It occurred to her much later that her father very likely misinterpreted that sound as passion, and it was probably just as well that he did. Whatever his interpretation, it signalled the climax of this strange interlude. He arched suddenly beneath her, sending her smoothly upward. The movement was both terrifying and strangely pleasurable that he should be so strong, that she should be so moved. For one moment she almost understood the nature of the chemicals at work here, dangerous yet compelling, and that control of them might lie within her grasp-if she wanted to control them, that was.

I don’t, she thought. I don’t want anything to do with it. Whateverit is, it’s nasty and horrible and scary.

Then the hard thing pressed against her buttock, the thing that wasn’t the handle of a screwdriver or her mother’s tackhammer, was spasming, and some liquid was spreading there, soaking a hot spot through her pants.

It’s sweat, the voice which would one day belong to the Goodwife said promptly. That’swhat it is. He sensed you were afraid ofhim, afraid to be on his lap,and that made him nervous. You ought tobe sorry.

Sweat, my eye! the other voice, the one which would one day belong to Ruth, returned. It spoke quietly, forcefully, fearfully. You know what it is, Jessie-it’s the stuff you heard Maddy and thoseother girls talking about the night Maddy had her slumber party, afterthey thought you were finally asleep. Cindy Lessard called it spunk. She said it was white and that it squirts out of a guy’s thing like toothpaste. That’s the stuff that makes babies, not French kissing.

For a moment she balanced up there on the stiff lift of his wave, confused and afraid and somehow excited, listening to him snatch one harsh breath after another out of the humid air. Then his hips and thighs slowly relaxed and he lowered her back down.

Don t look at it any longer, Punkin, he said, and although he was still panting, his voice was almost normal again. That scary excitement had gone out of it, and there was no ambivalence about what she felt now: deep simple relief. Whatever had happened if anything really had-it was over.

Daddy-

Nope, don’t argue. Your time is up.

He took the stack of smoked glass panes gently from her hand. At the same time he kissed her neck, even more gently. Jessie stared out at the weird darkness cloaking the lake as he did it. She was faintly aware that the owl was still calling, and that the crickets had been fooled into beginning their evensongs two or three hours early. An afterimage floated in front of her eyes like a round black tattoo surrounded by an irregular halo of green fire and she thought: If I looked at it too long, if I burned my retinas, I’ll probably have to look at that for the rest of my life, like what you see after someone shoots off a flashbulb in your eyes.

Why don’t you go inside and change into jeans, Punkin? I guess maybe the sundress wasn’t such a good idea, after all.

He spoke in a dull, emotionless voice that seemed to suggest that wearing the sundress had been all her idea (Even if it wasn’t, you should have known better, the Miss Petrie voice said instantly), and a new idea suddenly occurred to her. What if he decided he had to tell Mom about what had happened? The possibility was so horrifying that Jessie burst into tears.

I’m sorry, Daddy, she wept, throwing her arms around him and pressing her face into the hollow of his neck, smelling the vague and ghostly aroma of his aftershave or cologne or whatever it was. If I did something wrong, I’m really, really, really sorry.

God, no, he said, but he still spoke in that dull, preoccupied voice, as if trying to decide if he should tell Sally what Jessie had done, or if it could perhaps be swept under the rug. You didn’t do anything wrong, Punkin.

Do you still love me? she persisted. It occurred to her that she was mad to ask, mad to risk an answer which might devastate her, but she had to ask. Had to.

Of course, he replied at once. A little more animation came into his voice as he said it, enough to make her understand that he was telling the truth (and oh what a relief that was), but she still suspected things had changed, and all because of something she barely understood. She knew the

(goose it was a goose Just a kind of goose)

had had something to do with sex, but she had no idea just how much or how serious it might have been. It probably wasn’t what the girls at the slumber party had called “going all the way” (except for the strangely knowledgeable Cindy Lessard; she had called it “deep-sea diving with the long white pole,” a term which had struck Jessie as both horrible and hilarious), but the fact that he hadn’t put his thing in her thing still might not mean she was safe from being what some of the girls, even at her school, called “pee-gee.” What Karen Aucoin had told her last year when they were walking home from school recurred to her, and Jessie tried to shut it out. It almost certainly wasn’t true, and he hadn’t stuck his tongue in her mouth even if it was.

In her mind she heard her mother’s voice, loud and angry: Don’t they say it’s the squeaky wheel that always gets the grease?

She felt the hot wet spot against her buttocks. It was still spreading. Yes, she thought, I guess that’s right. I guess the squeaky wheel does get the grease.

Daddy-

He raised his hand, a gesture he often made at the dinner table when her mother or Maddy (usually her mother) started getting hot under the collar about something. Jessie couldn’t remember Daddy ever making this gesture to her, and it reinforced her feeling that something had gone horribly awry here, and that there were apt to be fundamental, unappealable changes as the result of some terrible error (probably agreeing to wear the sundress) she had made. This idea caused a feeling of sorrow so deep that it felt like invisible fingers working ruthlessly inside her, sifting and winnowing her guts.

In the corner of her eye, she noticed that her father’s gym shorts were askew. Something was poking out, something pink, and it sure as hell wasn’t the handle of a screwdriver.

Before she could look away, Tom Mahout caught the direction of her glance and quickly adjusted his shorts, causing the pink thing to disappear. His face contracted in a momentary moue of disgust, and Jessie cringed inside again. He had caught her looking, and had mistaken her random glance for unseemly curiosity.

What just happened, he began, then cleared his throat. We need to talk about what just happened, Punkin, but not right this minute. Dash inside and change your clothes, maybe take a quick shower while you’re at it. Hurry up so you don’t miss the end of the eclipse.

She had lost all interest in the eclipse, although she would never tell him that in a million years. She nodded instead, then turned back. Daddy, am I all right?

He looked surprised, unsure, wary-a combination which increased the feeling that angry hands were at work inside her, kneading her guts… and she suddenly understood that he felt as bad as she did. Perhaps worse. And in an instant of clarity untouched by any voice save her own, she thought: You ought to! Jeepers, you started it!

Yes, he said… but his tone did not entirely convince her. Right as rain, Jess. Now go on inside and fix yourself up.

All right.

She tried to smile-tried hard-and actually succeeded a little. Her father looked startled for a moment, and then he returned her smile. That relieved her somewhat, and the hands which had been working inside her temporarily loosened their grip. By the time she had reached the big upstairs bedroom she shared with Maddy, however, the feelings had begun to return. The worst by far was the fear that he would feel he had to tell her mother about what had happened. And what would her mother think?