the air for a handhold. Down she came, head sliding down the tile wall on its way to striking the side of the tub.  

    Reaching out, I plucked her out of the air.  

    In a flash, she went from terror and panic to the safety of my arms, the frightened look on her face slowly fading away. Smiling down at her, I said, "Polly, angel-baby, you don't need to be afraid. I will never hurt you. I'm sorry I scared you. I was angry at whoever did that to you. But you don't need to tell me. I think I know. Are you okay?”  

    Polly nodded her answer, like she so often did, and fixed me with a very peculiar look - like a bear waking up after a long hibernation and taking a tentative look outside its cave at the world.

    "I mean it sweetheart, you can trust me. Whatever has happened to you, don't think for a minute that I am like that. I am not." Polly's eyes softened and she relaxed noticeably in my arms. As I set her back into the water, I realized that I was soaking wet. When her legs came out from under her, she had sent a shower of water and suds right on to me.  

    I stood above her with my arms outstretched, looking down at my soaked clothes, and with an obvious mock voice I began ranting at her, "Hey, who got me all wet? Look at this. I'm soaked. How did that happen?"  

    Unsure, and still a little sheepish, Polly sat looking up at me and shrugged.  

    "Was it you?" I asked twisting my face, using every ounce of body language to convey that this was a performance for her benefit.  

    Polly's eyes brightened and she let out a delightful laugh. I kept up the act, turning circles with arms open wide, staring down at my wet clothes, and then looking at her with the glaring, accusing mask, one eyebrow raised high. Again a deep belly laugh, and a splash, aimed at me. I noticed her behavior, as wonderful as it was all of a sudden, was more suited to a much younger child, making me think she had completely missed out on this type of fun.

    My face morphed from anger to surprise and fear at this new assault. Turning, I screamed and ran out the door, my arms flailing about in fear. The wonderful sound of her laughter flowed out of the bathroom after me. Putting on my angry face, I turned and went back in, only to be met with a much bigger splash.  

    Several times we repeated this until finally I rushed in through a wall of airborne water and began splashing her back.  When half of the water from the tub was on the floor or me, I slumped down beside the tub in defeat, panting. Polly gave a few more well placed splashes in my face, let out a piercing scream, and then stopped, joy gushing from her.  

    "I quit, you win." I said, splashing in the deep puddle on the floor as I got to my feet. I climbed in the tub with her, clothes and all, for which I was rewarded with more giggles, but we got back to business and soon the sprite was squeaky clean and pink all over. Every now and then, as I worked, I would get a splash in my face for good measure, in hopes of a renewed volley, but I stuck to business. 

    Watching her brush her teeth while struggling out of my wet clothes, I gave advice on oral hygiene.  It took a while, but finally we were walking to the car in search of a restaurant. As we walked, I marveled at the transformation that had taken place. She skipped along, spinning and dancing in her new dress, pausing in front of the hotel windows to look at herself in her new clothes, and then at her new shoes, her flowing blonde hair absolutely glowing in the late afternoon sun. A perpetual smile was on her face.  I found it difficult not to stare into her eyes when our eyes would meet; wanting to share in her excitement, but each time I did her smile would diminish as the connection was made. It was a shyness born out of insecurity and mistrust, because otherwise her demeanor, when not confronted by my eyes, clearly showed her to be a gregarious and outgoing personality. 

    Dinner was especially enjoyable. We talked about light subjects and I was introduced to Polly's vivid imagination. Make believe friends and imaginary places. I also discovered that we had a dream in common: To sail away to far places on a wonderful ship.  

    I fished some photos out of my wallet and showed them to her. The Sweetheart was gleaming in the evening glow of the sun, her aluminum and brass polished, her teak dark with oil, and her bright sails full of the westerly breeze.  

    She looked closely at the man at the wheel. "Is that you?"  

    I nodded, smiling.  

    Her mouth fell open with amazement. "Is that your boat?".  

    I nodded, "Well, it was my boat,  I had to sell it."  

    Disappointed, she asked, "How come?"  

    "Well, it's too big to bring with me, and I had to come here, to rescue you."  

    "Nuh-uh." she said.  "You did not."  

    "Oh yeah?" I said arching my eyebrows, "Well, I don't think there is anyone more suited to rescuing a beautiful princess than me. And I think God feels the same way. So would you like to argue with Him about why I had to sell my boat?  Because He will just tell you that He had to pull a few strings to get us to meet at the right place and the right time. And since Mr. Jenks is gone now, who would be looking after you? You see, God must like you a whole lot. Because here I am, the answer to that prayer you sent Him. "  

    The wheels were turning behind her bright eyes. She ate a bite of chocolate cake soaked in melting vanilla ice cream, having nothing to add.  I think she actually believed me.  

    "Anyway," I continued about the boat, "What I do for a living is buy broken things, fix them, and then sell them again. That boat, my Sweetheart, was broken bad in a hurricane. I bought it, fixed it all up, and then sold it just in time to rescue you.  But you know what?",  

    Polly shook her head with the spoon in her mouth.  

    "If another hurricane hits, we can go down to Florida together and find a big wonderful ship and fix it and live on it. What do you think about that?"  

    Nodding, she stuffed the last huge bite of cake into her mouth.  

    When it came to bedtime, I stood there staring at the king sized bed, wondering why it had not occurred to me to get a room with two queens.  

    Having forced Polly to brush her teeth again, and dressed in her nightie, she sat propped up in the bed like the princess she was, watching the Cartoon Network while I answered my email at the desk next to the bed.  I sent an email to a private investigator I had used to find some people who skipped out on their rent. He seemed very reliable and reasonable, so I gave him the names of all concerned and asked him to dig up everything he could about the girl and her parents. Still clicking away 45 minutes later I glanced over to see her sound asleep, the remote clutched at her breast.  

    Stealthily I pried the remote and one pillow from her and slid her down under the covers. Sliding in beside her, I read my book until it fell to the floor.  

***************************************

    I am an infrequent dreamer. At least ones I can remember. Most of my dreams take the form of a nightmare in which I'm in school, late to an exam in a class I had forgotten to attend, only to find as I enter the room that I am in my underwear. Anxiety dreams I call them. The rest are either nonsense dreams quickly forgotten, or sexual dreams which, being the most infrequent type, I find they take on no specific pattern, except in their complete unpredictability.  I guess if I had to identify a pattern, it would be that the subject is usually nudity and titillation rather than sweaty love making.  

    On this occasion however, that pattern was clearly broken. Having entered a large, well lit room full of people, I was aware of electricity in the air, and pretty eyes that connected with mine, moving toward me; several pairs of eyes: large and blue and beautiful eyes. However, I found my mood indifferent, coy, and at odds with the eroticism being focused on me trying to find its conclusion. One girl in particular, a young blonde, thin and lithe, floated in front of me in a silky white spaghetti strap dress, exposing a perfectly shaped breast in its flowing folds.  She settled in on my lap, flirtatious in her movements and tilted looks.  Turning, putting her arm around my neck, she kissed me, the kiss exclaiming "I want you to make love to me... right now."  

    I floated away onto a soft white lawn, lying back, being tenderly stroked by this lovely young woman. I swooned, feeling my erection pulse to fullness, feeling her touches and soft hair across my chest and stomach.  

    The erotic nature of the dream changed however as I became aware of a different, less tender sensation. Looking down, still in my dream but in a new place, I saw Polly, playfully stroking my penis.  

    Startled, I awoke, muscles convulsed, and the bed shook. The room was dark except for the lit parking areas penetrating the curtains, and the reddish glow of the alarm clock. I was erect. Polly was beside me, spooned against my side, her leg draped on my hip. Then I felt something move. My penis moved. Again it moved. One second of awareness and I identified the sensation of being masturbated.  

    Polly, apparently asleep, had her hand wrapped around the shaft of my penis and periodically stroked it.  

    I jumped at the realization and rolled away from her. I went into the bathroom, closed the door, and turned on the light.   

    In the mirror, my erection was staring up at me out of the fly of my boxers. I tried to gather myself. Why would she do that... in her sleep?

    I ran some water and splashed my face. "That dirty old son of a bitch!" I said into the towel. That's the only explanation. She must have been abused by the old man.  

    I stood over her, the light from the bathroom gently washing across her face. She had not moved. She was sound asleep.   The alarm clock read 2:47 am.   I climbed in and read my book to get my mind off of her, and him.  But my mind wandered back to the present. Mainly because of the emotional charge that was still surging through me. I examined my feelings and realized I was incredibly angry and hostile towards a dead guy, but why? I mean, why does that particular line of thinking get me worked up to such a degree that it becomes irrational?   I hear of people doing stupid and cruel things to children, physically abusing them, such as extreme punishments with a belt or whatever, and I have a very measured and normal reaction to it. Sure It makes me mad, but if it involves sex, well look out, the walls of Jericho must surely fall.  It makes no sense at all. Surely playing at sex with a trusted adult is much less likely to scar a child emotionally than being physically abused.  Both at the same time, such as rape is certainly extremely traumatic, but it has been a normal part of human behavior through the furthest reaches of antiquity. We react so strongly only when we aren't the one getting to deposit some seed. It's hypocritical. Maybe that's what was eating at me: Here I've been struggling in my own thoughts, looking back at the dream and how closely the lovely creature resembled Polly, and now here I'm nearly irate with rage over the same thing. In any case, as I continued to search my feelings, my mind drifted back to thousands of family meals, breakfast lunch and dinner, in our house growing up, where open discussion of current events shaped my emotional landscape. You see, my family has always taken great pride in the fact that we all stick together, and we all stick up for one another no matter what. When my sister started begging to be able to go out on dates, my father would burst a vein in his forehead about how inappropriate it would be, and give long tyrannical speeches on the ills of society and the rampant perversion that was everywhere... and then there was poker night: when I would hear testimony after testimony from that same mouth of the virtues of certain young waitresses and even school girls, the only distinction being that those girls were not affiliated to the family in any way. So that meant they were fair game. Nothing perverted about that, right?  So now I knew that my extreme reaction was two fold: because old Jenks had apparently taken advantage of one of his own, instead of a similar supernumerary from across town; and simple jealousy.

    6:30 a.m. and the clock blared at me. Slamming my fist down upon it, it went quiet.  Polly was spooned up to my back as I lay there on my side, her hands not where they shouldn't be.  I made a mental note to move to a room with two beds.  

    Soon we were up and out and into a McDonalds for breakfast.  I had taken the phone directory from the room and sat thumbing through it looking for local dentists and pediatricians, sipping coffee while Polly munched on a cake of hash browns. The events during the night were desperately being forgotten.  

    I left several messages on office answering machines explaining my urgency, willing to arrive at a moments notice in case of a last minute cancellation.  

    At 8 o'clock, my cell started ringing with callbacks. Soon we were in the waiting room of a dentist that specialized in children.  

    Polly was afraid, and it took every trick in the book to keep her from crying.  All lies and lame reassurance, and she wasn't buying.  To her, this was the doctor, and apparently when she had been sick and needed a doctor, she was told that doctors are mean and they only want to hurt people by sticking them with needles and cutting with knives, and charging lots of money for it.  It took quite a while to move beyond the fear and get her to agree that as far as the dentists and doctors were concerned, she was my niece.

    In the chair, Polly began to relax under the care of a very experienced woman. Stroking her hair back, she smiled down at her and swore that she would not do anything to hurt her.   A quick examination had the woman shooting me accusing glances.  

    "Hey, c'mon, she’s my niece and I met her yesterday for the first time.  Just tell me what needs to be done."  

    With that the woman's mood softened. She took a few opportunities to look me over more closely as the realization that in some way I had rescued the girl sunk in - a knight-in-shining-armor perhaps, and perhaps imagining that she could use a little rescuing herself.  

    After the initial exam by two techs and finally the big D himself, I was counseled as to the extent of the damage. It wasn't pretty - nor cheap.  The big problem was that they estimated a minimum of six visits to bring her back to health, primarily to try to restore the damage to her gums, and those treatments had to be spaced apart by a couple of weeks.  The good news was, that the chipped teeth were still viable and could be repaired in time, the plaque was coming off today along with a fluoride treatment, and we would be sent home with a kit for whitening her teeth back to the brilliance of any normal 11 year old.  

    "What about the chipped teeth, is there anything you can do now to make them appear normal?", I asked hopefully.  

    "Unfortunately, we won't be able to permanently crown the teeth until she is at least 18 years old. There are temporary solutions that are marginal in appearance and durability, unless you want to spend a whole lot of money for something temporary."  The dentist said, looking straight into my eyes.  

    "How much is a whole lot?" I asked.  

    Scratching his chin and glancing toward the room where the girl waited patiently, running a few numbers behind his eyes, he finally stated, "about $1,200 per tooth.  

    "Do it."  I said.  

    He nodded at his assistant and she bolted toward her office to get the paperwork done and appointments issued.  

    Our next appointment for that day was the pediatrician. But first we were heading back to the hotel for lunch. Along the way, Polly leaned her head against her window and dreamily watched the landscape float by.

    "Polly, how did your teeth get chipped?" I asked, breaking the silence.

    Polly stiffened and froze for a moment as the question settled in, then slowly turned to look at me. Her eyes drifted from mine to the steering wheel as she reflected, deep hurt and pain in her eyes. Seeing her struggling so much I lost my will to even hear what might have caused so much hurt in her. She was about to speak, but before she did I reached over, undid her seatbelt, and pulled her over next to me, my arm pressing her in tight against my side, her cheek and hand on my chest.

*********************************

    Inside Polly's mind the event played through a few times, like it always had, hating herself for allowing it to happen, and exploring alternate outcomes if she had been more careful: It was a pleasant afternoon on a warm spring day. It was her birthday. She had just turned 10 and the only birthday present she had received was from her aunt Cecillia, a pink bicycle. She loved it. For hours she rode up and down the driveway and along the sidewalk in front of their apartment. When her mom yelled at her to come inside to say goodbye to her aunt Cecillia she dropped the bicycle and ran in. She hated to see her aunt leave. They seemed to have a connection and an understanding, and she felt normal when she was with her. She hugged her tight until they pryed her loose. Before her mind had even cleared from that loss, because she seldom got to see her aunt Cecillia, there was a crash outside and in came Darryl Jenks, Polly's step dad, screaming at Polly for leaving her bike behind his truck. He dragged her out of the house to the scene of the crime and shoved her face in front of the pink scratch on his fender. Polly was only able to focus on the bent and twisted frame of her bike under the massive wheel. Seeing this Darryl's rage went beyond the red line and he punched her in the face with a right hook. She collapsed and her face fell onto the bike, chipping her teeth. A flurry of screams and protests followed, entering her semi-consciousness as if in a dream. Coming to, Darryl and his truck gone, her mother with a bloody nose and busted lip, and her bike a total loss, Polly sat beside it playing with the streamers and putting flowers in the basket, and rubbing her tongue over the jagged edged of her teeth.

