Chapter 1

Kids make mistakes. It's just what they do. And it doesn't matter if they have parents who hover over them and try to train them and teach them and all that stuff. They still make mistakes. And hopefully they learn from them.

Now, I think the vast majority of the population would agree with all that. But where things begin to break down, in terms of the agreement thing, is at what point kids should expect to get no more help from their parents. Actually, "help" isn't the right word. I'm not sure what the right word is, for that matter. All of us are full of opinions, and most of us don't mind sharing them. And that goes double for parents who have opinions about what their grown up kids are (or are not) doing. But, even before they're grown up, as you may have already noticed, when the kids get into their middle teens, they don't seem to recognize or revere the sage advice and opinions voiced by their parents. And they keep making mistakes.

So what is a parent to do?

Well, that vast majority out there, who I'm depending on so much to agree with me, would probably say "Gotta love 'em!" with a wry smile. That is probably the deepest, most meaningful comment (okay - paraphrase) to come from television, by the way. Just my opinion, but if everybody lived by that catch phrase, wouldn't it be a better world?

Except "vast majority," by definition, doesn't include everybody.

Which brings us to my brother, his wife, and their daughter, Penny.

At the time this story started, at least for me, Penny was seventeen. One of the mistakes she made was her choice in boyfriends. Not so unusual, really. She chose one who had graduated, and had his own place and a job and 'everything.'

That his "place" was a two room apartment with a mattress on the floor, a television, and various different sized trash bags to hold his clothes, didn't matter to her. She was in love. That his job involved the well known phrase "Would you like fries with that?" didn't bother her either. He was going to be a manager some day. And the fact that he had little more money than was necessary to keep him in cigarettes and beer didn't bother her either. Once she graduated, she'd go to work too and they'd have two incomes!

Another mistake she made was on her seventeenth birthday, when she gave herself the present of becoming a woman. She planned it all out. It was supposed to be a ceremony, with candles and ambiance and romance. What happened, as I later found out, was a rushed, insensitive deflowering, (on that mattress on the floor, ) after which her boyfriend huffed, puffed and chuffed his balls into her fertile pussy, thoroughly impregnating her the very first time she had sex.

Another of the mistakes she made was trusting him when he said he'd stick beside her forever. He was eighteen and a man of the world ... right?

And he did stick with her until she had the baby, regularly lying on his back on that crushed mattress, while she serviced him with the pussy he'd knocked up. Then, when there was a crying baby in the apartment, and things started costing serious money, he decided it was more important to serve his country. He joined the Air Force and went off to save the world, never to be seen or heard from again. Well ... he was heard from once more after that. It was in a letter, explaining that the Air Force "frowned on" enlistees getting married before they were fully trained, and had been stationed somewhere for a while. And oh, so sorry, but he couldn't send her any money to keep paying the rent, because he had to buy uniforms and boots and a rifle and maybe even bullets for the rifle too. I saw the letter, and it made me want to go find America's newest airman and give him some real training ... in how to survive torture during interrogation by the enemy.

I found all this out when I went to her apartment one day, to see how she was doing. And I went to the apartment because, when I asked John, my brother and her father how she was doing, his answer was "I don't know. She has been shunned."

"Shunned," I repeated. "Since when are you Amish?"

"Shunning was practiced long before the Amish came along," he said. "We cannot accept her course of action, and she has separated herself from us by pursuing it."

"You mean getting pregnant," I said.

"Sex outside of marriage is forbidden," he said.

"As I recall, you used to tear up the pussy when you were growing up, long before you were married."

He frowned. "Those were my ignorant days. I have learned better. I now walk the straight and narrow."

"So you could fuck up when you were young, but your daughter isn't allowed to," I said.

"We told her the rules," he said. "There's no reason she couldn't learn from our mistakes."

"So you told her you fucked everything you could get the panties off of when you were her age," I said.

"Of course not. That wouldn't be a good example for her! We told her it was wrong, and disrespectful to our beliefs and values."

"As I recall, we got that same thing in Sunday School," I said.

"I have things to do. I don't know where or how she is, and I don't care. I don't think you should either."

"Well, apparently unlike you, I still love her," I said. I was not able to conceal the anger in my voice.

"If you loved her, you'd require her to live a pure life!" he shouted. "When she sees the true way, she can come back."

"Can she bring your grandchild with her?"

