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My Dad was my best friend. It might not have worked out that way if he and my Mom hadn't divorced when I was 12.

My parents married too young, right after WWII. Early on they were blessed with two daughters, and to all the world it looked like an ideal family. Much later I came along, a 'surprise' as Mom so diplomatically put it. No Dad ever loved his girls as much, but he was still thrilled to have a son at long last. Already, though, by the time I came along the marriage was showing strain.

After 30 years, my parents' marriage had descended into hell. Divorce was inevitable. As wrenching as the split was for me, I knew I wouldn't miss the hostility, the yelling, the breaking glass that had been so much a part of the last few years. Naturally Dad wasn't at home any more than necessary, but when he was, all was right with the world. When he wasn't, home was the domain of my depressed and cranky mother - my sisters, now in their 20s, having fled long ago to their own lives.

When Dad told me he was leaving Mom and moving to the West coast, my first reaction was, "take me with you."

"Sorry little fella, I can't do that. I'm starting over, looking for a new job, a new place to live. I wouldn't be able to take care of you. But you know I love you and I'll always be there for you. You'll fly out to see me once a month."

That set the pattern for the next few years. As tight as money was, he always found a way for me to come see him regularly.

Before he left Dad gave me a plane ticket for three weeks hence. It was an exciting adventure. I'd never flown before, never even been farther than a couple of hundred miles from home. Not to mention the opportunity to get away from my mother, who went completely to pieces in the wake of Dad's departure.

Dad met me at the airport when my flight arrived, and I couldn't hug him tightly enough. Then it was time for the other shoe to drop.

"I'd like you to meet a friend of mine," he said, guiding me through the crowd to a bench I hadn't noticed before. Now no one had told me Dad was leaving for another woman. I hadn't thought 'the other woman' necessary, what with all the fighting he and Mom were doing. So I was unprepared. Seeing how young she was just added to the shock. Dad had just turned 50, and this woman was maybe 30. In fact, I learned later that she was only a year older than my oldest sister, that she indeed had turned 30 only four months before. My mind screamed 'whore!' but one thing both my parents had emphasized in my upbringing was manners, so I managed to be at least minimally polite to this home wrecker.

After an awkward start, things went well on subsequent visits. The occasional bit of egregious behaviour on my part would prompt my mother to contact Dad, and then I'd be told in no uncertain terms where the bear shit in the buckwheat. You did NOT risk getting my father angry. Otherwise, though, as divorced non-custodial parents are wont to do, and as was Dad's inclination anyway, our relationship started to become more friendship than father /son. Dad married the whore, whose name was Helga. "I'm not going to call her 'mom'," I told him none too politely. "You already have a mother," he answered, and to his credit his voice betrayed none on the inflection that could have gone with that comment.

A new complication was introduced when Helga's niece started being included in all our outings. Kathy was probably around 10 when I first met her, a skinny little redhead whom I immediately decided was a complete pain in the ass. Much later I figured out that Dad was trying to include someone closer to my own age to keep me company on these visits, but I'd always been a precocious kid, preferring the company of adults. I ungraciously informed him one day, "I don't fly all this way to spend time with Helga and her family." As if I was flapping my arms for the 1000 miles of the trip. Wisely, he ignored me.

I hit my teen years, and was caught up in the full force of adolescence. Shy and awkward, I got nowhere with the girls at home. Kathy, because we were forced together, was different. I didn't have to worry about impressing her - she was going to be there regardless. I don't really remember developing a feeling of affection toward her - she was more like an annoying little sister; I didn't care if she was there or not. There were times, though, when the mere fact that she was female and within reach made me try things. Like the time the four of us went to the planetarium. Kathy and I sat together, to the right of Dad and Helga. In the complete darkness between scenes, my hand moved to Kathy's knee. As the show progressed, I moved up her leg. So far no reaction from her, when she could all too easily have got me busted. Eventually, my hand was within inches of her crotch. My heart was in my throat. Suddenly her legs clamped together, and her hand grabbed mine in a death grip. My heart stopped - how would she handle the situation? But she just held my hand for the rest of the show, and all the way back to the car afterward.