**********************************

    Polly cried softly, sniffing periodically. "Do you want to tell me?" I asked.

    Polly looked up at me, considering it, then looked down at her hands.

    "Promise you'll tell me some day?" I asked.

    Looking up at me again, she smiled and nodded.

    Lunch in the hotel room consisted of PBJ's for Polly, ham sandwiches for me, potato chips for us both, water out of the little plastic hotel cups, and a tooth whitening for her. Just before we left for the doctor, Polly brushed her teeth of her own accord, and stared at them in the mirror.  Waiting at the door for her, she came bopping toward me and threw her arms around my waist. Awkwardly we walked down the hall that way.  

    Knowing full well the reaction of the doctor when he sees the girl's behind, I explained to the receptionist that I needed to see the doctor alone before he sees the girl.  

    For some reason I felt compelled to drop the "niece" pretext with this doctor, and I quickly explained the true events of the past 24 hours to him, I stated, "I want you to do a gynecological exam, and depending of what you find, I need to know now what you are required to do about it."  

    "Well, I will have to notify Family Services if there is any indication of sexual assault. As for the belt marks, corporal punishment has not been outlawed. Broken bones are another matter, and the puncture was probably not intentional. But really, Mr. Wilkes, what I am more concerned about is violating my professional ethics with regard to her and the fact that you are not her official guardian. I should require that the state be notified."  

    "Uhm, you 'should' require it?" I asked, wondering why he used 'should' instead of 'must'.

    "I don't like the way the state handles these cases. The girl would end up being neglected in the long run. If you can assure me that you will be discrete regarding my services should the state become involved in the future, then I will go ahead and provide them. I only say this because I will have her file seperate and there will be no official record."

    "You can count on me. It's good to know there are a few sane people left in the world doc. Thank you." I paused, thinking... "So, what if there are signs she has been sexually abused. How can we handle that? Wouldn't she be right back in the position of being neglected by the state? And if she has been abused, we know who did it, and he's dead. What good would it do?  What about Polly? I don't want them forcing her to relive the whole thing under interrogation just for the record books. That's wrong."  

    "I'm glad to hear you say that. In nearly every case I've had, and there have been several, I've dealt with mothers, and they, as women, become solely concerned with exacting revenge and disguise it as something in the best interest of the child. It clearly does much more harm than good to the child, unless the perpetrator will still have access to the victim.   Let me make a call before we examine her to see if we can come to an understanding."  

    "Oh wow, Thank you sir. That is most kind. I'll be waiting."  

    Relief washed over me. This competent and compassionate man is in exactly the right profession.  

    In any case, it was all for naught.  The social worker and doctor agreed that if the girl had been abused by the old guy, it would be better to let it lie, as long as I agreed to formally adopt the girl and not let her drift into the state foster care system, or back to the old man.  But as it turns out, the girl had not been penetrated.  With much relief, I called the social worker and gave her the good news, along with the names of the old couple so that we could get the adoption done.  To my delight, she told me that in cases where all parties are in agreement, the adoption is not only free, but is legal in a matter of days.  I didn't bother telling her about crack whores and lost paternity. Who knows what roadblocks they might construct against me? At least for now I was content to be walking with her hand in hand, my arm being propelled against my will like a giant pendulum.  

    Halfway to the car, in the parking lot, I knelt down in front of her and held her hands in mine. Tears were welling up in my eyes, she looked at me confused.  

    "Polly, sweetheart, I know this is happening really fast, but I just talked to a lady on the phone who says that if you want to, I can become your daddy.  Would you like that?"   I sniffed and wiped my tears on my wrist, not letting go of her hands.  

    Polly quickly nodded, and for once she looked into my eyes and made the connection. She understood my tears and at that instant lost control of her pent up hurt and pain due to neglect and loneliness. She burst into tears and fell into my arms, sobbing deeply with her face buried in my chest.  

    Standing up and lifting her into my arms. I turned to see a car that had been patiently waiting for us to move out of the aisle, the woman at the wheel dabbing at her tears.  I wondered what she must have thought we were crying about.  

************************************

    Normally, I would methodically work through upgrading the electrical service, plumbing, and HVAC systems of a rehab house myself, saving the expense of hiring contractors. But now that I have Polly, certain priorities must be rearranged. Hiring contractors this time, to make the place habitable, would save some money in the long run, not having to stay at the hotel for an extended period.  So hire them I did. Within a week, we were ready to move in.  

    The house was a two story brick built in 1900, located in the South Grand neighborhood of south St. Louis. It looked a little sad from the street because the decorative fascia of the eves was rotten and pulling away from the rafters. In the basement I found an old photograph of the home showing the original design. The intricate scrollwork was clearly visible. Considering how simple a task it will be to duplicate, install, and paint: probably a short afternoon of work, I estimated that I saved over $40,000 on the price of the home simply because of the poor curb appeal it caused. It made the house look like it was falling down - but I knew different. I loved it.  

    The main bulk of work, other than updating the utilities, was the walls and ceilings in the upstairs bedrooms, and the upstairs bathroom needed gutting. On the first floor, there was already a newer kitchen, the great room was in nice shape, and the master bedroom and bath were acceptable. Once we finished the upstairs, we would move up there and gut the master suite.  

    For the rest of the summer Polly and I worked on the house. She was a worker too. So much so that I felt guilty not paying her. So I brought her to the bank with me and we opened a savings account for her. $10 per hour was a bargain for me and seemed like a fortune to her. I've long known that two competent workers get three times the work done as a single man working alone. So Polly actually increased the amount of labor I could accomplish by two men. Okay, two lazy men. I was happy to pay her the ten bucks.  

    My rule for the savings account was that 80% of her deposits were to be saved for college, 15% would be hers when she turned 16, and 5% to spend whenever she likes. It didn't take her very long to figure out how percentages work.  She kept a journal with the pass book that showed exact balances for each of the three accounts.  It was a fairly simple lesson considering that for each hour worked, $8 went to college, $1.50 went to sweet 16, and 50c to her allowance.  

**********************************

    The summer passed.  Polly's account totals had swollen to $3,840 for college, $720 for sweet 16, and $240 allowance, of which she had only spent $20 so far.  My private "I" found Polly's mother and after several negotiations, she settled for cash. He collected affidavits regarding the lack of known paternity and the application was submitted by the nice lady from Family Services.    It was fall, and as I watched the radar track of the a hurricane in the Gulf of Mexico, heading for Corpus Christi Texas, I realized that there were an unusual number of milestones coming due all at once:  1) Polly's 12th birthday  (Sunday).  2) Polly's teeth would be complete (Friday). 3) The house was ready to sell or lease. 4) Polly's first day of school as my daughter (2 weeks away). 5) Yesterday the adoption became final.  

    The merging of these coincidental milestones with the image of the hurricane was screaming out at me.  "Hello?  Are you an idiot? Can't you see that all of your loose ends have been neatly tied up, and that you have just enough time to get down there before school starts?"  

*********************************

    Experiences in my life have made me acutely aware of coincidental events. When searching for a college to attend, I became aware that the name of a particular school had been voiced within my earshot on five occasions in the same week. The school was in town and I had never heard of it before. Four of the five times I heard the name, It was from people that did not know I was looking for a college to attend. The fifth was a friend of the family who worked at McDonnell Douglas as an engineer. I asked him directly which school he would recommend, and Parks College was what he said. I went and graduated second in my class.  

    A few years later, and for reasons I cannot remember, I read a book called "The Celestine Prophesy" . In this poorly written book it described a "New-Age" religion that, along with many other beliefs that I felt were bizarre, described one regarding coincidences. It rang true to me and shortly after reading it, I was put to the test.  

    I had begun dabbling in the stock market in response to the enthusiasm my mother-in-law had displayed having listened to a get-rich-quick set of audio tapes. The brokerage firm I had chosen had a "broker-in-training" with the most wonderful female Germanic accent I had ever heard. I had spoken with her several times and always wondered what her deal was, and what she looked like. On this fateful day, I needed to get some money into my account quicker than the mail could provide, so I went in person to deposit a check. Corinne was petite, blonde, and Swiss. I spoke with her for about five minutes while she adjusted my account on her terminal. I noticed she had some college finance textbooks beside her desk on the floor. She was dressed in a semi- formal skirt and jacket - Suitable to the somewhat less than formal business atmosphere. I had left work early and it was approaching 3:00 pm. Having completed the business, I headed diagonally across town about 45 miles, stopping only for gas. Just prior to reaching my counseling appointment, realizing I had skipped lunch, I stopped at a Taco Bell, At close to 4:00 pm, the restaurant was empty. As I sat down with my tray of tacos, the door opened and in walked Corinne, dressed in blue jeans and a T-shirt. I sat quietly watching her as she ordered, paid, and waited for her food. I was trying to shake loose the all of the dream-like and surreal qualities of this most incredible moment. As I plotted my conversation with her, I thought of a clever opening line.  

    Turning with her tray to face me, she stopped as if she hit a wall. The same dream-like surreal-ness was swirling behind her eyes as she tried to grasp the situation.  

    "Corinne, why are you following me?"  

    Not having had enough time to process everything yet, she actually took me seriously and started denying and apologizing.  I smiled at her and she quickly understood, and felt even more foolish. Having her on the ropes, I stood and invited her to sit with me.  We covered a few quick topics regarding why we were going the same way, how she had arrived so quickly, and in different clothes.  And then I told her about the book I had read, explaining that we are supposed to investigate the coincidence, exploring the lives of those involved in order to discover the reason we were brought together, and that it states it is seldom for romantic reasons. She was intrigued and described how she had just decided a month ago that she and her husband would divorce, and that it was final today. I described how many problems I was having in my marriage and for that reason I was on my way to a counseling appointment.  She was confused what a counselor was, and when I explained, she thought it was a psychiatrist, indicating that she would never go to one. Studying her, I felt that I may have found a plausible reason for our meeting. She was far too comfortable with her divorce. She was married for nine years and they divorced because he was ready for kids and she wasn't. Wham-bam it's done and I'm perfectly happy with it.  Something about her lack of emotions and happy demeanor about it disturbed me.  So I made her promise to see the lady counselor I was seeing at least once. Surprised that it was a woman counselor, she finally agreed, and I left. Two years later I had moved to St. Louis after my own divorce and had to transfer my accounts there. The brokerage account had sat idle ever since that day, having lost everything but a couple hundred bucks.  I called and asked for Corrine. They informed me that she had transferred to St. Louis and gave me her office number.  When I spoke, I was amazed to hear that after all that time, she recognized my voice.  Once convinced that I was actually who she thought I was, she screamed into the phone with happy delight that she finally was going to be able to tell me the story of her life after our meeting. She had attended counseling sessions twice a week for six months. Everything good that happened in her life since that day, her moving to the big city, the blossoming of her social life, and her incredible happiness, she attributed to me and Sharon, the counselor I had introduced her to.  



**********************************

    There have been other equally dramatic events dotting the landscape of my existence, giving it meaning. This one seemed to be speaking to me very clearly: "Pack up and go".  In this case there were three simultaneous coincidences occurring at once: 1) The large number of milestones landing within a very short period of time, effectively tying up all loose ends. 2) While thinking of these, the radar picture of a hurricane appears on the TV, bringing back the promise I had made to Polly in the restaurant, which brings up the last fact: 3) Polly and I share the same dream of living on a boat.  

    Up until now, I only had to worry about myself. If one of my coincidental adventures didn't pan out, I was the only one affected. But now I had Polly to worry about. I wasn't sure how she would react.  

    Sitting at the kitchen table with a coloring book, glancing up at me periodically, and me staring blankly at her, she finally asked: "What's wrong?"  

    "Nothing, I'm just thinking."  

    "'bout what?" she asked.  

    "Do you remember when we talked about our dream of living on a ship?"  

    Polly put down the colored pencil and, leaning forward, crossed her wrists on her book.  "Yes."  

    "Do you think I meant it?" I asked.  

    Gazing at the center of the table in thought she finally looked up and nodded.  

    "Did you mean it?" I asked.  

    Again she nodded.  

    "Would you be sad moving out of here?  And going far away?"  

    With a long face she probed my eyes, trying to discover where this was going and how it might affect her if she continues agreeing with me.  

    "I'm being serious."  I said.

    "Do you mean now?"  

    "Yes, as quick as we can."  

    "Where?"  

    In answer, I turned on the TV to the weather channel and pointed to the hurricane. "Wherever this thing ends up coming ashore.  

    The hurricane had all but stopped in the center of the gulf, equidistant from Texas, Florida, and Cuba.  

    Studying her, I sat down and pulled her into my lap. "It will be like an adventure. We have to get there quick after the storm and start looking for just the right boat.  And hopefully you can start school on the first day with all the other kids."  

    "But what about all our stuff?  Can I bring...."  I cut her off.  

    "We will get a storage place, just for the furniture. All of your little stuff you can bring."  

    This seemed a little shallow for Polly. She had a very practical view of the world and had not demonstrated any great concern for material things - other than her clothes. "What about....." Again I interrupted her.  

    "When I did this before, I was surprised how many people needed help after the storm had passed. I felt bad that I was there to take advantage of the storm, and they had lost so much."  I gauged her reaction to the reality I knew she would experience if we went on this adventure. Then I continued. "I'm planning on bringing some supplies. Things they will need very badly, like food and water."  

    Her eyes brightened and became serious. She paused studying her feelings, and then jumping up and turning to face me, "Okay, I'll go. What should I start doing?"  

    "Nothing right now." I said. “I have a lot of things to do that you can't help me with." Pausing to think I added: "If you want, you can start boxing up all of your books, toys, and knick-knacks."  

    Flashing me her newly perfected brightly shining teeth, she rushed from the room, seemingly happy to be on an adventure, even though it would be a few days before we left.  

    The number of things on my to-do list was overwhelming me, mainly because my to-do list was located in my head rather than on a piece of paper. And for some strange reason I have always had a very difficult time calming down enough to concentrate on a task while at home, such as planning a move and making a detailed to-do list. It seems there is nowhere your eyes can come to rest without them falling on something to distract your attention away from the task at hand - and similarly with the other senses: the smells, sounds, and flavors of home all seem to distract my mind away. So we ended up sitting in a local coffee house for what seemed like hours (Polly being as patient as a saint) while I got my head on straight and planned out the next few days.   

    "Mitch, can Sally spend the night tonight?" Asked Polly out of the blue.

    "I don't know honey. Don't you think we should pack?"

    "Well, yeah, but I'm not gonna see any of my friends before we leave then. And I really love Sally." She said, shocking me into the reality of her words, and how amazingly in tune she was to her emotional side.

    "I'm sorry sweetheart, I'm not thinking clearly. Of course you can. You spend all the time you want with your friends. Here, do you want to call her now?" I handed over my phone and the girls talked and plotted their evening quietly while I put the finishing touches on my plan to leave town.

