Just in the Neighborhood

"Love you, too, Kiki-bear," I reply. I look into her bright brown eyes. I can see how happy it makes her to hear me say it.

Stephanie stands up and makes the obvious joke: no third kiss for me, except maybe...? Carla and Erika think it's hilarious. I laugh uncomfortably, and then the three ladies are away -- off to Erika's room, I suppose, since it's the farthest room away on the first floor. That's awkward, too, but I have my own shit to deal with.

I settle in and face Sophie head on. We're not at the dining room table, but the dynamic is the same. She's at one end, and I'm at the other. There's a safe distance between us. She settles back, too. I just wait. This isn't a conversation. It's a speech. Couldn't you tell already?

"Smart phones," Sophie says. "Tip of the iceberg, too, if you know anything about home security or law enforcement. Always assume you're being recorded."

"So, do you want to just yell, 'I plead the fifth!' and get this over with?"

She chuckles at that. "That's good, Mr. P. That's quite the lead-in, actually, to the story I wanted to tell you."

"Oh? Is it a true story?"

"It might be," she says. "Or it might not. A recording of said story would not hold much weight as evidence in a court of law, let's say."

"You're a strange kid, Sophie."

She shrugs. "I fuckin' earned it."

I loll my head, conceding the point.

"So, once upon a time, in Nowheresville, Mid-Country," she begins, "there was a Big Bad Dad." She raises her hand before I can react. "No, Mr. P, this isn't a sob story -- well, okay, it is, but there's a real story, too. Be patient. It'll be worth your time."

I don't say anything. She brought up fucking Frank. It's a trump card. My best move is to shut up and let her vent. My only other moves involve giving her sympathy, support, understanding, and all the rest of that bullshit. She's good.

I swear I see her nod; she can't read my mind, but she can read the board.

"Big Bad Dad had a superpower -- honest to goodness. It was weak, and he didn't do himself any favors by drinking so much. He was dumb, too -- mean and dumb. I suppose we should all count our blessings that he wasn't smart and sober. One day, though, he had one very good, very evil idea: have a kid. Why? Because the kid might have powers, too. Certainly not for any other reason."

Sophie shrugs. "You're a smart guy, Mr. P. I feel like I don't need to go through the blow-by-blow. Big Bad Dad got his kid. He 'forged' them, which really means he broke them. He broke them real bad. That's why this story doesn't have a proper hero -- not ever. It just has one of those cliché, grimdark vigilantes who keeps telling themselves they can do more good than bad, and maybe do some bad for the greater good.

"Anyway, the only good thing that Big Bad Dad did was keep his kid off the drugs and booze, because, as he was getting weaker and sicker and living his shitty failure of a life, he did eventually put those pieces together. So there's the wrinkle. It's not a twist; it's a wrinkle. It's why the listener is willing to accept it when it turns out later that the kid is way, way more powerful than their Big Bad Dad. That, in turn, sets up the showdown. Things go from bad to worse. The kid finally snaps, and decides to fight back. They make plans. They gather allies -- and they do bad, superpowered things to get them. Then they win, but they're broken, so did they really? Big Bad Dad is sent packing, at least. Nowheresville becomes a better place. All the while, the kid is getting older, maybe growing up a little, but maybe not enough. It feels good to play vigilante, but it also feels good to be bad -- to use their powers selfishly, to try to get what they want and what they need. All the while, they keep telling themselves that story: I can do more good than bad. I can do bad for the greater good."

I suppose I should tell you what I'm doing while Sophie is speechifying -- or storytelling, if you prefer her word for it. Well, don't bother worrying about it. Fuck me, but I'm invested. I'm rapt. I also kind of feel like I'm practicing therapy without a license, but what am I supposed to do? Sophie's just a kid. I'm an adult. She needs to talk, apparently, and she's chosen me. She also needs to retreat into fantasy. That's common, I think. I would've hoped she'd be better at nineteen years old, but, well... fucking Frank.