Another occasion found Kathy and me alone in a hotel room - I don't remember the whys or where fores of the trip, just that the four of us had gone somewhere, and that Dad had been good enough to get me a room of my own. Dad and Helga wanted some time alone, so Kathy had been sent to my room. I'd been just about to jerk off before she knocked on the door, and so wasn't happy about the interruption. As we lay on the bed watching TV, my hormones straining on a tight leash, I looked over at her barely pubescent body and realized, hey, there's a girl here! Now, what the hell do you do with a real girl?

"So, do you have a boyfriend?" I asked.

"Nah."

"How come? A sexy chick like you?"

"Get lost, that's gross." Well, she wasn't quite 12 yet.

"You outta be careful around the guys. Young guys get crazy ideas 'bout stuff they want to try."

"Like what," she managed to reply with perfect innocence.

I put my hand on her thigh, and started gently rubbing, with a motion that clearly biased my hand to move higher over time. My heart was beating faster than I though possible, and my dick was granite. "Guys are real curious about girls, about what their bodies are like. They know that girls are different, but how are they different?" My hand was dangerously close to her crotch. Kathy was tense, uncertain, but not stopping me yet.

"You've gotta be careful, 'cause they'll want to find out." I went for broke, and put my hand fully on her crotch, massaging gently. Her breathing was unsteady, but still she didn't stop me. The expression in her eyes was unreadable. I moved my hand higher, to the elastic waistband of her pants, and curled my fingers underneath, touching her bare skin. As my hand moved lower, I came into contact with the first wisps of her recently-arrived pubic hair. I was about to cum in my pants - I'd never gotten this far with a girl before. Would she let me touch her slit?

A knock on the door shattered the moment. Kathy wrenched my hand from her pants and fled to the bathroom.

As my teen years progressed the pressures of school, jobs and friends meant that my trips to visit Dad became less frequent. The same pressures meant that Kathy wasn't always with us any more. The last time I remembered seeing her was when we were maybe 15 and 13. I'd just learned that her parents were getting divorced. Feeling like the old pro at the situation, I took her somewhere private and offered her a shoulder to cry on. She said very little - she always seemed awfully closed with me anyway, and this time more so. Fine, I thought, I've done my bit. As it happened, that was the last time I would see her for 15 years.

I went on to school, got a couple of degrees. I met Belinda, who decided pretty quickly she was going to do what it took to get me to marry her. I'd never experienced an enthusiastic, willing blow job before, and she hooked me. We did get married, and the first few years were good. We traveled, we got our careers off to a good start, and we had lots of great sex. No matter where we lived I called my Dad once a week, usually Saturday nights. Sometimes we'd talk for two hours, laughing and telling jokes, Dad always interested in my life and my career. Belinda got mad as hell the first time we got a 3-digit long distance bill, but she knew better than to try to come between me and my Dad.

As with so many marriages, things changed when the first child arrived. Before Belinda got pregnant, I'd been reconciled to the idea that yes, we would have children eventually, that working and traveling weren't very fulfilling lives. I can remember clearly the day my daughter was conceived - a session of spontaneous Saturday morning sex, which is now long-extinct from our marriage. After Cindy's birth, I dropped from number one in Belinda's life. Since Belinda was a professional with a very promising career, she tried to juggle motherhood and work. I found it hard to accept that I was now only on the fringe of her radar screen.

New Year's Eve, 1994. Neither my wife nor I are social animals, particularly, and certainly not noisy contrived New Years events. Our tradition was to rent a movie and have me BBQ steaks, 20º below zero or not. At midnight every December 31 my first call was always to my Dad, to be the first to wish him a Happy New Year, even if his time zone was an hour behind. Invariably he'd answer the phone with a "Happy New Year!" just as the call a week before was always answered with an enthusiastic "Merry Christmas!"

This year our first mistake had been to rent, for our New Year's Eve movie, Schindlers List. We were completely unprepared for the relentless misery, although why it should have been a surprise to someone with a M.A. in history is a fair question. I'd bought the fixings for Spanish Coffee, one of my favourite treats, and the gloom of the movie led me to have more of them than perhaps I should have. Because of the drinks, and despite the movie, I was feeling very fine when midnight rolled around. I went upstairs and kissed my wife (who, at four months pregnant with our second, couldn't stay up that late), and headed for the phone.