    That night, after pizza and ice cream, Polly and Sally got ready for bed while I arranged the furniture and loaded a movie into the player. We had rented Harry Potter, The Magic Wardrobe, and The Incredibles from a Red Box. They let me pick, and of course I chose The Incredibles. Our familyroom furniture was exactly what I had in storage from the last time I left town: A multi-piece sectional sofa that was well broken in and very soft. A large pile of throw pillows made nest building a breeze. I had plopped down on my favorite spot propped up by my favorite pillows, while the girls restlessly changed positions every 10 minutes until I scolded them (in a nice way). Polly ended up curled in the crook of my arm with her head on my chest - hundreds of hours of television having been watched from that exact same position. Sally stayed apart, unsure whether to snuggle with me or not, but clearly contemplating it, and wanting to. I beckoned her over to my free side and she quickly and eagerly mirrored Polly's position.

    Now all was still as the movie droned on. I noticed that at certain times when something funny occurred in the movie, especially when Freezone was looking for his supersuit, that the girls did not move, did not laugh, did not stir at all. I had been tracing patterns on their backs with my fingertips and I thought maybe I had put them to sleep.

    "Are you guys still awake?" I asked quietly.

    Both heads popped up and they confirmed they were wide awake.

    "You're awful quiet." I observed.

    Neither said anything in response, but after a few moments Polly said "Come on!" in a whiny voice.

    "What?" I asked.

    "Don't stop." She wiggled her fingers over her shoulder.

    I had gotten distracted away from drawing on their backs, watching the movie, and thinking they had fallen asleep. When I started up again, both girls flattened themselves onto me as much as possible, looking into each other's faces, cooing and smiling, revelling in the caresses and completely ignoring the movie. Now I was becoming aware of the girls, reading the situation more accurately and realizing they were electrified with titillation. I became worried for a split second, wondering if I were crossing some inappropriate line, but then I relaxed, realizing it was no big deal - that all I was doing was scratching and rubbing their backs, everything else was of their own design. In fact, it was gratifying to see the girls enjoying themselves so much. Sally had no father figure in her life, so being on the receiving end of some male adoration was probably a very healthy thing for her. Especially since it was likely she would not have a boyfriend until she was much older. Boys that age would never see past the fact that she had only one hand, terrified of the teasing that would certainly occur. Polly seemed unable to notice anything beyond the fact that Sally was an incredibly nice person and very fun to be with. I noticed the same thing, as well as the fact that she was very pretty, taller and fuller in body than Polly, and much further into puberty as well. She lived behind us, across the alley, in an apartment complex with her mom.

    The girls began exchanging secret whispers, each in turn lifting up and leaning across my torso to deliver their message, blocking my view of the TV each time. I sensed it had something to do with me, otherwise why would they be whispering and glancing up at me. The energy was escalating. Twice after they had reached some kind of agreement, they had adjusted their positions simultaneously, seemingly to press themselves against my thighs. Each had stollen a glance at me to see if I had noticed, or cared. I just continued to draw doodles on their backs and let them play.

    My eyes were just slits in the position I was in, but I could see the girls perfectly. Polly had on one of her many nighties while Sally wore pink flannel pajamas with booties attached and a long sleeve shirt that snapped down the front. I don't think Sally realized it, but the top three snaps were open and each time she bent over me to whisper in Polly's ear, her small breast would peek out at me. Eventually Polly noticed as well and pointed out the fact. When Sally examined herself and realized how completely exposed she had been, she looked up at me and I smiled back at her, causing them to blush, laughing through their fingers in an excited and slightly embarrased way. The very next time Sally leaned over me, the snap popped loose again and there it was.

    The fever was growing high and the girls' antics were beginning to show signs of escalating into the realm of slumber party. They were acting drunk with excitment and laughter. When Polly got up to go to the bathroom, afraid she would pee her pants from laughing if she didn't, she lifted her nighty, pulled down the back of her panties, and wiggled her bare butt at Sally and I. Once gone, I wrapped both arms around Sally and held her tight, kissed her head and said, "It's nice to see you girls having so much fun." But she was so contented being held so closely, in full intimate contact with a safe man, or so she believed, that she remained silent and continued to rub her stub hand across the whiskers on my neck. Polly was gone much longer than she should have been. When I heard some knocking around in the back it made me wonder what she was up to. When she finally returned, she was wearing my flannel pajamas, the ones that button down the front, and she had left three of the buttons unbottoned. Once back into her spot, she immediately began rubbing my whiskers, having seen Sally doing it. When the whispering began again, Polly had to adjust her top so that it would sag open properly. When she felt she finally had it, she looked up at me and I nodded to her that she had succeeded - and as if I weren't supposed to be looking, she slapped my chest and gave me an aghast look, then quickly went back to giggling and whispering with Sally. Polly was not shy with me at all: she frequently walked nude through the house on her way to and from the bathroom or the laundry.

    At one point I paused the movie and got up, flinging the girls roughly aside. I needed a break to clear my head, having gotten more than a little drunk with the girls energy. I had been running my hands all over their backs for over an hour, and without thinking, had rubbed their butts two or three times before realizing what I was doing. They loved it, smiling wide eyed at each other and afraid to move, and then whining loudly when I aborted the game out of fear and got up.

    Feeling re-fortified against their whiles, I reclined back into my spot. But when the girls in their turn crept back to their positions, it lit me up far beyond where I had been before the break. It's like when you have been in contact with someone for an extended period, your nerves kind of go numb and you can't dinstinguish anything specific about their body, and since that contact had been strictly platonic at first and slowly escalated as the girls' energy grew, it still seemed like no big deal. But having taken a break, and the girls when they crawled back immediately and ever so seductively pressed their bodies into the fullest possible contact with mine, grinding their pubic bones onto my hips and softly rubbing my face, well, it was like a bolt of lightening in my brain, and I froze, terrified. Slowly I resigned to the idea that as long as they couldn't sense that I was aroused by them, that it wouldn't hurt to let them have their way with me for a while longer. Fortunately that numbness began to work again, a little. An indicator as to how their antics and energy were growing more outrageous: they each purposely caused their sleep shirts to sag open completely by stealthily unbottoning them further down and not too cleverly "accidentally" pulled them open while leaning over. But to me, the breasts were nothing compared to their constant, instinctive grinding against my hips. I don't think they were aware of most of those movements.

    On my way to bed, as I came down the hall, I heard the girls' excited whispers, apparently aware that I was about to pass by their room. They peeked out, the door barely cracked. "Come here." one chirped, "Yeah, we want to show you something." chirped the other.

    When they saw I was about to open the door, they bolted away screaming and laughing loudly. As the door swung open I saw them diving for the bed, naked, grabbing for covers and pillows to hide behind.

    I played it cool. "Uhm, what did you want to show me?"

    A few minutes later they called me back to their door. This time they opened the door and walked around the room bravely, the flush of hormones clearly seen in the blush that ran from their cheeks to their chests.

    "Yes?" I said, acting like nothing was wrong. "What do you want?"

    The next time they called to me I ignored them. I was already in bed. But this just brought them into my room, standing beside the bed. When I asked what they wanted, they began climbing onto the bed. "If you want to snuggle some more, that's fine, but you will have your jammies on."

    "Awe, Mitch! Come on, we just want you to rub our backs." Polly said continuing to climb aboard, and Sally nodding agreement ready to follow. I was down to my boxers now. I could imagine how the "back rub" would end up, similar to during the movie, but with no clothes between my thigh and their...

    "You don't need to be naked. If you want to do it naked, go back in your room and give each other back rubs."

    Both girls scrunched their noses at the idea, shaking their heads.

    When they returned, the shirts were completely unbuttoned. "Nuh-Uh! Button up." I demanded.

    They tried getting under the covers, but I headed that off as well. Eventually they ooched their shirts up in the back and I rubbed their bare backs. Certainly not what they had in mind. But it put them to sleep none the less and I enjoyed very much carrying them to bed, knowing that they were awake for the trip. It was an opportunity to show them my sweeter side, softly brushing the hair out of their eyes and carefully lifting and placing them with a strength that bewildered them. I planted a soft kiss on each mouth after tucking them in. Giggles erupted as the door closed.

********************************* 

    The house was added to my collection of leased homes, not having time to sell it. The property management company was happy to add one more and increase their fee accordingly, but at least I didn’t have to worry about finding tenants.  I did, however, have to empty it of all of the stuff that had collected there. It was amazing the number of items, especially kitchen items, that I would never have bought for myself, but for some reason felt it necessary having Polly. It was as if I had to bring her a token gadget periodically, just for the sake of...? What, to make her happy? If an apple corer or Ginsu knife could make a girl happy, I don’t know. It must be some weird instinct that makes me not want to come back from the hunt empty handed. I remember getting some strange looks from her as she tried to find the right place to store the thing.  

    In any case, packing was going slowly, trying to minimize the stuff we would bring or put into storage. In the end we had a large yard sale and sold much more than we should have, for much less than we should have, knowing we would be coming back some day.  

    The yard sale coincided with a small party that a neighbor had arranged for Polly and her very few neighborhood friends she had made over the summer. While I was checking out a line of customers carrying our stuff, Polly came up beside me, escorted by the neighbor lady who was hosting the party. She was crying.  

    “Oh, Polly..., What is it honey?” I asked, giving an apologizing glance to the people waiting to pay, then quickly giving Polly my undivided attention.  

    She sniffed and looked up at me, and then at the people, all curious to know what the problem was. She broke into sobs and buried her face in my chest.  

    The neighbor woman shrugged and said, “They were sitting there quietly talking, and all of a sudden she just started crying. I wasn’t paying much attention.”  

    Polly, too embarrassed to face the crowd, raised her hand to me, offering me a piece of paper she had clutched in her hand. It was a note, a goodbye note from Sally, with whom she had spent long hours playing dolls, house, dress-up, and more recently nudism. The note was short and to the point: “To my best friend, Polly.  I will miss you very, very much. Love, Sally.”  It was intricately drawn, with scenes of the games they had played together.   

    Reading the note, I understood perfectly. I scooped her up into my arms, asked the nice lady to take some money from the people, and went inside. Mopping her up and using my goofy antics to get her smiling and laughing, I soon had her respectable, if not a little puffy around the eyes.  

    “Are you going to be okay now?” I asked.  

    Polly nodded, but didn’t look up at me, as if she were pondering something. She said, “I want Sally and Rachael to be best friends now. But they don’t know each other at all. We never played together, all of us.” She paused, thinking. I watched the light of an idea spread across her face. She bolted from the room, came to a screeching halt, walked slowly back in having forgotten that her room was empty, and said, “I need my drawing book and colored pencils.”  

    Ten minutes later, sweating profusely, I produced them, having had to unpack half the trailer to do so. Polly had gone back to her friends but was soon back, sprawled out on the vast, empty hardwood floor, drawing with intense concentration. I was back outside attending to the sale when she tugged at my arm, wanting me to see what she had created. Pulling me inside the house, she handed me two notes, hastily drawn: They were the same, one for Rachael, one for Sally, and basically introduced them to each other by the common bond of being her two favorite people in the whole world, except for her dad, and that they had to become best friends after Polly was gone. Each included the other’s full name and address, phone number, and e-mail address.  

    “Polly, this is a wonderful idea. I am so proud of you.” He pulled her in for a big hug and kiss, Polly’s face was bright and happy. While he held her, he said, “I hope the other kids don’t feel left out.”  

    “Oh, they won’t even know. I’m going to give it to them in secret.”  

    “I should have known.” I said, smiling large and feeling deep affection for her. “You are a good person, Polly, You know that?”  

    Smiling, and looking deep into my eyes, she also felt the strong bond between us. She then twisted herself out of my grasp and ran back to her friends shouting, “Bye” at me as she went out the door.

    Driving south was a wet adventure. The hurricane was still moving slowly, curving away from the Texas coast and beginning a march north-north-east toward the Florida pan handle. The rain was constant and heavy, making the driving hard work, pulling the trailer. The news programs on the radio were all discussing the effects of the storm should it hit New Orleans or Gulfport again.  

    Once we were within a hundred miles of the predicted path, near Pensacola, we camped out in a small motel room and waited for the inevitable. Again the storm deviated from the predicted path. We drove another two hundred miles and checked into another motel. This time we had guessed correctly, the eye passing right over our motel. Fortunately the storm did not cause extensive flooding or damage to the infrastructure of the coastal communities. Driving around in the mild devastation, we doled out the emergency supplies we had brought with us to groups of people obviously in need. Eventually, we were visiting the marinas where the north-west quadrant of the storm had come ashore, typically the location with the most damage.  

    To my dismay, it seemed as if we weren’t going to find anything. There were no larger yachts that had sustained the kind of damage that made the whole thing worth while, and the yachts we did look at were not the kind I was wanting. Frustrated, and feeling a little desperate, I headed on down the coast, getting further and further away from the storm damage, my hopes sinking further and further down. We stumbled onto another backwater marina, I found the owner in his office, in a bad mood.

     “Do you have any storm damaged boats?” I asked.

     “Just one. Why?” he asked gruffly,

     “I’m interested in buying a motor-sailor and doing structural repairs myself. I did the same thing when Katrina hit and had some good success.”

     “Well, I’m afraid this one might be over your head. It’s a 52. And it’s banged up pretty good.” He said.

     A fifty-two foot motor sailor is a big yacht, unless it’s a racer, which would have a narrower beam. If not..., if it had a wide beam, it would probably have multiple decks and several staterooms. He might be right. A ship like that comes with a whole new set of problems. Like bigger, more complex engines; Harder to handle without a crew; Harder to sail, unless it’s a very modern yacht designed to be single-handed; and a deep draft that prohibits entry into small harbors, rivers, and marinas.

     “What happened? Did it sink?” I asked, Polly coming up beside me. She had hung back looking at a ship-in-a-bottle just outside the office.

     “No.” He said, rubbing his face as if washing it. “Christ, what a cluster-fuck! - Oh, sorry.” He said, noticing Polly for the first time. “No. It came in just ahead of the storm. The old guy was in a panic to get it moored safely. All of our spring cables and mooring stations were in use, and the wind was already making handling difficult. Like a fool I suggested we could hoist it out and leave it on the crane until the storm passed, you know, tying her off real good so she wouldn’t swing. I called in my cousin who does the scuba work for me. He fished the harness around the hull and we lifted her out. Just as I was beginning to swing her around, the keel having cleared the deck, the power went out. For some reason I can’t figure out, the safety brake didn’t catch. By the time I was able to trip the ratchet (which should have been tripped from the start) the keel was resting on the ledge and she was leaning precariously over, threatening to break the harness. Helpless, we watched as the wind twisted her around, eventually grinding away the keel enough that she slid off the ledge and swung free, banging away at the sides of the concrete.”