"Of course not. That boy is fruit of the wrong kind of tree, and will never soil our home with his presence."

"You are one fucked up piece of shit," I said.

His wife, Meredith had been listening, nodding in agreement with her husband.

"You are no longer welcome in this home either," she said, her voice shrill. "You curse, you drink and you traffic with sinners. I'll get a restraining order if I have to!"

I smiled. "Better put Jesus on that restraining order too. I hear he hangs out with the wrong kind of people all the time."

Then I left, to go find a girl who had been abandoned by her parents because she made some mistakes.

When I found the ratty apartment and knocked on the door, there was no answer. I heard what sounded like crying inside, so I just went in. I didn't know what to expect, but I was ready for violence if it was required. A career in Army law enforcement had taught me that violence, in the proper amounts, at the proper time, could actually result in peace. A lot of people don't believe that, but I'd seen it happen dozens of times.

But violence wasn't needed. Penny was just feeding the baby, and crying. She was so beaten down that she didn't even care that I saw her crying, or saw the way she was living. She had no pride left.

So I decided to stay a while and talk.

Penny had managed to keep paying the rent, by the simple expediency of taking the job her worthless boyfriend had left behind. There was a church in town that had a daycare center in it that was reserved for women in Penny's exact situation - extreme poverty. So Dilly (yes, shithead named his son, unfortunately) was well taken care of while she was at work. He was young enough that all he required was breast milk, which meant the only food she had to buy was for herself, but a nursing woman needs good nutrition to make good milk. Rent, utilities and food were taking every dime Penny could get her hands on. So that meant she had to be "innovative" at finding ways to do things that were less costly than most of us do. For example, she washed out her uniforms and other clothes in the bathtub when she took a bath.

After sitting and mostly listening for two hours, I suggested that maybe a short outing might be in order, maybe to go out to eat. I don't know whether it was because I had been non-judgmental while I was there, or whether just having someone to listen had revived her spirit a little or what, but suddenly she had found some of that lost pride.

"I can't go out looking like this," she said. "And Dilly's clothes are all dirty."

So I got her sizes, and Dilly's size, which was a number with a "T" added on to it for some reason, and told her to take a bath and give him one too, and be ready to get dolled up to go out. She argued, but not nearly hard enough to dent the resolve of an old soldier like me.

I went to Walmart and spent fifty or sixty bucks, a pittance for a 48 year old man who's getting an Army retirement check every month and has his own security business.

She yelled at me when I got back and spilled the loot out onto the table. I didn't much listen. I just pointed to the blouse and shorts I liked the best and said "Those will make you look hot." I didn't worry about Dilly. He'd be cute no matter what she put on him.

When Penny had been younger, she'd been plump. Like most American kids, she didn't get enough exercise, and she carried around some rolls of fat. Living hard had taken that off of her, though, and now she was slim, but curvy. I don't know if the fat she'd had on her breasts had just stayed because she was using them, or what, but they were very full and a prominent feature, overall. Her hips had stayed spread after she delivered Dilly too. So she had an actual hourglass figure. Above that was a very ordinary face, surrounded by brown hair that was currently a bit dried out and frizzy, because she couldn't afford to buy all those products that make hair shiny and silky and all that. I'm not saying she looked bad - not by any stretch of the imagination. But she didn't look exotic either. She just looked like a girl in her late teens who had a good body and was just a normal person. Except for Dilly, of course. Dilly told everyone that she'd spread her legs for some boy. Nobody suspected me of being Dilly's father. I looked exactly like what I was, her uncle, or maybe her father, taking his daughter and grandchild out to eat.

I took her to Sirloin Stockade, so she could choose from the buffet there. I like choices too, thought I usually sample almost everything. I run five miles a day, so I get to eat what I want. That's why I run five miles a day. I don't have a girlfriend. I'm not into drugs or booze. So eating is about the only vice I have. And running five miles isn't such a terrible price to pay. Takes me forty-five minutes, which is about as fast as I feel like pushing things at my age. So paying for my vice costs me less than an hour a day. No big deal.

"Better than burgers?" I asked, as she dug into her plate.

"I don't eat where I work," she said. "I know what's in that stuff."

"Oh my," I said. "I eat there occasionally."

"You shouldn't," she said, completely serious. "The food bank has good food."