"Hello," a tired voice answered.

"Happy New Year, Dad! What are you guys doing tonight?"

"We just got back from the hospital. I've been throwing up all day."

Now my Dad was from hardy stock, and I'd never heard of him taking a sick day, let alone visiting a hospital. The happy buzz from the Spanish Coffee disappeared as he told me how he'd been unwell for the last few days, culminating in tonight's trip to the ER.

An ultrasound two days later showed nothing, but Dad was getting weaker. Exploratory surgery seemed the only option.

I waited for Helga to call me with news. Our relationship had improved over the years - I no longer thought of her as 'the whore.' She'd helped to keep Dad young, given him some happiness. So we came to an understanding with each other, and even developed a tolerable friendship.

Her call, when it came, was shattering.

"It's cancer. Around the stomach and in the liver."

I managed to keep it together on the phone. "Do you want me to come?"

"No, wait and see how he recovers from the surgery and what they recommend for treatment."

I heard later how Dad found out. He was lying in bed having just shaken off the effects of the anesthesia when a doctor came by doing rounds.

"What can you tell me," Dad asked, "I haven't seen my doctor and I don't know when he's supposed to be back."

The doc picked up the chart from the end of the bed. Instead of digesting the contents, he just started reading out loud, "Ian O'Neill, age 70, terminal cancer of the..." At that point the doc faltered, realizing what he'd done, just as Dad said, "do you have any more good news for me?" The doctor fled, appalled by his lapse of bedside manner.

Amazingly Dad bounced back well from the surgery. I called a few days later to check on him, and was astonished when he answered the phone himself, sounding very chipper. His illness over the Christmas holidays had been due to the fact that the tumour had closed off the connection between his stomach and intestine; the docs had done a temporary fix while they'd been in there, so Dad could now get the benefits of food and water again. It seemed to work very well.

My wife and I flew out the next week for a visit, our 18 month-old daughter with us. I wanted pictures of my Dad and my daughter together, as many as I could get. I rented a car at the airport and drove to their place. They saw us pull up and met us on the porch. Seeing him took my breath away. I'd seen him when he'd visited us just three months before, and he'd looked great. No one would ever have taken him for 70, more like a well-preserved 50. No more. He'd aged 20 years and more, and had become a shrunken, shuffling old man. My heart broke.

Back home I couldn't reconcile myself to the impending loss. My Dad had been such a big part of my life, had been such a great friend. I couldn't sleep, so I sat up at night swilling scotch and typing my thoughts into my computer. Belinda, increasingly stressed by the demands of motherhood, her career, and the pregnancy, tried her best to be understanding. It didn't last long. Since Cindy's arrival, my role had been to cut the grass, take the garbage out, and make sure the car had regular oil changes. There didn't seem to be time or energy any more to consider if I might have needs, like for intimacy maybe. Things were going from bad to worse, but I couldn't deal with it just then. I had to focus on Dad.

Dad's 71st birthday was coming up. My sisters were planning to fly out to 'celebrate' it with him. I thought it might be our last chance to have the family together, but couldn't afford a plane ticket. As much as I hated winter highway driving, let alone trying to cross the mountains, I decided to join them. The drive was the scariest thing I'd ever done. Avalanches, road closures, and solid ice made a normally 12 hour drive into 20. By the time I made it to the coastal plains I didn't care that it was raining, and it was all I could do to pry my hands from the wheel. But no one knew I was coming, and I looked forward to the surprise I was about to pull.

Finding the house with some difficulty in the dark and barely-familiar city, I knocked on the door. When Helga opened it, I shouted, "Did somebody order a pizza?" Dad just about fell over, since I'd just been there three weeks before. Bless him, he saw how pale I was from the drive, and poured me the first of the stiff drinks I needed.