     I had concern and pain on my face as I relived his nightmare. “What are you going to do?” I asked. Then added, “I’m afraid you’re right, a 52 might be out of my league.”

     “I don’t know. I think I’m going to sue the crane manufacturer.” He said angrily.

     “Just out of curiosity, what’s she worth?” I asked, taking Polly’s hand in preparation to leave.

     “Let me show her to you.” He said, pushing away from his desk and standing up, not choosing to answer my question.

     “That’s okay, we need to get going. I don’t want to take you away from your work.”

     “That boat is my work. I don’t mind.” He said, leading the way as if we had no choice but to follow.

     Once outside, my eye was drawn to the prominent crane that stood idle, it’s bright blue paint and the shape of it made it look brand new and modern. Then I saw her, sitting on a yard transport trailer painted with the same blue paint. Apparently he had just purchased this matched pair of equipment to increase the repair capability of his marina. There was also construction evident in other locations, giving the appearance that the whole place was undergoing a facelift.

     I was struck dumb with the beautiful lines of the boat. Most of the damage was hidden behind the high sides of the yard transport that held her. Two men were working on a site nearby where she would be set on blocks. Looking closer, peering in through a gap, I could see some of the damage. It looked bad, but knowing what I knew, It wasn’t hopeless, unless the other side was far worse.

     The three of us stood there, gawking at her. “Mitchell Wilkes.” I said, extending my hand. “Tony Price.” He said, and then, “One point two.” “One point two?” I asked. “Million” Said Tony. I whistled a long whistle, quickly rising in pitch, and then slowly dropping off. “Yeah.” He said, feeling the pinch of responsibility for it.  

    “How bad is it?” I asked.  

    “Well, it doesn’t look too bad from here, but the keel is sprung. There’s a big crack that runs up the primary bulkhead, the one that ties to the main-stays. After the first big swing, she hit the corner hard and it sounded like a cannon going off when she sprung.”  

    “Ouch.” I said.  

    “Yeah, ouch.  

    Against my better judgment, we hung around. As we toured the cabins, feeling the love for her forming in us, the talk wandered back to money.  

    “What do you think he would take for her, as she sits?” I asked.  

    “I don’t know. I guess the salvage of masts, sails, appliances, interior, engines, electronics... maybe two hundred. But that’s assuming the hull is totalled. Did you notice the rudder?”  

    I hadn’t. It’s large hinge pin had been driven into the hull, cracks emanating from the location. At the same time I noticed that one of the bronze propellers was distorted, meaning the shaft might be bent, the bearing housings cracked, etc. Tony had not noticed this, and the new information had a bad affect on him. He was falling into deeper anxiety over the situation. I took the opportunity to excuse ourselves. “Tony, it was nice meeting you, but we have to be going. Good luck with this. I hope it works out for you.” I said. He shook my hand and fixed me with a look that had a plea for help in it. Guiltily, I turned to leave.  

    Polly had been very quiet, respectful, and unobtrusive during the whole tour. But now she stopped dead and said, “Where are we going?”  

    I was taken aback by her tone. She sounded confused and a little angry. “We need to keep looking.” I said, stating the obvious.  

    “But that’s the one I dreamed about.” She said.  

    “You did? When?”  

    “Lots of times.” She said matter-of-factly.  

    I guided her away from the ears and eyes that were leaning towards us.  

    “Well, Polly, how do you know it’s the same one? I mean, sailboats all look kind of the same” I said, hoping this would placate her. It didn’t.

     “Nuh-uh, the round windows in the bathroom... I remember I can look out while I go pee.” Polly said, very passionately. “...and the pelican on the wall in the kitchen.” She added, equally as passionate.

     “Really? And they were the same?” I asked in disbelief.

     Polly nodded emphatically, the way she used to do without saying anything.

    The dream was explained in detail to me and it was scary how many details matched. I’m not one to argue with fate and coincidence. By the end of the week we were moving into our new home, still on blocks but fully functional as a home, being plugged into the marina utilities. I had examined the keel and bulkhead structural damage carefully and had designed a repair that would make her stronger than new, using a Kevlar composite to reinforce it, just like repairing the spar of a modern fighter aircraft. But that could wait. As long as we weren’t going to sail her, we could put off repairing the crack in the bulkhead indefinitely. First, the rudder, prop shaft, and keel had to be repaired, along with several scars and punctures on the larboard side of the hull. 

     While I worked diligently at the necessary repairs to get us floating, Polly built our nest inside, making lists of things we needed to buy, and delighting in organizing everything in its place. We had talked at length about how life at sea is much different than in a house. How everything had to be secure and every possible thing that could happen had to be thought about ahead of time so that provisions could be made. There would be no stores to buy nuts and bolts or food or medicine. You had to have everything before you left. But that would not be until next summer, after she is out of school again.  

    By the time Polly went off to her first day of school, starting sixth grade at a middle school for grades six, seven, and eight, I was being hounded by Tony to get ‘that thing’ floating. Apparently unwanted boats became ‘things’. I put him off for a little while by paying in advance for the slip I would need, plus a nice bottle of whiskey. The problem was parts. I had to order parts for the prop shaft and rudder from the manufacturer, and until they arrived, I was stuck. But it did afford me the opportunity to spend a lot more time and effort sanding and shaping the hull repairs to the point where you couldn’t tell they had ever occurred - something I would never have done if she were otherwise ready to launch. And I tore out the interior on both sides of the cracked main bulkhead and performed my magic with three quarters of an inch of Kevlar composite on both sides. Eventually I had to close up shop, having nothing else to do but read up on engine maintenance and the electronic equipment and ordering emergency replacement parts for items that had a history of failing, such as belts and hoses, etc. I also stocked the deck lockers with all sorts of toys such as snorkeling equipment, spear guns, inflatables, portable furniture and a large sun shelter for the beach, two queen size air mattresses for overflow sleeping on deck or the beach, and much more. I bought an old stainless-steel swing-out crane from Tony that he had stashed in one of his sheds and mounted it on the port side. It folded flush against the cabin and when covered with a sail-cloth tarp cut to fit, was barely noticeable. The crane would come in handy hauling the new jet-ski aboard. There really wasn’t a good place to store the jet-ski, and many a disapproving comment I received because of it - apparently I was breaking some kind of rule about what "toys" were appropriate aboard a sailboat. I had a skif, but I planned to leave it deflated, stowed, and un-used as much as possible. With the crane, the jetski would be a snap for quick trips and emergency towing, but it did need to be secured due to the strong listing of the deck that would occur while under a full press of sails. I had to lash it to the deck much the way an old man-of-war would do to a cannon. As an afterthought, I installed a hundred gallon gasoline holding tank next to the three hundred gallon diesel tank that fed the two engines, and in the last available locker space, I tucked a 5000 watt emergency generator. Now I was really twiddling my thumbs, waiting for the parts to arrive.  

    My boredom was broken while at the post office. Checking my PO Box there was a formal looking letter from the State Family Services office in St. Louis, the same office that adopted Polly out to me. Polly’s crack-whore mother was urgently trying to locate her, and had threatened to sue the state for ‘tricking’ her into giving her daughter away. When they first approached her to get consent for the adoption, she wanted money. I paid her $2000 directly. Now she was claiming that she never got the money, and had been somehow coerced into signing the document. There was a hearing scheduled to determine if there was merit to any of her accusations. Since there was no way for me to travel, having no one I could trust to watch Polly, I hired an attorney to present my cancelled check and other documents on my behalf. Right after the hearing the attorney called and said the judge was stuck on some technicality and ordered another hearing in two weeks. I told him to hire my private-I, and collect all of the poop he could on her. I got daily reports of her activities. Apparently she had hooked up with an old guy with money, living in a huge house, and traveling every night into the city to buy drugs. Twice she had detoured after scoring her crack to pick up a very young girl waiting for her at a corner in the city. They parked and shot up together, then went home back to the big house. Other tidbits included the fact that her attorney was being paid for by her rich old boyfriend, and the young girl was videoed offering the PI sex for drugs. The girl had disappeared shortly after that and no other information about her was available.  

    When I received the play-by-play of the next hearing my heart did a full gainer with a half twist. Her mother, Patricia Paxton, threw a book across the court at my attorney for showing the video of her shooting up. She denied even knowing the young girl and stormed out of the courtroom. A bailiff had to drag her back in, kicking and screaming. The judge slammed his gavel pronouncing her an unfit mother. "Is that what you plan to do to your own daughter? Shoot her up with drugs? You may have just brought some new charges down on your head young lady! Getting your daughter back won't be one of your worries any more. Maybe if you complete drug rehabilitation while in prison you could try again. But I caution you, if I find your accusations regarding this adoption are false, I'll charge you with so much you might never get out."  The rich boyfriend posted her bail.

     I brought Polly out to a family sports bar to celebrate, even though she knew nothing about it. Several beers and a shot of tequila later and she was shooting me disapproving looks, not for the drinking, but for the open flirting with the very cute blonde waitress that it caused. “Hey, you’re starting to act like my wife!” I said to her, trying to be funny in an obnoxious sort of way.

     Polly stiffened as if slapped in the face. I had never spoken to her like that before, and the reference to my wife (she had to assume I meant my ex-wife) hurt her feelings deeply. We had both shared some of our deepest emotional woes in a “oh yeah? I can beat that!” type of conversation, where I dragged my ex through the mud as if she were the worst person on the planet. So my unfortunate comment, combined with her jealousy over the waitress and wondering what we were doing there in the first place, crushed her emotionally. She attempted to stifle any outward sign of her hurt feelings and quietly excused herself to the restroom, where she stayed for nearly half an hour. I sent the waitress in to check on her and she reported some soggy sounding sniffles coming from one of the stalls. She also gave me a look that said “What an ass-hole”.

     Eventually, I had to coax her out standing at the door to the women’s restroom, threatening to leave her there and getting “loser” looks from anyone passing by. All eyes followed us to the door.  

    Polly didn’t speak during the five minute drive home. I, however, was a blithering idiot, apologizing profusely and feeling very much as if I were married. By the time we were under hatches, she had softened considerably, seeing how upset I was over her being upset. As I sat in the dark on the sofa, she came in and stood in front of me in her nightie and announced rather formally that she forgave me. I reached out for her and she fell into my arms, bursting into tears and gushing out a string of apologies of her own for being so... silly. Once she had calmed down, she said simply, “I love you”. There was something about the position we were in and the intimacy of the moment that made me uncomfortable. It was reminiscent of many groping sessions I had had with dates when I was a voracious teenager. And Polly was exacerbating it by caressing my arm endlessly. Fortunately, she fell asleep.   

     The next morning I poked my head in her room to get her out of bed. But she was already up, arranging her dolls on her dresser.  It was an intensely intimate scene. Polly had curled her hair and had ribbons tied in it, and one around her waist, but otherwise she was completely naked.  "Oh, you're up already." I said, quickly pulling my head out of her room like a frightened turtle.

    "Come here!", she yelled, "I want to show you something."

    "Maybe later, when you've got some clothes on."

    "Oh maaaaan!", she said in a frustrated long whine.

    I sat at the galley table waiting for Polly to finish her shower so I could tell her where I was going. She emerged in typical fashion, in just her panties and a towel on her head. I couldn’t help but notice how she was maturing, her small breasts were just beginning to fill out from the points they had been on that first day, and her hips were beginning to show some curves. But all of that was a minor distraction, quickly brushed aside in favor of the quest I was on. Once I had outlined the errands to her, she leaned against me dreamily, as if she were preoccupied with other things. I caressed her smooth back while trying not to spill my coffee. Since she was standing and I was sitting, her chest was pressing against my cheek. So I pushed her gently aside, got up, kissed her, and left, Polly smiling sweetly in my wake.

 

     An hour and forty-five minutes later I pulled into our marina, having to avoid a large car coming out that slid on the gravel at the entrance. I climbed the ladder and found the Princess empty. No sign of Polly. I called and looked around the yard. Could she be hiding to play a trick? That’s not like her. I ran to Tony’s office.  “Hey, Tony, have you seen Polly?”

     “No, but there was a lady here wanting to know which boat was yours.”

     “A lady? Did she say what she wanted?” I asked, panic beginning to well up inside me.

     “Nope. Just which boat was yours. Is she a new girlfriend or something? She was kind of sexy, but strung out on something. She just left a few minutes ago. I heard her spin her tires out at the gate.”

    Ten minutes later I was peering up the road at the cars and trucks, choosing my path carefully considering I was going 140 mph in a pick-up truck. I knew that if she stayed on this highway, and she was approximating the speed limit (not realizing I had returned moments after she left) that I should be getting close. I had to keep my eyes on what was coming up ahead. I dialed 911 and found out that Tony had beat me to it. There were already units on their way. Unfortunately, they were already arriving at the overpasses with their lights flashing. They were beginning to chase me. But seeing all the excitement forming around her, Patricia Paxton panicked and tried crossing the median. She got stuck in some soft Florida sand. She saw me coming at her and tried to run. I tackled her, Polly looking on fearfully. “Are you okay?” I asked. Polly nodded and stayed tightly glued to my side. She looked at me periodically as if I were some sort of superhero.  

    Once the police arrived, I regretted the whole scene. Polly had to watch as they dragged her mother away in handcuffs, screaming in anguish to please not take her from her daughter. Mitch could tell it was partly an act, to get the officers feeling sympathetic. They asked Polly who her rightful guardian was. She chose me. Then the squat seargent wagged his finger at me: "you are damned lucky you didn't hit anyone going that fast. If you had I'd have you in handcuffs as well." But we were distracted by the poignant despair in her mother’s voice, and seeing Polly struggling with her conflicting emotions (wishing her mother was healthy) as they dragged her away. It all had me wondering if it were even possible... An idea was beginning to form.   

************************************

    I used to smoke. It was an addiction that had a firm grip on me, the only one that ever did. I was desperate to quit and had tried a variety of methods, only lasting a few hours at best. And the gum was a joke. While puffing away at a family picnic, my aunt told me about a method they use in Singapore for children who smoke. Basically, the parents consent and the penal system takes them and beats them with canes while they smoked cigarette after cigarette. The mind quickly makes the connection and decides not to like cigarettes any more. I begged my father for the funds to go there. I went, and I have not smoked since. They beat the shit out of me while stuffing lit cigarettes in my face, using bamboo canes that had been split on the ends, on my bare ass and thighs. I was a bloody mess. But it worked, and it was worth it. Secretly, in the back of my mind, I used it as a right of passage. I had brought it upon myself, for my own good, and held my head at a different angle when faced with a threat. I left feeling strong, even though I couldn’t bend in the middle for a couple of weeks.  