I smiled. "I don't think I'm eligible for the food bank."

She looked up at me. "They've never asked me a single question."

"Still," I said. "I think the food bank is a great idea, but it should be saved for people who really need it."

"Like me." Her dark eyes stared into mine. Dilly fidgeted in his high chair, but he was just making noises and we both ignored him.

"Like you," I agreed. What else could I do? I wasn't going to pretend she wasn't in dire straits.

She slumped.

"Lots of people have problems getting by," I said. "You're not alone."

She put her fork down like she'd lost her appetite.

"I feel alone," she said.

"That's because your parents are assholes," I said.

She blinked. She should have been a senior in high school, and kids that age aren't used to adults using that kind of language openly, I suppose.

"I, however, am not," I added, grinning. "Which is why you are not alone. Not any more."

She looked at me with what looked like careful eyes. It occurred to me that, as vulnerable as she'd been since shit-for-brains had gone off to save the world and avoid his responsibilities, men might have tried to exploit her.

"I don't want sex." I said. I admit it. I actually said that. I didn't do a lot of thinking before I said it, but I did afterwards, trust me.

"I beg your pardon?" she said, her eyes wide.

I've always believed that, with young people, we tend to treat them like they're too young to understand anything. That's not true, of course, and they know that. So I try to approach them on as much of an adult level as possible. If it's obvious I've gotten too adult, I moderate, but otherwise I try to treat them like anybody else. So in this case I just told her the truth.

"I was just thinking that other ... um ... men ... might have offered to ... um ... keep you company."

"For sex," she helpfully added.

"Yeah," I said.

"They do," she said, quite calmly. "Let's say it isn't unusual."

"Well, I didn't want you to think that's what I had in mind," I said.

"So those boners you got when I was fourteen, and sat on your lap and wiggled, didn't mean anything," she said, also with a completely straight face.

I blinked. "You noticed that, huh?"

"Of course," she said. "I was trying to give them to you."

"Really!" It was a comment, not a question.

"Of course," she said. "You were the only man I could tease and get away with it." She seemed to think. "Or maybe I knew you were safe. I didn't really think about it that way back then. Not consciously, but thinking back on it now, I sort of think that was what was in the back of my mind. I could tease you and not get in trouble ... in lots of ways."

"Well, you're welcome, then," I said.

Again, she gave me that very level, very adult, very contemplative stare, and then picked up her fork and started eating again. It was maybe five silent minutes later that she paused again.

"So what did you have in mind?" she asked.

I phrased my words a bit more carefully now. What I had in mind had just appeared there. I hadn't planned on it when I went to find her. I suspect I didn't want her to have to live like she was living.

"I was thinking that my business has gotten big enough that I should probably look for someone to take care of office stuff for me."

"Office stuff." Her voice held only a hint of question.

"All the equipment I install has a warranty, and it all has to be registered. There are always new things coming on the market, and I need to keep abreast of that kind of thing, which means reading magazines and surfing the net. There's billing, and accounts payable and tax forms and record keeping and all kinds of shit the government requires a small business to do. And if I do all that, I don't have time to meet with new clients and do installs and all that."

"So you need a secretary," she said.

"This person would be much more than a secretary," I said. "She would have to become well versed in the field of residential and commercial security, both concerns and solutions, as well as become proficient at jumping through all manner of legal and regulatory hoops."

"She?"

"Well, I was thinking you could use a better job than the one you have. And I know you. And I trust you. And you're smart."

If I'd have left it there, I'd have probably been fine. But trust me to go the extra yard and trip over my own feet.

"And I could stand to look at you on a daily basis," I added, no longer thinking before I spoke.

I got that guarded look again.

"But not for sex!" I said, digging my foxhole even deeper.

You know how kids look at some "older" people and smirk and giggle about how "out of it" they are? The guarded look left, and I got that one instead. I used to get that look from criminals who thought they were oh, so much smarter than Barney Fife (that would be me) when I was poking around on the street, fishing for something to do. Usually, those kinds of people were really sorry they'd met me after being condescending for a while, because I wasn't nearly as stupid as they thought I was.

I also carried more bullets than Barney.

Anyway, when she gave me that look of pity and condescension, it pushed a button that hadn't been pushed in a while, and I went from emergency stop on my date with a train wreck, to full derailment.

"Of course you'd have to live with me in my house," I said.