Free Demons by Wayne Macauley

Cameron. He was the yardstick. She’d even developed, almost
overnight, a kind of insane love and respect for her parents. She was proud to bring
Cameron home and to talk about him—in whispers mostly, with Kate. She’d also bring
home little presents for us: a jar of jam, a bag of apples, a silk scarf for Katie,
a stylish wine stopper for me. And all the time there was Cameron, shaking my hand,
kissing Aria’s cheek, smiling his genuine smile.
    That went on for about four months, then we started to detect that something was
not quite right. My first instinct was to put it down to the fact that Cameron was
working shifts. Sometimes he started at three in the morning and didn’t get home
till lunchtime: by mid-afternoon he was asleep. I did shift work myself when I was
young and it does your head in, I can tell you.
    My next thought was that maybe the age difference had finally caught up with them.
Maybe Aria was hanging out with men her age and Cameron was getting jealous? Or maybe
he was putting expectations on her that she couldn’t help pushing against? Maybe
she’d actually done something, gone back to the club one night and fucked some old
school friend? Maybe that look into the distance was her saying: Yes, I did it, and
I don’t care what you think. Maybe his look was him thinking that he didn’t deserve
this young woman and sooner or later he’d have to yield to a rival? But, let’s face
it, the last thing an eighteen-year-old wants in that situation is parental advice.
Kate and I became mute observers, tiptoeing around the minefield.
    Then one Sunday Cameron and Aria were both visiting and I found myself alone with
him in the backyard. It was a warm day, a bright-blue sky. I offered him a beer.
We sat opposite each other on the green plastic chairs. It looked right, but it
felt wrong. There we were, the same age, old schoolmates maybe, or workmates, each
looking into the mirror at his double: a man in his late thirties, moving too quickly
towards middle age, thinking about where he was up to in life and looking, let’s
be honest, a bit too often at the pretty girls. But there was one difference: One
of these men was going out with the other man’s daughter .
    I kept pushing this thought down, squeezing it out of my head and burying it in the
patch of ground between us. I was trying to concentrate not on our differences but
our similarities. Poor Cameron, I thought, he’s carrying all this around on his own:
isn’t it my duty to help? And aren’t I well qualified? Same age, similar background.
We both know Aria, each in our own way, I as her father, he as her lover: surely
we can figure something out?
    I asked him what was wrong. He seemed a bit shocked. I had to repeat myself. I mean,
what’s wrong between you and Aria, I said. I don’t want to pry but she is my daughter
and you have become part of the family. Kate and I have seen how something’s not
quite right between you, there’s a stand-offishness or a tension, it’s making things
uncomfortable around here. It’s not our business, I know, I said, but—bear with me—I
feel that because we are a similar age (we’ve never talked about this, it’s never
been mentioned) maybe I could be the person to talk to? I’ve been around, I said—yes,
it was getting embarrassing—and I didn’t come down in the last shower. I had my share
of women before Kate got pregnant with Aria and during that time I learned a thing
or two about them. And she is my daughter, after all. Maybe, Cameron, I said, it
is the age difference? I don’t want to say this, I said, but they do say a girl looks
to marry a man like her father; that’s what they say, but really, I said, when it
comes down to it, does she ? Maybe Aria’s hitched up with this father-type a bit too
early? Maybe she should live a bit first, I mean with people her own age? And if
she has done something, I mean, with someone her own age, maybe the best thing is
to talk to her about it, openly. Is