    The next morning, waiting for Polly to emerge from the shower again, I plotted out how to explain my plan to her in a way she would understand. Pulling her into my lap and trying to ignore the fact that she was topless, I told her my idea. She stopped me and made me back up and explain the psychology of corporal punishment in depth, having skipped ahead thinking she wouldn’t understand. I was wrong. She understood perfectly and asked several very intelligent questions, trying to satisfy doubts that someone that far gone could possibly be rehabilitated. In the end she stated, very businesslike, that she was willing to give it a try, but wanted the power to put a stop to it at any time.  I had to wonder at the intelligence at work within her. I agreed, and her mood shifted immediately as she snuggled herself deeper into my arms.

     “Well, I had better go visit her today before they ship her off somewhere.” I said.

Looking up at me with saggy eyes, she kissed me. It was a goodbye kiss, but she held it there a couple of seconds longer than usual, her arm hooked around my neck. We always gave each other goodbye kisses. Come to think of it, that was the only reason we ever kissed. But this one was premature considering I had to drop her off at school. I sat there pinned down and uncomfortable. Polly was acting strange and seemed like she was waiting for something, for me to say or do something. Eventually she pulled away and rolled slowly off of my lap. She held my eyes with a flirty, sideways gaze and a wry smile, continuing it over her shoulder as she walked away. In my thick denial, I dismissed it as simple playfulness. ‘girls’ I thought to myself. I received another kiss goodbye as I dropped her off at school. This one was the classic short peck I had grown accustomed to, but I got another strange look as she closed the door. I guess it’s possible I was just imagining things.

    During the drive to the county seat of government, I tried to imagine the impending encounter with her mother. I knew I couldn't disclose to the prosecutor, or sheriff, or whoever, what my scheme was for rehabilitating her. I can just hear them: "So, you're going to drop the charges if she lets you spank her? Is that it?"   Just like so many things in this world that actually make sense, people seem to be able to negate them simply with the tone of their voice and a few cleverly chosen words. When I arrived, I hadn't gotten any closer to developing a strategy. I had to wait an hour for the sheriff to return from a call. The county clerk who was holding down the fort wouldn't tell me anything. It was a small courthouse with the jail in the basement. When the sheriff finally appeared, with his beady little eyes under a white flat top head - obviously a drinker with his bulbous red nose - he informed me she wasn't even there.

    "Do you know where she is?" I asked.

    "We don't have the facilities here for a woman prisoner, at least not for extended periods. She's at a private prison about 20 minutes from here. I have to pick up a few inmates for court this afternoon, but I suppose I could go now and escort you in." He offered.

    "That would be great."

    I followed the Sheriff, cruising 90 mph the whole way.

    Again, a long wait to even get into the prison, and another waiting for them to deliver her to the well furnished and very comfortable visiting room. I was instructed by a very attractive young woman that we can hold hands if we wish, but no other touching is allowed. And no kissing. The image that popped into my mind was of her decking me in the jaw. What about that? is that allowed?

    As I sat there facing the prisoner entrance, a series of automatic doors began to clash and hum. From the expression on her face as she emerged, she had no idea who was wanting to see her. She stepped quickly toward me, since I was the only one in the room, and as she neared, recognition dawned on her face and she abruptly turned, telling the officer she didn't want to see me.

    I yelled after her, "Patty, I'm here to see if we can drop the charges."

    She stopped and studied me over her shoulder, then slowly she turned around and walked up to the table.  

    "What's the catch?" She asked with a sarcastic little chuckle. She ran her fingers nervously through her wet hair. Apparently they let her take a shower while I waited.

    I nodded at the chair and then fixed her with an icy glare, fully reclined in my seat and my arms folded across my chest. It took her a while to decide, but once seated, she couldn't sit still. Her eyes darted around the room and then back to me.

    "Got a smoke?" she asked.

    I didn't answer.

    Again she swept the room all around, flinging her hair. She checked her pockets, combed her hair with her fingers again, started humming a song... finally she straightened herself around and put her hands on the table, attempting to compose herself.  "Well?" She said, an edge of frustration in her voice.

    I watched her hands. They shook. The veins shone purple through skin that seemed to belong to an old woman. As she became aware of me, she moved her hands under

the table.

    "What are you looking at?" She asked.

    "Not much, that's for sure." I said.

    A wave of emotion washed across her face. My words struck a nerve. For a split second it seemed like she might cry. But she quickly covered herself with her righteous indignation.

    "Fuck off." she said coldly

    I continued to make her squirm with my eyes fixed upon her. I became aware in my mind that subconsciously I was carefully measuring her whole person. That these slight

cruelties I had been inflicting upon her were designed to disclose to me certain aspects of her personality, mental health, and personal fortitude. What I was finding out was that Patty Paxton had, at one time, been a self-assured, highly capable human being. That old sense of self shone dimly at times when being challenged. Even more apparent was the self loathing she now inflicted upon herself, having lost control of her life and her mind. I was about to test how deep those waters were. When she had finally settled down, I calmly stated, "Patty, I know you weren't always like this. I can see you under all of this... ", I gestured with my hands at her whole person. "...shit.  Somewhere in there is a kind and compassionate woman. Your daughter still loves you."    I watched as her defenses peeled away from her one at a time, and her tears flowed out. As she mopped herself with her wrists, one of her hands settled onto the table. I took it and held it. She stiffened for a moment, her breath caught in her throat and her eyes went wide with... what?  With fear... staring at me in disbelief. She tried to slip it out of my grasp, but I held on. A shy schoolgirl expression blinked across her face, then a sultry hooker, then she was back to being afraid, her eyes fixed upon me. I had to just sit there and let her ebb and flow. At last she bent over, laying her face on her arm, and sobbed, deep moaning sobs of despair. On and on it continued, talking to herself at times as if in an argument, shaking her head on her arm and saying "No, I can't. I've tried. I can't."

    After a long while, her sobs quieted down and she sat up.

    "Polly thinks there might be some hope for you." I said.

    "She's wrong." Said Patty, honestly. "She doesn't know."

    "Maybe. but I think there's hope for you too."

    "Shit, you don't know shit. You got the whole "Clark Kent" thing going on, true blue American boy, I suppose your shit don't stink either."

    "Patty, if you are even half the person your daughter is, then I know there is hope. I have an idea that I think will work."

    I could see the doubt on her face. And a new wave of fear hit her. Her drug addiction has become her comfortable place. Any threat to that and all of her defenses come up automatically.     "Who cares what you think?" she asked.

    "Polly does." I said. "besides, you really don't have a choice. Unless you want to go to prison for a long time." I let those words soak in for a while.

    "There's no way I can quit. I've tried."

    "You'll quit in prison." I said

    "But not once I'm out." She replied.

    "Why? Why not just stay clean once you get out?"

    "It doesn't work that way. It's not that simple."

    "Exactly right." I said.

    "Huh?" she said, glaring at me suspiciously. "What do you know about it?"

    "That part, the part that makes you go right back to it even after a long time being clean, that part is in your mind. That's the part I can fix - and fix it good.

    Fear and doubt again washed across her face before the tough facade came back.   "What, you going to hypnotise me? I've tried. It don't work. Besides, I don't think I want fixing."

    "Why the hell not? Are you crazy on top of everything else? No, don't answer that. Just answer me this: If staying clean was as easy as pushing a button on the wall, would you push it?"

    Patty studied me closely, trying to figure out what she was getting herself into. Finally she said, "I'd push it."

    "That's good." I said, and I proceeded to tell her what my plan was, minus the canes that I would be using. I wouldn't let her decide right then. I told her to write a letter to her daughter explaining why we should go to the trouble of trying to clean her up, and why we should have hope for her to succeed. I also told her that Polly holds ultimate veto power and can pull the plug whenever she wants to. I left with a very strong sense that Patty actually regretted not being able to come with me right then. I think she wants to believe in me, in Polly and me, to save her.

    The next day I met with the prosecutor. He seemed relieved when I told him I wanted to drop the charges. But when I told him about my plan, that we would be going to sea to keep her clean, and that I needed her to stay locked up until school let out, he became overwhelmed with the implications. Finally I simply suggested that he could keep her in legal limbo, and that her attorney would cooperate, etc. that we would be saving the state buckets of money that they would have had to pay for her long term imprisonment and subsequent rehabilitation. Reluctantly he agreed, and asked if I had a law degree. I should have been flattered, but actually it just highlighted how incompetent he was.

    When I picked Polly up from school, she slid over next to me and feigned sleepiness, resting her head on my shoulder and curling her legs up beside her. Her mother was still prominent in my thoughts, and I said to her, "Remember at that bar when you got so mad at me?"

    "Yes, don't remind me."

    "Well, I didn't tell you why we went there."

    "What do you mean?" She asked, lifting her head and looking at me. I told her the whole story about how her mother had tried to take her back.

    "Do you really think this can work?" She asked.

    "I do, but alot of it will depend on you."

    "Huh? Why me?"

    "She loves you Polly. She can't help but love you - you're her daughter. If she can catch a glimmer of what life would be like, with you, how proud you would make her...  I think she will find that worth the fight."

    "I hope you aren't thinking of giving me back." She said with panic just beneath the surface.

    "Never. Polly, Come on, you know better than that. I won't give you up no matter what. If she wants a life with you, then it's with me too."

    "You mean, like you'd be married?"

    "I don't think so. But who knows. Your mom was once a very intelligent and classy lady. I can tell. She wasn't always a drug addict." I paused, trying to remember the question I was answering. "No, but I'm not against us all living together, if she can get her shit together."

    Using the word 'shit' got me a punch in the arm.

    "Sorry." I said. "She's going to need us for a long time. Living alone and feeling lonely is the quickest way back into drugs. Nobody likes being alone."



    Back home we found Tony waiting for us at the Princess. He was sitting on some boxes, smiling.

    "Well, here's what you been waiting for. How long will it take to install them?"

    "You're not in a hurry, are you?" I asked sarcastically.  He fixed me with a sailor's eye that had death in it.

    "Tuesday, My nephew will be here scraping bottoms. I want it ready to go by 10 in the morning." The icy glare was done in jest, but his tone took on all seriousness.

    "No problem. We'll be ready."

    Polly danced on her tiptoes with excitement waiting for me to open the boxes. But the parts were nothing she could even identify and she climbed the ladder rather dejectedly. I left her to her own devices while I began digging out tools and trial fitting the parts to see if they were the right ones. Everything fit, and unknown to Tony, I could be finished installing the parts in about two hours. But Polly called me to dinner.

    In the galley Polly was fussing around with a ready to eat roasted chicken that she heated in the microwave, Rice-a-Roni in a large pan, and green beans in a smaller one. Everything was hot except the rolls that sat on the table still in the bag. I got the butter, a soda, and a beer out of the fridge and sat down. I watched her closely as she fixed each of our plates of food. She had on her canvas galley apron that she customized with a belt of flowers drawn with colored markers. When she finished, she untied the strings in back and lifted it off, hanging it on the hook she had me install just for that purpose. As she approached the table with our plates, my jaw fell open. She was wearing a black lace halter top that was so sheer, she might as well be wearing nothing.

    "What are you wearing?" I asked, trying to hide my surprise.  

    "It's a halter top. I made it. Don't you like it?" she said nodding, hoping to get me nodding my approval as well.

    "I can see right through it!" I exclaimed.

    Polly sagged with disappointment. "It's the only material I could find. I never sewed anything before and I wanted to practice in case I need to sew something in a 'mergency." She said, but her eyes betrayed her. She had been looking directly at me at first, but they strayed to a spot on the floor as she finished, then, glancing up at me she added, "Don't you like looking at me? I mean... you know..."

    Obviously Polly's mind had been going places that mine hadn't. This was a total shock to me. She left no doubt what she meant. Mostly in the way she said it rather than what she said, or didn't say. I was struck dumb. I couldn't speak. I just stared at her in disbelief, my mouth hanging open.

    Polly set the plates down and slid into her chair, waiting uncomfortably for me to say something. When I didn't, she shrugged to herself and began eating.

    I stared at her chest as she buttered a roll. Looking up she caught me, but I wasn't actually staring at her breasts, I had seen enough of them to immunize me against becoming aroused: it was the top she had made, it reminded me of something... but I couldn't think of what it was.

    "Well take a picture why don't you?" she said smiling at me. Then it hit me.

    "Wait a minute, where did you say you got that material?" I asked.

    "There's a roll of it down below, in the closet by the pumps."

    "Sweetheart, that is screen mesh for the portholes, in case they get torn. And there might be a hundred other uses for it that I haven't thought of yet. Where did you get the lacy stuff?"

    "You remember my blue nightie? The sleeve got torn. It had black lace and I cut it off."

    She had done amazingly well creating it - for her first attempt. I was trying desperately to find a way to address the real subject at hand, but the practical discussions about how she had made the thing was making it more and more difficult to get back to it. Finally I just laid it out there. "You know I think you are incredibly beautiful, don't you?"

    Polly nodded, taking a bite of chicken.

    "And you know as your father I try very hard not to look at you like..." I ran out of words.

    "Like what?" asked Polly with a devilish little smirk on her face.

    "You know like what." I snapped back. Then, regaining some control I said, "Polly, people are designed to slide right into romance without thinking about the consequences. If people always thought carefully about the consequences of having sex, there would not be any babies. It's normal at your age to be thinking about it, and playing the game, but I just can't play along with you. And I can't have you playing it with anyone else either. It's just too dangerous."

    That string of to-the-point talk about sex lit Polly up, her eyes wide with wonder at being spoken to like an adult.  As she munched I could see the gears turning behind her eyes. "So..." she said slowly - "...  it's okay for me to play the game...  but not with anyone...   Is that right?"  

    I could tell I was in trouble. It smelled like a trap.   "I guess so. I mean, it's normal for you to be thinking about it."

    "Oh, okay." She said, and focused in on her dinner.  "Hey, you gonna eat?" she asked, pointing at my untouched plate with her fork.

    "What are you up to?" I asked. "I don't like it when you get that devil in your eyes."

    "Nothing.  Why?"

    "Because my spider sense is tingling and you're the tingler."



    The following evening I emerged from the shower to a perfectly operational, sea-going vessel. Polly had everything organized and neat as a pin, and I had completed all of the repairs a whole day ahead of time.  Seeing me dripping on the hardwood floor she came rushing up.

    "Look what you're doing!  It's gonna leave spots.!" she yelled and then glanced around for something to mop it up. Her eyes zeroed in on the towel I had around me. We grabbed for it at the same instant; Polly trying to pull it free, and me trying to keep it on. Unfortunately for me, I couldn't win the tug of war and keep the ends tucked in, so there I stood holding the end of the towel, Polly holding the other, and her eyes soaking in everything. I watched as strong desire washed across her face, leaving a deep blush in its place. Polly's quick wits and intelligence forced her out of her reverie and into more playful antics, hoping the moment might continue.  She feigned defeat, letting the towell go slack, but then gave a quick jerk and pulled it right out of my hand.    I reached out for it but she stiff-armed me in the chest and stuck her tongue out at me.   Dropping to the floor, she mopped up the drips; coming up to my feet where more drips were still falling.  

