Seed on the Wind

In addition to these more or less frequently recurring enigmas and innumerable others like them, an isolated and unique one now and again offered itself. For a late example, why did he all at once stop kissing her, his daughter, goodnight? He made no announcement and offered no explanation; he simply stopped. This was at about the time when she was becoming for other males objectively kissable: sixteen, in her second year at high school, her hair up. For that matter she had always been pleasing to look at, even during her freckle period; a lovely child, everyone called her, then a lovely enchanting girl, which indeed she was, with her amber-grey rather solemn eyes, smooth fair skin, mouth a little too large and, closed, a little too straight, but, in articulation or smiling, flexible and sympathetic and capable of charming curves and twists. What startled was her hair; at first sight the contrast seemed freakish, put on a bit; but the harmony was there and soon made itself felt. She lost her girlish angularity earlier than the rule; at sixteen the final fullnesses were already shaping her calves and arms and shoulders, and her breasts could no longer be called hints or promises nor her chest boyish — obviously something was preparing there beyond a meager and superfluous decoration, plain to see when she drew her shoulders back to stretch and the silk of her blouse tried in vain to make a level plane from her throat to her middle.

She was minded, as a matter of research, to ask other girls in her class if their fathers still kissed them goodnight, but never got around to it.

She felt indeed that there was something peculiar about her father and she didn’t want to discuss him with anyone; least of all with her mother. He was not untouchable exactly, nor was he terrifying to her anymore; certainly she was not consciously afraid of him; and yet fear was in it somehow, though it was not fear of his authority or of anything he was likely to say or do to her. The feeling was with her constantly in his presence, and made her a little uncomfortable; she was always self-conscious with him, she couldn’t help it. Sometimes she was reminded, without knowing why, of an experience some years before, at the circus, when she had seen a man enter a cage and stand there smiling, surrounded by a dozen snarling and crouching tigers; it was the first time she had seen such a thing, and she had been rigid with fear, forgetting to breathe so long that finally she had to gasp for it. Why her feeling regarding her father should remind her of that was inexplicable; nothing resembling a threatening tiger, let alone a dozen, was discernible; certainly her poor mother was no tiger. Her poor mother! Whose tears became more frequent with each passing year, and who, with her comely daughter almost grown, had apparently only one piece of advice left for her, often repeated: “Never give your heart to a man, my child, never.” Weeping, she would add, “You’re too young to understand, but you’re not too young to be told.” To Lora that sounded like poppycock; her poor mother was unhappy, that was plain, and it was equally plain that her father was too. That was a pity, she thought; and that was as far as she got.