"So, examples," Sophie says. "Good stories need illustrative examples -- symbols. They taught us that in my creative writing elective last year. Big Bad Dad had tossed bio-mom-puppet out like garbage and married his latest bimbo -- some dumb, selfish bitch who was either lucky or unlucky enough to keep her looks past twenty-five, despite having a taste for bars and booze, just like her new puppet master. The kid rescued her from him, almost incidentally. Then the kid decided to do some tests -- run some experiments. More bad stuff for the greater good. What do you know? They worked. The kid fixed her up -- made her better. But they also took advantage of her. It turned into quite the interesting, symbiotic relationship."

I look at Sophie. I regret it immediately. She's a million miles away on that other chair, but her eyes shoot laser beams across the divide that strike true. They bore through me. I have to look away again. It's not a superpower, I don't think. It's just a kid with a broken heart -- with a broken everything. Is that somebody I want involved with our family? I have to put Erika first.

"That's pretty much the origin story, Mr. P," she says. "I guess I should twist the knife one more time. The antihero, grown enough, has three motivations: one good, one bad, one tragic. So, the good: they want to rescue women -- maybe even fix them, like the bimbo -- and punish bad men. They want to make Nowheresville's women safe from guys like Big Bad Dad. But then there's the bad; Nowheresville's women aren't safe from the antihero. The antihero's broken, remember. Remember how it happened. Remember who did it. They need sex. They need women. Their superpower, wouldn't you know it, is directly on point.

"And then, the tragic," she says with a sigh. "This really adds some flavor. You see, the antihero has another need -- broken, bottomless, gaping. What they need -- what they crave, more than their own dad craved booze, even -- is for a big, strong, good daddy to wrap them up in his arms, hold them, hug them, protect them, love them, and tell them that everything's going to be okay and that he's proud of them."

Yeah, there are tears in my eyes now. Fuck you.

"But they can't have it," she says. She sounds like a self-satisfied storyteller, because that's the defense mechanism. "They're literally, physically incapable. Flashbacks. Panic attacks. Fugue states. Even if they find the best guy in town -- the guy they desperately wish had been their daddy instead -- still, no dice. It's all they can do to, say, shake hands. Firm grip. Maintain distance. Keep control.

"They try to get it from the women instead -- love, hugs, praise, encouragement. It helps. It's a treatment, but it's not a cure. And so they just keep going. They keep rescuing, and punishing, and occasionally fixing. They make a lot of money doing it, too. Sometimes they even think about whether it's time to leave Nowheresville and go out and find their very own Gotham City."

"Sophie," I try, and she doesn't interrupt me. "I... don't know what to say. I don't know what you want me to say, or need me to say. Is this how it has to be, so that we can talk? Do you need to tell me a story about what your intentions are with my daughter? Do you need to warn me about 'superpowers' that might hurt her? That's all I want to know. That's all I need to know. I'm her father, Sophie. I need to know if I need to step in and protect her from something."

"Is that really the only thing you want to know, Mr. P?" she counters. I look up. She's not a million miles away anymore. Her eyes are sly and knowing. They penetrate, but not all the way through. They hit my brain, and stay there, teasing it. "Isn't there anything else that's been going on in your life recently that's been giving you pause? Making you curious? Maybe something you're worried is bad, but actually seems really, really good?"

Well, shit.

So, what do you do? What do you do when some nineteen-year-old kid is telling you horrible, broken fairy tales that can't possibly be real, but then, suddenly, pieces are falling into place and it feels like maybe she's dangling real answers? That's one hell of a crossroads. It's belief and disbelief -- and, moreover, both wanting and not wanting to believe; it's looking back fondly at ignorance, and wondering if it's too late to turn around.

"What did you do, Sophie?" I ask. "What did we do?"

Sophie shrugs. "You raised a beautiful, kind, caring kid, Mr. P. You raised somebody who saw a weird kid having a really hard time, plopped down next to them like it was nothing, and offered their friendship like it was a spare tissue instead of the most important and precious thing in the whole world. The antihero falls in love, or thinks they do. They call up their network. They do some digging. They can hardly believe it at first, but it seems true: an amazing girl has amazing parents. She has an amazing dad.

"That does something to them. It's such a weird feeling; it's bad and good at the same time. The antihero wonders if maybe there's a missing piece of the puzzle, to tilt their own ledger more towards the good. Maybe if bad men get punished, good men should get rewarded. Maybe there's a way to put that into the mix, and do everything all at once."