    "Move!" she screamed, pointing at the rug.  "Stand over there!"

    I moved back a step onto the rug and watched her mop up the drips... and mop some more.... and some more.... the whole time she glanced up at me, and eventually just baldly stared at me.  "My towel?   Please?"

    "What?  I'm not finished."

    "Oh yes you are." I said as I stepped toward her.  In a flash she was on her feet and holding the towel behind her back, retreating away from me slowly, and smiling wickedly.   I noticed her eye glance toward her only means of escape. I turned on my heels to head her off.  Unfortunately, my drips had re-wetted the shiny floor and my feet came right out from under me. It was an embarrassing fall, right on my left butt cheek. And it hurt. But I was otherwise un-injured.   Polly laughed into the towel hysterically, then seeing my face contorted in pain she stifled the laugh and knelt down beside me, genuine concern on her face. She reached out as if to rub the sore spot but I flung her hand away, grabbed the towel, and hobbled to my cabin.

    Polly yelled, "You know, towels are for drying off, why don't you try it sometime?"

 

    The next morning, as usual, I was waiting for Polly to finish her shower. Except this time I was pressed flat against the wall just outside the door.  When it opened, she stepped out and screamed bloody murder. I grabbed the towel from her head and flung it across the cabin. When she turned to go after it I hooked my finger in the waistband of her panties and yanked them down. Her legs had just come together in her stride so they went all the way to her ankles. She tripped and fell forward, catching herself with her arms. I deftly slipped them off her feet and spun them on my finger, taunting her.

    "Oh my God!   You are such as fart!  I'm too sure! Give 'em back! "  She said in a blur of syllables and scrambling to her feet.  She was smiling, being slightly embarrassed, but ultimately energized at being pursued and teased by the man she so adored. She came at me intending to take back the panties. I stiff-armed her chest holding her panties behind my back. She backed me up against the couch and pushed me onto it.  I stuffed the panties deep into the bowels of the couch and then calmly folded my hands in my lap.   Immediately she leaned over trying to fish them out. She had no leverage to force her hand in far enough, especially with my butt in the way.  She ended up lying across my lap working furiously to fish them out.   "Get up!" she yelled. But I just sat there. Eventually she gave up and stared up at me from my lap. I smiled affectionately down at her, and then intentionally leered at the full length of her body - from head to toe.  But instead of being aghast at this as I had hoped, she smiled and snuggled herself onto my lap while straightening her hips around, exposing her girlish mound to me. She closed her eyes.

    She called my bluff and now I had to make good. So I tucked loose hair behind her ears with my finger, traced a line down the bridge of her nose to her lips, ran my hand down her arm to her elbow, then across her hip, and finally along her leg to her knee, and then all the way back up.  I continued caressing these long lines of her body, carefully avoiding her erogenous zones, pretending we were just having our usual morning snuggle. However, as my mind drifted through fantasies where we were doing more than just snuggling, Polly's eyes sprang wide open. It took a moment for me to realize why. My erection was now pressing firmly into the soft place between her shoulder blades.  I launched her from my lap and headed toward the ladder.

    "Hurry up and get ready, you're going to be late." I said.

    That evening after my shower I carefully opened the door and peeked around the corner. Polly was there and she sprang out with her claws ready to strike. But I calmly stepped out of the bathroom fully dressed, giving my hair a final scrub with the towel.  "Uhm, did you want something?" I asked.

    Tuesday afternoon I picked Polly up from school. We stopped by the bank and the grocery store on the way home. Polly wondered why I had bought such expensive meat (filet mignon) and fresh asparagus. I knew she didn't remember the significance of this particular Tuesday. But when we pulled in through the gate and there was nothing where our Princess Polly had been, she did a double take and then she remembered, dancing in her seat and screaming "Oh my God, It's in the water! Where? Why didn't you tell me?"

    "Because I love to see you get all excited."  Laughing out loud at her antics.

    Seeing the Princess in the water for the first time, moored comfortably at the end of the pier, she stopped, holding her breath with her hand over her mouth. She glanced from me to her twice and then said, "She's beautiful."

    Once on board, she ran around the deck three times in awe of the water. "It's so weird ! The ground use to be way down there and now the water is right here."

    "Yeah, and no more God Damned ladder!  Let's eat!" I yelled.

    I set the groceries down by the grill, lit it, and started ripping into the filets. Polly dug in the sack for the asparagus and disappeared below. Cracking open a beer from the rear deck cooler I sat back and breathed in the moment with all of my senses. The sun was setting across the Gulf (being on the west coast of Florida). Gulls were circling overhead. The halyards were clinking against the aluminum mast in response to the gentle swaying of the rollers that snuck through the gap in the break-water. After several minutes I wondered what could be taking Polly so long. All she had to do was put on some water to boil.  I thought about going below but then I worried I would get distracted and burn the filets. So I leaned back and closed my eyes. Memories of the Sweetheart swam back into my consciousness. I had missed her more than I knew. The sensation of being afloat made me more contented than I had been in a very long time.

    "Where is she?" I asked myself. Turning the steaks I gulped the last of the beer and slid down the ladder with a thud at the bottom. "Polly!" I yelled.... nothing.  Hearing something I headed forward. The door to the head was closed. I knocked. "Polly?  are you in there?"

    "Oh, Mitch, I'm...  bleeeeaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhh.....  I'm sick.  bleeeeaaaahhhhh....   I think I got the flu."  she said, crying and sniffing pitifully.

    "No, no sweetheart, you're seasick. It's okay, open up."

    The door clicked and she stood there green, her legs wobbling.  I grabbed the small trash can and a towel and escorted her to her bed.

    She wretched again before we got there, but I soon had her lying on her back with her eyes closed.  

    "It's important to close your eyes when you feel it coming on. It makes a big difference right away."  But before she could have even slightly benefited from it, she threw up on herself.  "Here, take the trash can. I'll be right back."

    I went and rummaged for some Dramamine, soaked a couple of washcloths with warm water, grabbed another towel, and one of her nightie's. I peeled off her shirt and began washing her face and chest with one of the washcloths.  Unbuttoning her skirt I noticed that it felt wet. I sniffed my fingers - it was urine.  I stared down at her in pity.  But it was immediately obvious that she was already feeling better having had her eyes closed for a minute.  "Sweetheart, you peed when you threw up.  Get cleaned up and dressed for bed and I'll tuck you in." I got up.

    "Hmm?  Oh, okay." She said weakly.

    I have to check on the meat. I'll be right back.

    When I returned she hadn't moved. "Polly? are you still alive?"

    "Mmm Hmm." she said in affirmation. She had covered her eyes in the crook of one of her arms, her bare chest exposed. I sat on the bed beside her and stared long at her breasts, never having had the opportunity to study them closely before. I had been in the habit of not staring at her chest during our snuggle sessions, afraid she would see me. But now I could. She was exquisite.

   

    "Polly honey, you need to get cleaned up. Do you think you can eat something?"  

    She shook her head.  "I'm afraid to open my eyes."

    I sat there silently studying her, taking advantage of the opportunity, caressing the arm that was draped across her stomach.  her breasts were perfectly symmetric. They always had the same shape whether she was standing, sitting, or lying down. - Except that now she had one of her arms stretching up across her eyes which distorted the one, flattening it out slightly.  Her nipples were very pale and small, like the size of nickels, but they puffed out all around the edges.  I could not help but wonder what it would feel like to suck on them - and then I was angry at myself for doing so. "Sweetie, you'll get used to the motion, the sooner you force yourself to do things, the quicker you will get used to it."

    Polly shook her head slowly as I spoke. "Please, can't you help me?"

    I could sense some mischievousness in her tone.  I felt exposed while cleaning her chest, because she forced herself to watch me while I did even though it made her sick. And now she wanted the whole sponge bath thing.  God I wanted it too. I was getting weaker and weaker every time she appeared from the shower topless. I knew I was in trouble a couple of weeks prior when I had been out very early working on the hull and realized that she would be emerging any minute. I dropped everything and positioned myself on the couch as if I had been there all along.  And I always encouraged her to crawl into my lap to be held each and every morning. Once I had purposely not been wearing a shirt so that I could feel her soft skin on mine as she curled up for her morning caress. I loved her dearly, and my affections were growing and changing ever since she had begun flirting and acting strange.  Now I was becoming her prisoner - doomed to do her bidding regardless of how much I might protest, because in the end she knew how I felt, and what I wanted. There are certain communications that go unsaid and unacknowledged, body language that is built right in to our brains. We knew - and yet we didn't.

    "Remember that first day?" I asked. "When I had to wash you? I always wondered why you let me do that. I mean it almost seemed like you wanted me to, because now I know how smart and capable you are.  You knew how to give yourself a bath."

    "I remember you caught me when I slipped. You held on to me so tight because I was so afraid, but I couldn't move at all the way you squeezed  me so tight. That's what I dream in the morning when you hold me. It feels so wonderful." She said those last words with intense feeling, stretching out each syllable.

    "And you won't feel weird being totally naked, even though you're older now?" I asked, getting up and opening her drawers looking for clean panties.  But I didn't hear an answer.   "Well? Will you?"

    "No.” she said.  “I shook my head no, you must not have been looking." She said.

    I knew..., she knew...., we knew....  even so,  I was feeling gruff and frustrated.  If I had taken time to really think about it I would have figured out why. If I had to rank which I would rather have, the following would be the order from best to worst 1) Make love to Polly - because our society magically wants us to all of a sudden - without any guilt or fear.    2)  Be Polly's loving father and hero pretending we have no physical attraction towards one another, and staying clothed when in each other's presence.  3)  Be forced to bathe her and hold her naked body and look at her breasts - without being able to do anything about it.     That's why I was feeling gruff and frustrated - knowing I was down at three on the list.   She could sense my mood.

    "What's wrong?"  She asked sheepishly.

    "Nothing. I just wish you wouldn't make me do this."

    "I'm not making you."

    "Yes you are. I can tell you are feeling better. So why not do it yourself?"

    Polly went quiet for a long while.  I sat back down beside her with her clean panties in my hand. She hadn't moved at all, her arm still draped over her eyes.  I gave in to temptation again and studied her breasts, noticing this time how perfect and milky smooth her skin was - not a blemish to be seen anywhere.  

    Polly said, "I don't like those. I never wear them.  See if you can find The Simpson's pair, with the girl playing the saxophone."

    I froze - looking closely at her arm over her eyes. There was a thin black shadow at the bridge of her nose.  Polly giggled seeing the effect she was having on me.  I sat quietly, contemplating what I had just done and what she must have seen. I had no-one to blame but myself, but for whatever reason, I got mad. I felt foolish, embarrassed,  and manipulated, and I was suddenly pissed off.

    "Here, here's a couple of Dramamine pills. Chew them up and don't choke."   I said, and went topside.

    I ate alone and after dinner went about firing up the engines for the first time, checking the engine cooling systems and generators. By the time I was ready to close up shop, Polly was asleep for the night. I tried to remember the last time she had gone to bed without getting a goodnight kiss...  I couldn't.

*******************************************

    The weeks drifted by slowly. Tony referred me to another marina where there were two ship owners needing structural repairs. I must have been driving him a little crazy not having enough to keep me busy while Polly was at school, so now I had a day job to go to. I picked her up on my way home each afternoon and we would stop by the same little market that stocked local seasonal vegetables and had a small butcher shop. We fell into a routine back at the boat where I would sit on deck grilling the meat and drinking beer while Polly fussed down below with everything else. The days this time of year were usually warm with infrequent winter bluster and the nights were very cool and breezy. I began feeling the urge to put the Princess through her paces, to see how sweet of a sailer she was. But it was easy to chicken out one more weekend.

    For several days after that traumatic night with Polly's seasickness, relations between the two of us had remained strained. She never spoke of what she had seen in my face peeking out from under her arm while I leered at her body. It wasn't like Polly to let things just lay there unresolved. Perhaps she felt it wasn't that big of a deal,  I mean, it's not like I actually fondled them. Perhaps it was because she thought I wouldn't realize how clearly she could read everything on my face. Or she thought I thought she couldn't see my face, not being in the same line of sight as the panties. "She's been dwelling in my thoughts so much I'm analyzing every little nuance." I thought.  One might think I was a... I don't know... you'd think I was a love sick teenager doting over the emotional whims of a steady girl - or married, or maybe just a concerned parent - but is this what a parent would be worrying about?

    Polly had been dealing with a daily dread of coming home, only to become queasy and sick the moment she set foot aboard. As usual, she didn't really complain much and faced it down each day, but I had finally insisted she see the doctor to get some prescription medication that might serve her better than the over-the-counter Dramamine. It was a well known fact from centuries of sailing the high seas that any of a variety of opiates, derived from the coca leaf, had amazing results on seasickness, but were also highly addictive. We got her some medicine and it had an immediate and drastic effect, basically opening flood gates that I did not know even existed.  When I say that it had an immediate and drastic effect, I' m not necessarily referring to the seasickness. Oh, it did help that, no doubt, but the really dramatic effect was in loosening Polly's tongue. She jabbered on and on about everything and anything, and one thing in particular, quite unaware of how high the medicine was making her feel. The first subject out of her mouth was her breasts, and "would you I like to see them again?"  

    In her drugged state, I could not get angry or even the least bit frustrated at her antics, which meant there was no easy escape for me. Because that is exactly how I had used the anger before - to escape from her, and myself. So I entertained her in conversation, usually just asking leading questions and then letting her vent her passions and fantasies to me, hoping and praying I would remain immune to her. She often crept into (or across) my lap with her eyes closed (the medicine wasn't perfect, and she closed her eyes whenever possible) while she explored new avenues in her mind regarding her sexual desires and taking great pleasure in peeking our from under her eyelids to see the blush on my face or hear the stammer in my voice as I replied or said something to lead the conversation away. Now it was as regular as our dinners together:  She would take a pill on our way home, we would cook and eat, and then she would pin me down into a new conversation leading ever so predictably into sexual topics.  Now there was a precedent set: After engaging in several of these conversations to date, I couldn't very well begin protesting. She knew I was perfectly willing to engage in these conversations (because I had - that's what set the precedent), even though they were very lopsided with Polly doing most of the talking. She was taking full advantage, exploring topics with ever increasing eroticism and intimacy, every possible nook and cranny, until she stated bluntly after a long pause of contemplation, "I sure would like to know what it feels like. You know, having a man's penis inside me."