His birthday party was set for the next night. Around 5:00 p.m. the next afternoon the doorbell rang. I was the closest, so I answered. Standing there was a striking, voluptuous red-head with beautifully coiffed "big hair." She gaped at me and said, "What the hell are you doing here?"

"Hi Kathy," I answered, "nice to see you too."

I didn't know she had been invited. It turned out that she'd just recently turned 30, so they decided to make it into a party for both her and my Dad. I was more than a little uneasy. We hadn't as much as said hello for over a decade. To say the least, the paths we'd traveled had been quite different. Kathy was dating a guy in high school when she found herself pregnant. She dropped out, they moved in together, and tried to raise their son as best they could. Then she found out he was sleeping with her best friend. She promptly kicked him out, and at 17 she found herself a single mother. Those stories often don't have very happy endings, but Kathy did great. She was an awesome mother to Gary; she put together a stable of baby sitters so she could go to night school and get her diploma; and she landed a good, stable government job that at least paid the bills reliably. In short, she took on the situation and kicked ass. I'd heard all that over the years. What I didn't know was that she looked damned good too.

One reason that I'd avoided seeing her was that I didn't look great. I started putting on weight when I was about 19. Discipline during my university years, when I couldn't afford junk food anyway, kept things from getting too out of hand. But three square meals a day after I married Belinda had been deadly - I never managed to get an exercise routine in place to keep up the new food intake, what with trying to establish a career and all. I was self-conscious as hell.

Add to that how cold Kathy had seemed the last time we'd been together. Had I overplayed my hand as "big brother?" Did I somehow leave her offended?

Worst, though, was that I didn't know what she thought now of my heavy-handed attempts at 'seduction, ' or whatever it had been in my fumbling adolescence. What had she told her aunt, my step-mother? Was this going to be her opportunity for recrimination, or worse, retribution? As the evening started out, I found it hard to concentrate on my Dad for all the distraction Kathy brought to my world that night. What I didn't know was that it was going to get worse.

The evening started off OK. We did the chit-chatty, 'what have you done with your life' talk. The conversation was neutral, polite, and somewhat distant, which in a way started to reassure me. Of course my Dad's Irish roots meant that there were lots of drinks to be had, and Kathy wasn't averse to joining in. On weekends such as this she left Gary with his father and stayed with Dad and Helga. Since she didn't have to drive home, she seemed prepared to 'go for it.' I wasn't going anywhere for a few days, so, by the time dinner was served, we were both pretty happy.

We had a ball at dinner, with lots of laughter, like the old days, banishing the elephant from the room. Dad was subdued, but still able to participate. As was typical for my family, we stayed around the table after dinner, chatting, drinking coffee and liqueur. Kathy was really starting to show the effects of all the wine she'd had, but so far was behaving herself. Then Helga decided to bring up stories from our early days together, and told my sisters about the trip to the planetarium.

"You didn't think that I'd noticed you two holding hands, did you Jim?" she taunted me. Suddenly terrified of where this conversation might lead, I looked over to Kathy. Her eyes were sparkling, and with a soft smile she said, "Ya, we sure did." I felt like the governor had phoned with a reprieve.

I had to get out of there, to get a minute to collect my wits. As soon as I could do so without attracting attention, I told the group I was going to go out "for some fresh air." Kathy was beside me in a flash. "I'll go with you."

It was a beautiful, unusually warm spring evening on the coast. It was nice to get outside, and to walk off some of the food and the wine. Kathy came out the door, and in a move that put me completely off balance, took my hand and started leading me toward a secluded walking path. Terrified that my sisters might see me holding hands with her, I moved us as fast as I could.

"I had wondered if you remembered that night," I said, taking the bull by the horns.

"Oh ya, I never forgot."

"What did you tell Helga about what was going on then?"

"Nothing. It wasn't any of her business. It was something between you and me."

We arrived at a convenient stopping point along the footpath. Kathy moved in front of me and turned, taking me in her arms. Giving me a warm hug, she put her head on my shoulder and said, "I used to have the biggest crush on you."

If she hadn't been holding me I might have fallen over. Males are generally clueless creatures, and I guess I'm more clueless than most. She'd had a crush on me?

