Page 3 of Lust

I get the Uber driver to drop me just out of sight of Pa’s house to avoid any lecture on the dangers of getting in cars with strangers like I’m still five years old. I pull my umbrella free, opening it and holding over myself as the Uber drives away. I stay in place for several minutes to allow the umbrella to look expectantly wet for someone who walked in the rain before walking the last few feet to Pa’s. There’s a small tug of disappointment in myself at the deception, but I console myself with the argument that God wouldn’t want me to become ill. It’s flimsy but all I’ve got.

I raise the cast iron knocker and give it a few heavy raps. Minutes later the door opens to reveal Pa, dressed in his usual, casual ensemble of black trousers, black shirt and white collar. He may not be in church now but he’s never off the clock. God’s work is never done, he would say.

He looks at his watch as he steps back to allow me in. I step inside, twisting so the umbrella remains outside. I give it a goodshake before collapsing it and placing it in the umbrella stand next to the coat rack.

“Five minutes early,” I say as I peel my coat off and hang it.

“Very funny, child,” he replies, and when I turn to face him, he’s wearing a rare smile. Pa is a serious man, and I don’t remember a time when he’s appeared less so or carefree.

I follow Pa through to the kitchen where he hands me a cup of tea at the perfect temperature for me to drink. He busies himself with checking the roast chicken he has in the oven. Even though it’s not a Sunday, he still insists on having a roast dinner. I internally roll my eyes.

“Roast chicken again, Pa,” I say, rinsing my now empty cup and placing it in the sink before collecting place mats and cutlery to lay the table.

“Yes, Sydney. If you weren’t here with me, I imagine you would be eating some awful takeaway or microwave meal,” he says accusingly and laced with disapproval.

“I do cook, you know, Pa. Somebody made sure of that.” My words are in jest but there’s some heat there too.

“You are no good to your future husband if you cannot provide a healthy meal at the end of a long day.”

And there it is.

I tramp down the desire to bite back at his blatant misogyny. It’s not his fault. He was raised that way, and the church has only cemented his belief that a woman’s place is in the home. There aren’t many things I disagree with Pa on, but this is the top of the short list.

I quickly change the subject. “What is your conference about this weekend?”

He stills for a split second before lifting the pan from the hob and turning to me. “The usual discussions around how to encourage the younger generation back into church and God’s love.”

I nod as he drains the potatoes. “And what are your thoughts on how to do that?”

“We have a few ideas. But let’s not talk about that. Tell me about your day. How was work?”

I frown at his obvious dismissal and switch of conversation, especially as he is usually more than happy to preach to me and is rarely interested in my work, other than to point out his displeasure.

“We were busy. But that’s to be expected at this time of the year.”

“Hmmm.” He places the drained pan of potatoes on the pan holder and grabs the masher. “Want to mash?”

“Sure,” I say, getting to my feet and assuming that is the limit to conversation about my work.

We work in silence, me mashing and Pa dishing up, then while he dishes the mash, I make the gravy. After saying grace, we eat with intermittent and random conversation between mouthfuls.

While I clear the table, Pa disappears to his office to collect some mail. It’s most likely rubbish as I changed my address with everyone that matters. Returning, he hands it to me, and I flick through the small pile. As I thought, most of it will go in the bin, but there is one letter that draws my attention. I slot them in my handbag to go through more thoroughly once I’m home.

“I better get going. There are some things I need to do before work tomorrow. Is Reverend Swan over seeing your services this weekend as usual?” I ask, walking back down the hall to the front door, Pa following.

“No, unfortunately he is unwell.”

“Oh, I hope it’s nothing serious,” I say turning to look at Pa as I unhook my coat and slide it on.

“He will be fine.”

He offers nothing more, leaving me to still wonder who will be taking his services this weekend. As if he can hear my thoughts, he says, “I’m sure Reverend Stone would appreciate your help Sunday morning.”

Reverend Stone?

Before I can ask Pa who he’s talking about, the house phone rings. “I need to take this call. I will speak to you when I return on Sunday night.” He leans in and kisses the top of my head before rushing to answer the call before it rings off.

I leave, stepping out to find the rain has stopped. It’s just after nine, and I decide to walk home. Halfway home, it begins to rain again, which is the same time I realise I left my umbrella at Pa’s.

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