    I had become so accustomed to quenching my shock at what would come out of her mouth, noticing that if I was successful in doing so, she would take a new tack and approach from a new angle, pushing the limits of my tolerance further and further until finally I let slip some clue to my shock and embarrassment. Only then would she begin to tone it down. Even on this occasion, Polly having reached an all time high in shock-factor, I didn't react immediately, and then I decided to stifle it completely and take advantage of the situation, basically calling her bluff - if it was a bluff. And I don't mean take advantage as a man would a pretty girl, I mean as a father trying to teach a lesson.

    "Huh, I guess that's only natural. Everyone wonders what it will feel like once they start fantasizing about it. But I doubt you realize what it would really be like, you being so young."

    "I think I do. I mean, just cause I'm 12 doesn't mean I can't imagine something." She said.

    "I don't mean that your mind is too young, I'm talking about your body. You haven't matured very much. Your girlfriends at school are all more mature than you. I mean, it's not a bad thing, It's just that it would be like trying to cram a big cucumber into a coin slot."

    Polly's eyes went wide, on the receiving end of some shock-factor for a change. After the initial shock wore off and she tried to form and opinion about what I had said, she realized that she had never actually tried to imagine in any detail whether it would fit or not. She didn't know how big she could get, and she had assumed that when she saw me naked, that that was about the size of it, but what if she was wrong? She remembered watching horses mating once, that the stallion's penis hung down at first like she had seen mine do, but it had grown enormous during the mating. "Is that what he's using to indicate how big he is?" she thought. She had seen huge cucumbers and small ones too. Finally, after I had thoroughly enjoyed seeing the reaction on her face to the images I had conjured up in her mind, she asked, "So how big is it, when it's big?"

    "How big when it's big?" I repeated, mocking her, "Big enough!"

    "Yeah. But how big is it really?" She insisted.

    "Polly, I am not going to sit here and describe my penis to you."

    "Then show me." She said very matter-of-factly, hoping that her matter-of-factness would inspire me to actually do it.

    "Oh sure, I'll just whip it out for you to look at." I said, obviously being sarcastic. "Okay!" she said excitedly, jumping up from my lap, responding as if it were a literal offer, again hoping that somehow it would persuade me to actually do it. I could tell by this behavior that she knew exactly how precariously my resolve was teetering on the edge of throwing chastity right out the window.  

    "Huh." I grunted, feeling the current beginning to sweep me downstream after fighting so hard to keep my head clear and even. "Polly... I know you enjoy playing these games with me, testing my limits, but it's going a little too far now. You really don't have a clue what you would be in for.  I know you'd rather me try to actually show you why you don't have a clue, but I can't and I won't.  You are going to have to take my word for it. You aren't ready for this, even though you think you are. It's just a game right now. You would regret it every day for the rest of your life. It would be the end of us. Is that really what you want?"

    Polly had stood up in her excitement, dancing on tiptoes and shaking out her fingers excitedly, trying to get me to expose myself, but now she stood there stunned as she was forced to listen, absorbing the truth and ultimately feeling childish again, coming back down to earth.  She said, "No... of course not."  then after a significant pause, "But...  what if you're wrong? I mean, it doesn't make any sense. Why would it be the end of us? It doesn't have to be. I don't see what the big deal is. I'm gonna have sex eventually. Why will it be so different later? I'm in love with you right now, and I don't think I will ever be able to have sex with anyone and not be thinking about you. It would be so cool, you know it would."

    I stared at her, wondering where she got all of that tenaciousness. "You really got it bad, don't you?"

    Polly nodded.  "I can't just take your word for it - because it doesn't make sense. If you can't make me understand why, then I can’t believe you. Not about this. I guess I'll..." she trailed off, regretting her new train of thought.

    "You'll what?" I asked.

    Polly slipped quietly inside herself, looking around for an appropriate punishment, because as effective as her carrots were in bringing me to that precarious edge of my resolve, now she was looking for an appropriate stick to hit me with to send me flying off into her arms. To my surprise she began crying. It seems my dogged and persistent rejection of her had finally ended up hurting her feelings. Or maybe she was simply trying to use her tears to manipulate the situation further, an effective stick in and of itself, I couldn't tell. But of course the tears melted me down and I pulled her back into my arms.

    "Sweetheart, what is it now? Look at what you're doing to yourself. Look, if it will help, I will explain it all to you. I won't hold anything back. I hope you can finally understand. It's not that I'm not attracted to you. You know damned well I am,” I pushed her away from me and tried to mimic that hungry face as my wide eyes stared at her chest. Polly smiled with teary eyes and choked out a laugh, showing that she knew exactly what I meant by it.  "There is a million dollars in the bank I'd like to have too, but I don't just go in and take it. There would be consequences. This is no different. I've told you before that people are designed, I mean in our brains we have things going on that were put there over eons of evolution, so that we will have sex without thinking about the consequences. At one time in our evolution, a very long time ago, I would have forced sex on you at the first hint that you wanted it, or maybe even if you didn't. It wouldn't matter as long as you got pregnant. That's why those things are inside our brains, to get you pregnant. It would only be much later, after your belly was sticking way out that you might look back and wonder "what the hell was I thinking?”  So here's what you haven't thought about: That a man having adult sex with a woman will want to see her in all of her glory, with her legs spread wide open to him, so he can look closely at her vagina and become aroused at the sight, and she would delight in doing it for him. Young girls flirt a lot, but they almost always try to keep their legs tightly closed. I can see right now, on your face: That would not be fun for you, huh?"

    Polly slowly shook her head no.  

    "Then, you would be expected to shove it way down your throat, almost certainly gagging if you had never done it before, and then sucking on it in and out, over and over, until sperm was squirting in your mouth. Then, before you can even think about brushing your teeth, that same penis will be shoved inside you, as deep as it will go," I held up my hands to show her about how long it was, and then how big around, "All the way in and out for as long as it takes to have another orgasm. Then it would all start over again, probably with your butt way up in the air, your vagina sticking out in plain view, and being rammed even deeper and harder. It would hurt at first, and it would hurt again from just being sore, and it would hurt later.  About the only thing I can think of that you might be able to look forward to would be the hugging and kissing that would occur once it was all over."  I paused for a moment to let this sink in a little.  "The fact is, if you were really a woman, you would probably be ripping my clothes off after hearing that, wanting to get started, because that is adult sex. It's fun for adults and terrifying to kids. There is no pain for adults - everything fits just fine."

    Polly was speechless. She was feeling a little bit privileged being audience to such talk, but those new images did scare her a whole lot.

    "Part of the problem is that you think you are in control, that you can make things happen just the way you imagine, but the fact is, there is a tipping point at which all of the flirting is over and the man takes control. He becomes a bull that will not be denied. Things will end up exactly the way they are intended, with him ramming his penis deep inside and depositing his sperm there. That is the only reason we have sex. Those things in our brains allow us to believe all sorts of lies about it, but in the end, that is the only reason.  Way back when there were no laws, this would have been the time for you to become pregnant. It would have been a nightmare for you - probably very much like being raped, and maybe by several men. It would have been fun for them, but certainly a nightmare for you."

    "So, you see, It might start out fun, playing at it for a while without actually doing it, but eventually I would begin to be controlled by those things in my head, and I would start manipulating you into doing it. I don't want to hurt you Polly. I love you too much."

    Polly smiled a very gratifying smile. A very loving smile: Just like a toddler that purposely wanders off, wanting to feel the firm yank of a caring hand pulling him or her back from the edge of becoming lost, testing their love. Polly felt that same deep peace of mind, all the way down to her soul. It proclaimed me as her true one. She could feel now, more than ever before, that Mitchell Wilkes would always do what was right by her regardless of how far astray she drifted. It was the peace that comes with feeling completely secure.

    We sat there looking at each other, soaking in the moment of intimacy and understanding, until Polly slid back into her fetal position on my lap and said, "Can we still snuggle sometimes like we use to?"

    Ever since that evening when she saw me leering at her, I had been avoiding those sessions as much as possible, feeling my willpower to be much weaker knowing what she knew about my desires, and imagining how uncomfortable and self-conscious I would be. "I will always love snuggling with you, but you better put a shirt on from now on."

    "What? Awe, that'll take all the fun out of it." She whined.

    "I know, it won't be the same for me either. It's just that... shit...  It's like if you are on a diet, the last thing you want is a big glass jar full of cookies right there in plain view.  Why torture me? Those things in my brain get turned on by the sight of a beautiful naked girl. I know it seems like I have the willpower to just keep saying no, but I really don't. If you weren't the sweet girl I know you to be, if you were just a little more manipulative and conniving, you could get me to do anything. So please don't try. It really is torture."

    Another long pause in our conversation left me wondering what was going on in her mind. The stillness was continually being interrupted by Polly's deep sighs, grunts, and squirms, all indicating some kind of growing mental frustration.

    "What is it?" I asked.

    "Nothing-uh!" she said, sounding brattish.

    "What happened? I thought we finally understood each other. What is it now?" I asked, letting my frustration show a little.

    "NOTHING-UH!  I don't want to talk about it any more." she said, and then went quiet for a long while. It was obvious that even though everything I said was true, and it all made perfect sense, her balloon was still popped and she was feeling many regrets forming inside of her. Finally I dared to speak to her even after her warning.

    "Polly, you know I'm not against you playing the game. It's me. I'm the one that can't handle it. Any man that believes he can would end up having sex with you. You're damned lucky it's me."

    "Oh, yeah, lucky." she said, sarcasm oozing out of everywhere. "How can I play the game if you won't play and I can't have a boyfriend?" she was practically screaming at this point.

    "Who said you can't have a boyfriend?" I asked.

    "You did. You said you won't let me play the game with anyone else. Too dangerous, you said."

    "Oh, I guess I did...  Well, I was right, it is too dangerous, but that was before we started talking about it. I think if we go over all of the risks, I mean, so you really understand what's going on, I think I could trust you with a boyfriend."

    This did not fit any of the fantasies that had been charging her batteries all this time. In fact, it stung in her mind to realize I would actually let someone else touch her when I, the star in those fantasies, wouldn't. Explaining the reasons would never help. If you ever find yourself wondering why reason and logic don't get you very far in a relationship, this is why: A woman is designed to react strongly and emotionally when the man she adores offers her up to someone else (or for a wide variety of other reasons). She could no more shut off that intense feeling of hurt than she could cut off her own arm. It just was.  Polly jerked her head up and bored her eyes into mine before bolting from the room and slamming the door to her cabin.

*******************************

    In the morning I waited for her on the couch, armed with a t-shirt. Polly came out, towel on head, pantied but topless. She headed straight for her cabin not seeing me sitting there in the semi twilit cabin: we had fallen out of the habit.

    "Sweetheart..."  I said softly.

    She stopped and turned her head, keeping her breasts on the lee side of her body, out of sight. She just stared placidly.  I held up the shirt as an invitation to join me. She studied me, and then she studied her feelings. She had made her decision, but still she stood there just staring at me at length. Eventually she backed up slowly, took the shirt, and with her back to me removed the towel from her head, put on the shirt, and replaced the towel. Again she stood there looking down at me. After coaxing her for several long moments, she painfully forced herself to come into my arms. Neither of us spoke a word as I methodically caressed all of her favorite spots with well practiced techniques. She was late to class and neither of us cared. ***********************************

It would seem strange after such an intense emotional escapade that Polly would be even more energized to fall right back into it - the very next night. A pill was swallowed after school, groceries purchased, pork steaks grilled, beer sipped, vegetables steamed, bread smothered in garlic butter toasted, dinner eaten, my shower taken, and then: there's Polly, worming her way into owning my full attention.

    "Okay, so IF I had a boyfriend, why would it be so dangerous?"

    I breathed deeply and then let out a long sigh. Even though Polly was eager to dive in, I wasn't. It takes a lot less energy to push against boundaries, testing them, than it does to erect and maintain them.

    She heard the lack of enthusiasm in my long pause and sigh, "What's wrong?" she asked.

    "Nothing, I'm still a little exhausted from our talk last night."

    "I'm not. I had a really cool day at school."

    "Well, tell me about that. I'm not too tired to listen."

    "Okay." She said, bouncing up excitedly and positioning herself better. She turned on the couch so that she was leaning back against the arm trying to face me as much and possible. She then draped her legs across my lap, tucked her hair behind her ears, and folded her hands in her lap. "It was so awesome. I told Angie during morning recess that you said I could have a boyfriend..."

    "Polly..." I interrupted, "You shouldn't tell your friends everything we talk about...especially that. What if she tells her parents?"

    "I know. I made her promise." A sheepish look emerged on her face, somewhat guilty.

    "What is it?" I knew I hadn't heard it all.

    "She already told some other girls, because they were teasing me when I came out of class. But the good part is they want to be friends with me now. And there was a really cute boy that was looking at me and I think he heard it too."

    "You sounded so hopeless last night, like a boyfriend was the last thing in the world you wanted. It only took one day for you to change your mind?"

    "No. Not really. I mean he's cute but... I don't know."

    "What?" I asked.

    "I don't know." she whined. "It's hard to...” Then she squared her shoulders and came out with it “They're all so immature!"

    "And you're not?"

    "No-way! God! Everybody knows that girls mature faster, and especially in sixth grade. It's like the worst then." Polly's eyes had grown large. "Some of the girls in my class have bigger boobs than my teacher."

    "Really, I had no idea. What, does your teacher have really small boobs or something?"

    "No."

    "I'm just kidding. I've seen the girls you walk out with. From a distance they look like high schoolers.   I have to admit, Polly, I kind of knew that the boys would be too young. I really don't like thinking about you being with a boy, fooling around like that. It's been bothering me ever since I said it."

    "It has? Really?" She asked hopefully. I was tempted to take it back by saying "Not because I would be jealous - because you're too young." which would have been a lie, but I decided to leave it alone.

    "So, do you still want me to teach you?"

    Polly's eyes grew and her face slowly brightened, "Yes." she said and nodded vigorously - and then I realized my mistake and I quickly added "What I mean is: teach you about the risks of having sex with a boy." I said.

    "Oh." she said, deflating quickly. And then she recovered herself and smiled, saying "I thought you meant like really teach me..." and she chuckled at herself for acting so stupid. "...I guess so. I know about aids and condoms and stuff. You think I don't know anything, but I bet I already know what you're going to tell me."

    "Maybe you do. But you don't mind if I make sure, do you?"

    "No."

    "Okay. Well, let's see...  I think I can do this fairly quickly: There's just a few things that you need to know: First, if you don't want to get sick or pregnant you have to plan ahead and be prepared. The problem is that when young people have sex, it is always a spontaneous event, never planned. Chances are neither of you will have a condom and the boy will be trying to talk you into doing it anyway. You will probably say no, but he won't give up. He'll promise that he will only put it in for a moment, and he will pull it out before he ejaculates, and since you are really wanting to try as bad as he is, you make him promise again, hope to die and all of that, and you go ahead and let him.  But you would still end up pregnant."

    "Not if he did what he promised." She said.