She stands up. I guess that means we're almost done, and I guess I don't have much say in the matter. "I think you should enjoy this new stage of your life with your beautiful, sexy wife," she says. "Whatever happens between me and Erika, your little girl is going to be okay -- more than okay. Whether we're together for another month or ten years or fifty, she's going to come out of it better -- happy, healthy, fulfilled, money in the bank, and connected to all sorts of powerful women who'll pull strings for her. Oh, and, she'll be able to fall in love with whoever she wants after that, even though that's kind of a mindfuck, if you think about it.

"As far as you and Mrs. P go, well... whatever fun things your wife suggests to you from here on out, you should accept that they're real offers, and that they'll probably turn out great. Here in Nowheresville, Pennsylvania, you're in the club. You're on the list. Take advantage. You earned it. In particular, if I decide to go off to college or get a job in some big city, Stephanie might find herself in need of one more very close, very special friend. Surely you've noticed, Mr. P. She likes you and your wife already. She really, really likes you. She thinks you're the kindest, sweetest guy. It's almost like the pump has been primed."

It's my turn to scoff. I'm a reasonably intelligent guy. I went to college. I took a philosophy course. I even read some comic books, back in the day.

"And how do I know it's not just another test?"

That stops her in her tracks. She gives me a look: real respect. The smile spreads slowly onto her face.

"Wow," she says. "Yeah. That's tricky."

I fold my arms and wait. It looks like she's genuinely thinking.

"What if you died and went to Heaven," she asks -- herself, mostly -- "and couldn't shake the feeling that it was just another test? Man. I guess God would have to get up in there and do some tinkering -- for your own good. She'd have to whammy you -- you know, like, mind control. Huh."

She sighs theatrically. "Well, that's no help down here. Even if superpowers were real, and not just a story, you'd need to find somebody whose particular powers worked on you -- worked on men. That's another perfectly poetic wrinkle in our antihero's story, Mr. P. Their powers only work on women -- and yeah, the antihero does wonder all the time if that's all in their head -- one more parting 'gift' from dear old Big Bad Dad. One more thing he broke. Shaped. Forged. Whatever."

She gives me another chance to say something. I've got nothing. I'm not even sure I have anything to think about, let alone say or ask. Some punk kid who's fucking my daughter, and might have fucked my wife, has well and truly fucked up my bullshit detector beyond all repair.

"Should I tell them you agree to the terms?" Sophie asks. "If I tell them, they'll believe me, just like that."

"Yeah," I say. "That's fine, Sophie.

"And you know what? Why don't you girls stay here and hang out for a while? I'm going to go get changed and go for a run. A drive, then a run. I'll be gone... two hours, let's say. Maybe more. Not less."

Sophie beams at me. "Thanks, Mr. P. You really are the best. I wish you were my dad."

I let her disappear into Erika's room before I get up. Then it's upstairs to get in my workout clothes. Then it's back downstairs to get some water and a sports drink. All is quiet. Sophie's a smart kid. Hell, all four of them are smart enough to wait until I'm gone -- yes, even Stephanie.

I don't know what I believe. Erika's bedroom is suddenly another one of those boxes. The door is closed. I think it's going to stay that way. The cat can be both alive and dead. I suppose it'll be cats, plural, a few days a week from now on. I think we already did this joke. You can be immature, but don't be lazy. Think of a new one yourself.

I wish I could've said the words to Sophie, because I'd have meant them; I really would have. Unfortunately, they carry too many different meanings, and there's no telling how she would've taken them. If this is Heaven, and she's God, then what's a mere mortal man to do? Anything might be another test. Anything might anger or offend the throne -- and with smartphones and satellites and high-speed internet connections, God's never more than a digital prayer away. One wrong move, and all of Her angels -- powerful, vengeful, female, everywhere -- might turn into devils right before that poor, dumb bastard's very eyes -- my eyes. Hell hath no fury like Heaven's.

She never apologized, by the way. Did you notice that? Gods tend not to.

That's why Sophie Brown gets the last word. That's why mine stay inside my head. That's why I let them break my heart, and no one else's.

Yeah, kid. I wish I'd been your dad, too.