I stayed clueless now, put off balance by what she'd said to me and by her closeness. I hadn't been this close to another woman since I started dating Belinda 12 years before. I took my vows seriously. Yes, Belinda and I were going through a rough patch, but we'd work it out. At the moment I was terrified that someone might see Kathy and I together, draw the wrong conclusion, and tell my wife. It never occurred to me that Kathy might be hinting at something else.

We went back to the house, and the rest of the evening Kathy was as affectionate as possible given all the chaperones around. At one point we were sitting next to each other on the sofa when everyone left the room to refresh their drinks or whatever. Kathy put her hand on my leg, as if to start to tickle me. I thought it odd that her hand was so high - easily half way between my knee and my hip. My conclusion at the time was that she was drunk and not aware of what exactly she was doing. She moved her hand, of course, as soon as someone came back to the room. I put the incident out of my mind.

Kathy left the next day, after taking my bed in the spare room and leaving me to sleep on a loveseat with high arms. I was a pretzel by morning, which combined with my hangover left my emotions dulled. I waved goodbye to Kathy, without really starting to wonder what was going on.

I drove home and went back to work. My boss had lost his father the year before, so the office cut me a ton of slack. It was just as well, because I was useless. I slept less, drank more, and found absolutely no solace anywhere. I knew my behaviour was adding to Belinda's stress, but I was caught off guard by what she did.

"I can't go on like this, Jim. You've got to pull yourself together. I know you love your Dad, but he could hang on for months, a year - you can't stay drunk all that time. I won't put up with it."

"'Lin, you've gotta cut me some slack here. Your parents are both young, you don't know what this is like. I don't know how to deal with it!"

"Jim, if this is how you're going to deal with it, do it somewhere else."

I was stunned. She was kicking me out of my own home when I was trying to deal with my father dying? Furious at what seemed like gross insensitivity, I packed a few things and found a cheap place to rent.

In addition to having to come to terms with Dad, Kathy was constantly in my thoughts. I replayed in my mind every word, every touch, we'd exchanged. Guilt threatened to overwhelm me. I'd done nothing more than let her hug me, but a part of me knew that I'd enjoyed the contact. What her motives might have been scarcely impinged on my reflection.

A month later my sister called, after her return from yet another trip to the coast. "If you're going to go again, you'd better do it soon." She described the changes in Dad in just four weeks. I knew I had to go. I had a credit card that I tried not to use, but under the circumstances I was prepared to max it out. I booked a flight and had a rental car waiting for me at the other end. I called Belinda to let her know what was going on. She was sympathetic, of course, but there was such an edge to her voice that I was glad not to have to deal with her just now.

The flight was uneventful. I'd always thought of it as mercifully short before, but now it seemed not long enough. I knew I was going to see my father for the last time, but my sister's description of his condition was such that I couldn't make myself hurry to get there. I drove to their house by the most circuitous route that I could think of. When I finally did get there, Dad took my breath away. He could no longer stand without help, and said he was "as weak as a kitten." Worse was his appearance. His skin was completely yellow, from jaundice, as the disease took its course. His most striking feature was his eyes - the whites of his eyes had changed to a vivid saffron. It was the most unnerving thing I'd ever seen.

Other than being weak, and increasingly deaf, he wasn't that uncomfortable yet. I spent all the time I could with him, talking if he wanted to talk, or watching TV otherwise. Of all things, he was following the OJ trial.

"Do you think he did it?" he asked me one day.

"Oh God, Dad, who cares! I can't believe there aren't better things to fill the airwaves with!" But I took it as a good sign that he was at least still trying to engage the outside world.

As the week went on, Dad became increasingly uncomfortable. Always stoic, I knew the pain had to be getting awfully bad for him to let on at all. On Wednesday he asked me to help him into the kitchen; he couldn't stand to lie on the living room sofa any more.