    "Even if he did exactly as he promised, you would still get pregnant. The only reason you might not is if you were not ready, you know, if you didn't happen to be ovulating."

    "God, you're such a liar. Making stuff up trying to scare me isn't going to keep me from doing it."

    "I hoped a simple "no" from me would have been enough. But I guess not." I said.

    "I didn't mean it like that you big dork. I'm saying don't just make things up. I'm not stupid."

    "No, you aren't. You might be the smartest person I've ever known. But being smart is no replacement for being knowledgeable.  Just because you don't know something or don't have experience, doesn't make you stupid. On the other hand, almost everyone is stupid when it comes to sex. Do you think there might be some things you aren't aware of?

    "Of course."

    "Then don't be so quick to call someone a liar. You should always give people the benefit of the doubt, considering there will always be doubt." I looked at Polly seriously to see if she was again receptive to what I needed to tell her.  "A boy your age gets so excited at nudity and the prospect of sex that he can only last about one minute before he shoots off.  He probably wouldn't even get it in all the way before he did. Even if he does exactly what he promised and pulls out, would you be satisfied with that? Would you feel like that was enough? Game over? Put your clothes back on and do your homework? I seriously doubt it. You'd let him clean himself up and then try again, wouldn't you?"

    "I guess so." She said meekly.

    "Then what you don't know is that there will be thousands and thousands of sperm seeping out of his penis for up to an hour after he ejaculates, even longer maybe. They are microscopic, and it only takes one." I said seriously.

    "Oh," she said, looking at her hands and feeling foolish.

    "That little fact escapes everyone. Sometimes a boy will be so embarrassed because he started ejaculating so quickly that he will pretend he didn't. If a boy ever loses his erection during intercourse, you can bet he had an orgasm and didn't say anything. If a boy isn't embarrassed, then maybe he will get you to masturbate him or give him oral sex so that he will last longer during intercourse. He will think that once the first orgasm is over, he will be able to have intercourse without ejaculating right away - which might be true, but it wouldn't keep you from getting pregnant because that residual sperm will still be there, seeping out.

    Secondly, the only way to get an STD is to have sex with someone who is sick with one. If you only have sex with boys who have never had sex, then you can't catch one, which is a very good reason why you should avoid older boys and men and just be with boys your own age."

    Polly rolled some fuzz she had picked off the couch between her fingers, absently pondering everything. "Do you have any sex diseases?" she asked.

    "Yes, I do. I have genital herpes."

    "You do? What does it do? I mean, are you sick?" She asked. Polly's love for me immediately shone out. Instead of feeling sorry for herself, that I wasn't the super-hero she imagined me to be, instead she showed genuine concern for my welfare and her own wants and needs were temporarily put aside.

    "No sweetheart, it’s okay. I'm lucky. It's been many years since I've had any sign of it. It's a nuisance more than anything. You don't need to worry about me."

    She was relieved and I could see the tension melt away.

    "So how can I protect myself from all of that?" Polly asked.

    "You already have."

    "Huh? You haven't told me anything yet." She said confused.

    "I've told you what you need to know. You're smart enough to protect yourself now that you know what the true risks are."  I watched as her mind began working to solve the problems that her fantasies would expose her to.

    "Oh, I almost forgot, there is something else you should know: You shouldn't try to rely on condoms. They are unreliable, they don't fit a boy's smaller penis very well, boys hate them and will avoid using them if they can, girls don't like them either because of all the worry and the way it ruins the mood putting it on, and they are never available when you need them. Take responsibility for your safety yourself. Don't leave it to the boy. There are many other types of birth control and things you can do to make sure you will be safe."

    "You mean like the pill?"

    "Yeah, but I'm not sure, at your age, if that would be best. We will have to find out. I really don't think you need to worry about STD's with the boys in your class. But just to make sure, you should examine his penis very closely to make sure there are no blisters or scabs visible. If it looks at all like there are blemishes or something un-natural, the best thing is to avoid any sexual contact. But if there is no avoiding it, then you should use a condom."

    "Do you think he would let me look at it like that?"

    "Polly, you don't give him a choice. You simply say that if he wants to do anything, he's going to have to let you."

    Polly smiled a little imagining giving her cute boy a thorough exam. I could see her excitement building.

    "That's right, it can be fun. But be prepared, he might decide to examine you the same way - which is only fair."

    Now Polly showed some natural misgivings. "I don't think I could do that. I mean, get totally naked with a boy and have lights on and everything. I always pictured being in the dark and under the covers."

    "Yeah, I know. That can come later, after you know each other better. It is nicer that way. I think you should talk to the boy first and tell him all of this. Give each other oral sex for the first time, I mean after you're sure he's clean, and save the other for later. Boy's love oral sex. If you do it really well they don't miss the other that much. And you shouldn't worry about a boy seeing your body. It's the most exciting thing in the world for guys.  You remember about how I described adult sex. It really is the thing. But you're right about making sweet love under the covers too. It depends on the mood. So who is this boy you thought was so cute?"

    "Tyler Johnson." she said drunkenly. "He's in Amy's class."

    I had forgotten that she might not have all of her faculties, considering we were dealing with a 12 year old adolescent girl with feel good drugs and hormones coursing through her veins. The devil sparked in her eyes as she pictured him in her mind again.

    "Wait a second, You mean the tall boy with the long hair?"

    "How do you know...?"  She asked in awe of my superpowers.

    "I've talked to his dad a few times, waiting for school to let out. He heard that we lived on a big sailboat and wanted to offer his help. He wants to learn how to sail really bad.  Are you sure you didn't know about that? This is a little too convenient for me to believe. You know how I am about coincidences."

    Polly innocently shook her head no, "I swear, I had no idea you knew his dad."

    "Huh. Lucky you then."

    "What? Why lucky me?" she asked.

    "Because, it will be easy to get together with him, we just invite him and his dad to go sailing. And you won't have to get all embarrassed trying to break the ice with him." Polly was staring blankly at me. "Know what I mean?" I asked.

    "No, why would I get embarrassed?"

    "You know, it's hard to tell someone you like them, when you don't know how they will react to it."

    "No it isn’t. I already did."

    "You did?"  I asked truly shocked.

     "When I was waiting for Amy at her classroom, I was looking at all the boys... because I really hadn't looked before. When Tyler came out he saw me looking at him and I told him I thought he was cute."

    "Just like that? You just blurt it out, in front of everyone?"

    "Well, not exactly. My exact words were... "You are sooo cute. Do you know how cute you are?"

    After a stunned pause I asked "And what did he say?"

    "He said he thought I was cute too."

    "My God! Have you planned the wedding yet?"

    "Very funny, hardy-har-har." she said

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    The first weekend in March was predicted to be a superb kite flying weekend. And that meant it would be a superb sailing weekend as well. I told Polly that she could invite some friends for an overnight cruise down the coast, as long as her friend Tyler's father could come along as second lieutenant (Polly being my first). When the dust from planning the cruise settled, there were four girls (including Polly), one boy, Frank and myself on the ship's roster.

    The spring so'westers were indeed blowing and it was shaping up to be a fabulous weekend. The only hitch that occurred was when Frank arrived with a different boy than the one that was expected: Polly's cute boy Tyler had come down with the flu, and his father had brought his older son Ryan to take his place. They were the last one's to arrive and once they and their luggage was aboard, the Princess began idling smoothly down the long line of slips toward the harbor.

    The girls were talking excitedly as a fast moving blob of bodies that flitted about the boat. Ryan leaned in toward his dad's ear, "Those girls are in Tyler's class?" he said doubtfully.

    "I know, scary isn't it?  That one's Polly, she's more what you might expect. But the others..." He shook his hand loosely in front of his chest and whistled.

    "Wow." was all Ryan could manage to say as he gawked at them peeling off layers and exposing various types of bikinis. The girls, each in their turn, were stealing glances at Ryan as well.

    "You see that Ryan? They already have the hots for you. That's my boy!  Go get 'em tiger."

    "Daaaad!" Ryan cried, knowing the girls must have heard his father.  The girls giggled and squeaked as they went below to explore.

    The Princess went to sea, idling smoothly through the breakwater and out amongst the swells. It was a brisk breeze that blew out of the southwest which put them on the reach as they plied some distance between them and the shore. The sails went up and the deck leaned over until the turquoise water was licking the gunwale.  The girls appeared on the bow out of the forward hatch and clung to each other with nervous excitement. I was about to shout for them to sit down and quit walking precariously about on the wet slanted surface when one of the girls slipped and bounced off of her butt and right into the ocean.

    "Frank! Keep her in sight. Don't take your eyes off of her!" I bellowed.  I was not a very experienced sailor. My two years on the Sweetheart was mostly spent docked comfortably in my slip at the marina, procrastinating out of fear to ever stretch my limits with her. I did run her over to Jamaica with a convoy of cruisers but the weather was so incredibly perfect and mild that it had little use in teaching me the ropes. Now I was in a new and unfamiliar boat, larger and more demanding than my Sweetheart, in seas that were more turbulent, and in winds that were capable of capsizing us. The Princess had a very tall mast and a prodigious mainsail and genoa. I couldn't just turn her around. We were on a reach and I needed to bring her into the wind and then time my tack across to intercept her. But then I thought better of it.

    "Ryan! Take the wheel. Point her straight into the wind!"  Ryan bounded up to the wheelhouse and seemed up to the challenge. I started the engines and gave her enough throttle to make sure she would steer. The sails were shivering and complaining loudly as I ran to take them in. The Genoa reefed herself automatically at the flip of a switch, but the main I had to wrestle onto the boom and strap down. Once it was down far enough that it wouldn't carry away, I yelled at Frank, "Do you still have her?"   Frank pointed not taking his eyes off of her.  "Ryan! steer where your father is pointing!"

    The girl was soon in plain sight, wide eyed and paddling like a duckling so hard that her shoulders were out of the water. Frank hoisted her aboard so forcefully that she landed lightly on her feet.

    No one said a word about the incident, but I noted that from that moment on everyone of their own accord was holding on to something while on deck for the remainder of the cruise. I also noticed that when the excitement was over, Ryan complained about feeling sick and Polly quickly came to his rescue with one of her pills. Then it dawned on me that the other girls must have been stoned from her pills as well when the 'girl overboard' occurred. It made sense, and I decided to mention, at some convenient moment, that she should swear her friends to secrecy about the pills. What a liability black hole that would be.

    Once everything had settled down and Frank and I had opened our second beer, Polly shouted across the deck "Mitch, we wanna sun bathe with our tops off. Is that okay? We won't go..."

    My mouth came open but Frank spoke up quickly saying "Sure you can! no problem, you girls can do what ever you want." Polly disappeared behind the cabin satisfied that Frank's permission held the same weight as mine. I will have to teach him (and her) about the chain of command.  

    Ryan gave us both a worried look, wondering what it would mean for him. His dad quickly solidified his fear by elbowing him in the ribs and saying, "Go ahead Ryan, go take a look. Just remember to report back to your poor old dad.  Alas, if I were but a young lad again..." he said intentionally sounding like a sea dog sailor and laughing as loud as one.

    "Forget it dad, God their like in 6th grade!"

    "Oh, so 8th grade makes you a man of the world?  You know, you'll figure out sooner or later, when it comes down to it, a breast is a breast is a breast. The only ones that aren't worth looking at are the old ones that are all saggy.  You gotta catch your thrills when they fall in your lap. It ain't no crime to look for God's sake. I'm getting worried about you boy.  Don't you like girls?"

    "Yes, you know I do..." then turning to me, "he's just kidding around, he's always trying to embarrass me." turning back to his father he punched him hard in the arm and Frank, taken totally by surprise started dancing around shaking out his arm. Apparently Ryan hit a nerve.

    I wanted to say to Frank that the girls were high on a prescription drug that has the noted effect of increasing sexual promiscuity, but I could hear him asking: "and how did you find out about the drugs effects?" with a wink and a nudge in my ribs.  No, I couldn't very well say anything. Just like dirty weather at sea, I will just have to steer as wide as I can and weather the storm. I called Ryan back to the helm and gave him a quick lesson in sailing. Eventually I was satisfied that he could safely keep us on our current tack without capping us over. I quickly dove below and coming up to the forward hatch I knocked on it.  The hatch opened and Polly stood there in all her glory squinting into the darkness. There were excited voices behind her and she told them it was her dad.

    "Hey, put your top on and come down here. I need to talk to you."

    After she had descended the ladder, happy and as innocent as an angel she said, "Yeah?"  But when her eyes adjusted and saw my face, she took a step back and crossed her arms.

    "It's alright sweet-stuff, I'm not mad. I just want to..." I took her arm and pulled her away from the hatch where we could both hear shushing. Now whispering I continued, "...I just want to tell you that those pills are making you all a little crazy, especially them.” I said, indicating the other girls. “You've gotten used to them. Their parents would probably be very upset if they found out - either about the pills or the topless sunbathing. And when you ask me if you can do something, and someone else answers, that is not permission to do it. Kapish?" Polly nodded, not sure if she should make some kind of a stand, considering that I sure sounded mad to her. "So I want you to tell your friends that I, the captain of the ship, did not give permission, and if they want to avoid walking the plank or being lashed to the mast to be flogged, they will maintain the appearance of decent and respectable young girls." Polly opened her mouth but I quickly went on, "And you will somehow make them swear, upon your life, that they won't tell about the pills. And speaking of, where are they?"

    Now she was defiant, face aghast and hands on hips she stared at my hand that demanded delivery of the bottle of pills. "They are addictive Polly. They are made from the same stuff that your mother is hooked on."  

    That set her back. Doubt washed over her face as she considered, then fear.  After a moment’s further thought she dutifully marched to her cabin and delivered them up.  As Polly began to climb the ladder (after I had picked her up and held her in my arms and kissed her face a few times to reassure her that I was not mad at her) the Princess's bow rose, yawed and heeled uncomfortably, and then settled down with a thump, spray drifting in through the hatch. Polly was flung aside and nearly lost her grip on the ladder. I plucked her off and quickly ascended to see what was going on. Standing on the top step and looking aft, I could see a large rogue swell as it danced awkwardly away. As a matter of course, I scanned the horizon for any more troubles: All was well. Then my eyes fell onto the bodies that lay sprawled out on the deck. Two were facing away and had their eyes closed, one had her hand as a visor looking at me and slowly, very deliberately, covered herself with her free arm. She smiled, and then uncovered herself, letting her head fall back again. "Drugs." I thought. She's was undoubtedly stoned the way Polly was that first time. The cool spray and heaving of the deck didn't disturb them at all. They could be babes to the slaughter and they wouldn't have a care. I also thought how precisely correct Frank was in his dissertation about breasts - they were incredibly arousing despite the fact that they were on 6th graders.

    



Next: The overnight: Ryan, Mitch and Polly have a long talk after everyone else was asleep. Will Ryan and Polly to learn the ropes together?



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