Lead Me Not. James B. Johnson
near your age. Look what’s happening to you.”
“Nothing. And it’s none of your business. Nor anybody else’s business.”
He was so serious about Aloha. Mom always said he was flawed, but Denise had never seen a major flub on his part. Until now.
“Ain’t love wonderful,” he quipped in a parody of his old self.
Love? Dear Jesus, let it not be so.
Nor was she disarmed by his flippancy. “And you blew it so very well your other time with Mom, didn’t you?”
“Poison doesn’t become you, little girl.”
“But I’m right, aren’t I?”
He sank back. “Maybe, maybe not. Look what came of it. Namely you.”
“And my brother.” What would the volcanic Buddy think?
“If I have to go through hell one more time to produce a couple of kids like you both, well—”
He had gone through hell. Daddy deserved better. Forty-seven years, unlucky in love and he still was paying his dues to society. She knew, too, that many of his wartime experiences were the stuff of heroic chronicles. He’d done his job, killed a bunch of the enemy. And come home to her—Marge. Denise had to admit that life hadn’t been fair to her father.
Desperation. Denise knew that Aloha wasn’t good for her father. And the more that she thought of it, the more she was certain that Aloha Blaze was lying about her age. More problems for Daddy. He didn’t deserve the grief that was headed his way. Maybe even legal problems if Aloha was—too young. There, she admitted it.
And her anger grew. The determination that had made her into a hardcore Christian against everything she’d known in her life boiled out of her.
“Not even Mom would let that slut into this house.” Denise surprised herself with her own venom.
“Watch you mouth, girl. And, damn it, leave your mother out of this.”
She grabbed control of herself. I pray thee, dear Lord, let me be strong and please please please help me control my big mouth and my anger because I will surely lose him if I do not. Oh, sweet Jesus, come and help your faithful servant, for I need you now as I never needed you before. I must save my father.
“Daddy? I’m sorry. I got carried away. I do not wish to sound shrewish like Mother. And you deserve better, Daddy, never mind what I said. She’s not a slut. I wanted to hurt you and get what I was thinking across to you.” Was Aloha a slut? All the boys said so.
“What the hell’s going on here, Denise? We used to get along so well. We used to agree on damn near everything.” He brooded. “It’s those goddamned evangelists you hang out with.”
“I shouldn’t be so judgmental,” Denise said. “Look here, Daddy. You’re a mature man, you’ve been alone a long time—”
“Even when your mother was here.”
“And your biological clock is trucking right along—”
“I thought we were going to skip the pop psychology. I leave you alone with your religion. So I want some reciprocity. Leave me and...her alone.”
No way, Daddy. Because I love you. I will do everything in my power to kill your romance with one each Aloha Blaze. “What’s up with you and Amanda?” Denise asked coyly.
It almost knocked him back visually. He picked up his warm gin and tonic, barely touched, and drained it. “I haven’t seen her lately.” His reaction was like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar. The cliché fit so well she thought of it again.
Amanda McMullen was a professor at FSU. She was relatively new there, over in the English department, where Denise intended to major in English Lit. In fact, Amanda and Rudd had met through her.
While waiting for her father to pick her up one day, Denise had been standing in front of Bill’s Bookstore on Copeland Street, right across from Wescott, FSU’s main administrative building. Amanda McMullen was her English instructor and had been walking home from class. Amanda was known to walk miles a day. She stopped to talk to Denise for a moment and that’s when Rudd had come along. They wound up going to lunch, the three of them, and then taking Amanda home. Rudd had gotten along quite well with the attractive brunette, who had been recently divorced over in Gainesville and had accepted a position in Tallahassee to get away from her previous situation. Amanda was maybe thirty-three or so, with that rounded cuteness surrounded by short hair, and a thick Georgia accent.
Denise knew her father had dated Amanda a few times. Amanda sometimes asked Denise about her father before or after class. After all, he was a handsome, dashing and unmarried pilot, a war hero, a magic combination to some women.
“Daddy?”
He looked at her.
“Don’t take this wrong, okay?”
“Take what?”
“Put the rush on Amanda. You need something. I think Amanda can provide it, give her a chance.”
His jaw clenched.
“She’s a fine woman. Really. She asks about you. You won’t be sorry.”
He stared at her for a long moment. Then he laid his head back and closed his eyes. “Easy for you to say. Sometimes I don’t know what the fuck to do.”
Denise felt his utter despair. His personal hell had bubbled out. He was trapped. By that trash-mouth slut. Denise Six saw her father’s haunted appearance and made a vow.
* * * *
She walked quickly. Into the breach, help me, Lord, for Thou art with me all the days of my life and especially tonight.
Her father had fallen asleep on the couch, and Denise had let herself out quietly, anger driving her.
Denise liked to walk. The humid Tallahassee air seemed to provide a barrier through which she forged. Aloha’s home was only a few blocks away—it was one of the reasons they were friends. They could walk to each other’s house.
The neighborhood was growing. Her father had said that he was thinking of moving elsewhere, now that she was in school and Buddy gone. And Mom. He didn’t need such a big house; he just hadn’t gotten around to finding a new place, somewhere less crowded, and selling this one. Denise wished he’d done so and perhaps this thing with Aloha would never have occurred.
The tortured look on his face had told Denise that her father would not avail himself of the graceful Amanda. Genesis addressed “instruments of cruelty.” Perhaps Aloha was one. Denise decided to leave her father’s fate in the Lord’s hands—right after she spoke her mind.
The Blaze house was well lighted, but Denise could see colored lights in the living room. She rang the bell and no one answered, obviously because the Rolling Stones were singing so loudly. At least it wasn’t Michael rowing his boat ashore or everybody going to San Francisco. Peter and Mary Blaze were stuck in the sixties. And this was 1978, after all.
Mick Jagger wasn’t getting any satisfaction and neither was Denise. Her anger made her knocking into a real pounding.
In a moment, Mary Blaze opened the door and the pungent odor of marijuana drifted out. Mary had a handful of her hair and was involved in pinning it up with hairpins.
“Hello, dear. Aloha is in her room studying. Come on in.”
“Thanks, Mrs. Blaze.”
“Mary, call me Mary.” They always went through this same scene. Denise refused to use their first names; she was supposed to respect her elders. Wasn’t she?
Mick Jagger went away and James Brown came on, doubtless sweating rivers on vinyl.
As Denise walked down the hall, she waved to Peter Blaze, a slight man with an out-of-style ponytail. He was sitting