Neither of us had explicitly acknowledged to the other that he was dying. That way he could hide behind the fiction that he would recover, and avoid saying things that would be too hard to say. For my part, as much as we were friends, I was still his son. I wouldn't, couldn't presume to set the agenda on this. Remarkably, though, I felt I had very little unfinished business with him. Living far apart, not seeing each other regularly, I had always tried to end each visit with him in such a way that, if he were hit by the proverbial bus, there would be few regrets. It might not be our way to say we loved each other, but I know that the fact of my love, affection and respect were as real to him as if the words were carved in stone.

I also knew, though, that if I was to finish this without regrets, there was one thing I had to bring it up now. I wanted somewhere to go to be with him after he was gone. I'd lost a much loved grandmother some years before, my Mom's mom, who had asked that her body be donated to science. That meant no burial and no gravesite, not even an urn of cremated remains. As much as I held her in my heart, it would have been easier if I'd had somewhere to go, some pilgrimage to make to be with her. It seemed even more important that I get it right this time.

"Would you mind if I placed a marker? Maybe on your mom's grave?"

"They wouldn't let you."

"If they did let me, would you object?"

"No, I wouldn't object."

With some men, this might have opened the floodgates. Dad was too ill, too tired, to take any initiative. I sat with eyes brimming, knowing that if I said anything more, I would lose it completely. I chose composure instead. Dad understood; I was, after all, his son.

________________

Dad had a bad night that night, and in the wee hours a doctor came and gave him a shot of morphine. It may have taken the edge off, but when I got up a few hours later his discomfort was clear, even through his semi-consciousness. My two sisters were coming in and I had to pick them up at the airport. Before their flight arrived, I was to meet with Scott, a friend of Dad's who had said he'd be willing to do the eulogy. He and I chatted over coffee for a while, and when the time came I introduced him to my sisters.

"This is Scott Reid. He's an old associate of Dad's, who's agreed to do a eulogy."

"Is he dead?" Lorraine, the eldest, asked.

"No, not yet. It's just that Scott here wanted to have the chance to meet us, to learn a bit about Dad's family. Scott only really knows him from business."

None of the three of us was anxious to get back to the house, so we stopped for lunch along the way. Under the grim circumstances, we managed to break some of the tension with laughter, a characteristic of my family I've always been grateful for. After lunch we couldn't put it off any longer, and headed for the house. As we pulled up, Helga came out onto the porch. I knew then we'd dallied too long.

As near as we could tell, Dad had died at just the moment Lorraine had asked at the airport if he were dead. Helga had had two or so hours to sit with him since, and say what she needed to say to him. As I walked into the room, I was overwhelmed by the sense that he was still somehow present. Each of us in turn took some time to sit alone with him and say good bye. When we couldn't put it off any longer, we called the undertaker to take him away. Helga completely went to pieces as they zipped his body into the bag and started wheeling out the gurney. I wasn't far behind.

Kathy arrived shortly thereafter. She said nothing, just came to me and hugged me. I hugged her back fiercely, and whispered into her ear, "I'm so glad you're here."

The rest of the day was a blur, all of us reeling, the months of tension coming out in manic behaviour. It turned into an Irish wake in the finest tradition. Friends drifted in. Photo albums came out, and the stories started. We drank and we laughed, reminding each other of Dad's favourite stories, of his zest for life, his humour, and his caring. No one thought to eat or to sleep. Around midnight, though, my mood suddenly swung, and I had to get away. I escaped to the sanctuary of the secluded foot path Kathy and I had found just a couple of months before, but what seemed like a lifetime ago.

She found me there again, having seen me leave. I felt her presence, and turned to face her. In that instant, my confusion from our earlier encounter cleared. I looked into her eyes, and knew that what had started all those years ago between us was a seed that had been planted, that had somehow survived years of neglect, and that this moment would be the harvest.

That first kiss was almost violent. Kathy's tongue was a rigid probe that thrust into my mouth like the spearhead of an infantry assault. Any shred of conscience was torn from my mind, and I responded in kind. Time lost all meaning, as we stood together in the dimly reflected moonlight, giving vent to the pent up emotions of the wake, of the long illness, and perhaps too of our past unrequited feelings. When we finally broke apart, we sank to our knees in the soft grass beside the path, and for a long minute we could only look at each other. Then she took my hands in hers and put them to her chest.