The Price of Candy

by Rod Hoisington

  “I took a deep breath and ran for the door. It was unlocked. I looked back. He hadn’t moved. He didn’t look powerful then at all, he looked foolish. You know what he said? ‘I thought maybe you’d go along with it. I waited until you were eighteen. I didn’t threaten you. I didn’t rape you.’ Later, I thought about all the clever words I should have dumped on him to put him down. I just wanted out of there. He didn’t make a move. I left. I could have left at any time, and that thought continues to upset me.

  “I’d been an idiot. This nobody jerk tells me to take off my clothes and instead of telling him to shove it, like an idiot I say nicely, what are you doing, George? Of course, it was rape. But I didn’t even get that until much later. I hadn’t said no, so how could it be rape?”

  “I’m so sorry for you, Betty Jo.” I took my eyes off the highway and glanced over at her. She didn’t seem to be emotional for having recounted such a disturbing episode. But I was truly stunned. I told her, “Sorry you went through that. I’m so glad you were able to get out okay.”

  She turned to face me. “So I got screwed, Freddy. I wish I could start that day over. But you can’t let things like that haunt you. What did you get for your eighteenth birthday?”

  “I guess it’s healthy you can joke about it now. Didn’t you want to get back at him, to hurt him?”

  “If I’d told Jimmie, he’d have gotten a shotgun and blasted George between the legs just enough so he wouldn’t die. I thought about telling him. He’d hunt George down and do it right now if I asked him. If I could find him. Jimmie’s married now. But at the time, I just wanted it all behind me. To my thinking, there was no hurt I could lay on him that would equal that rape. Even if I tortured him with a red-hot iron. He’d already had me. Luckily it was two hours instead of two days, but what he took I can’t take back. The memory of me on the bed in that hotel room can’t be erased from his mind.”

  “How can any woman get over a rape?”

  “That’s my point. It can’t be undone. Yet, I wasn’t going to let Big Shitty George change my life. Sure, it’s a big deal to have someone you trusted disappoint you. To find out, after five years, they thought of you as some cute little piece of ass.

  “And Freddy, something I want to clear up. Although I might have looked the part, I never did the Lolita bit at any age. Even if I had, then he should have ignored it. If a child says, let’s get drunk, you don’t go get the ice you take the bottle away. George can’t pin that one on me.”

  I said, “Do you think he was really that devious to look and lust all those years with this big scheme in mind?”

  “No, I don’t. Let me tell you, I’ve figured out the whole thing. George never had any five-year plan of taking up with Momma to stay close to me. Later, on my birthday, he thought it was worth a try. He was sure I liked him and he knew I wasn’t innocent. Sure, he’d done some fantasizing about me over those years. But no, George didn’t have any long-range plan. Momma was the one with the five year plan.”

  “No way!”

  “Now don’t misunderstand. Here’s how it went. Momma kept him interested in her for five years. He kept coming back for more. Early on, she discovered his weakness, which is where I came in. Maybe at age thirteen I wasn’t aware of how he looked at me, but she did. She also noticed if he saw me when he came over, he was fantastic in bed that night. We’re talking multiple lightning strikes here. If I happened to be out of the house and he didn’t see me, he was ho-hum—an early night.

  “I remember an incident when I was sixteen. During those years, I lived in tank tops and shorts, day and night, summer and winter. I would have worn them to school, but they weren’t allowed because of girls who were built like me. I’m not sure George had ever seen me wearing anything else. One night I told Momma I was going to show off my new jeans to George. Absolutely not, she said, those shorts look fine, but do something with your hair. She had another great time that night.

  “Momma told me I should be polite and always come out and greet him when he came to the house. If I didn’t hear him come in, she’d send him back to my room to say hello. For five years, George got his appetite with me and satisfied his hunger with her. He turned on when he saw me and it took Momma hours to turn him off. That went on from age thirteen until I turned eighteen. Then George realized he had a shot at me.”

  “What did your mother say?”

  “Never told her. I lied to her, said we just had dinner, and went to a late movie. I couldn’t fool her. She could tell I hadn’t enjoyed it. She knew something had happened. She might even have guessed that George got out of line with me. Put his hand on my knee in the movie or something. She regretted letting me go alone. To this day she doesn’t know what actually happened.”

  “But she’s your mother, she’d want to know.”

  “Sure, she would. But why spoil five years of good memories for Momma? It’s all she has. I liked him to come over because I knew it’d make Momma happy. I’m not going to take that away from her. Plus, if I told her, she’d take the blame for misjudging George and exposing me to danger for five years. Momma loved me, I can’t put that scene into her memory. I can live with my memory of George—Momma can’t live without her memories of him.”

  “So you didn’t tell your mother. You didn’t tell Jimmie. Who did you tell?”

  “No one, I just swallowed it. Buried it in my mind as best I could for a few years. Acted as though nothing had happened. Later I could talk about it.”

  “But what if he showed up again on her doorstep?”

  “Never happen. He knew what he did. He knew he had to disappear from both our lives. We never saw him again. Maybe I should check with Dear Abby, but I’m convinced I did the right thing by not telling Momma.”

  “How were you able to get over hating him?”

  “Actually, I’m thankful for one thing. During those years, while I was underage, he could have manipulated and molested me. He knew I trusted him. He had many opportunities to take advantage of me. I must have been a terrible temptation. But he controlled himself, no innocent hand touching my leg, no playful pat on my butt, no accidental brushing of my breasts. All that shit that men think a little girl isn’t aware of.

  “I didn’t realize until later how important that was. Thanks, George, for not making me live my life as a molested child. Having said that, I still think you’re a creepy bastard and I hope you die screaming.”

  She was dead serious, but I had to laugh. Betty Jo was quite a woman. I was impressed with how she handled the anguish in the years after the attack. The episode was obviously a passage of sorts for her. She had entered that hotel room as a child and left as an adult.

  She wasn’t through, “I learned something else from that experience, and I try to get it across to the beautiful girlfriends I dance with. George had my body, but that’s all. At no time did he have me. You are not your body. Never think the only thing valuable about yourself is your body and what you can do with it.”

  Her words struck me and I felt a strange agitation and discomfort. I questioned to what extent I had focused on her body and not her valuable inner self. I realized she was not as I had earlier believed.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  State Attorney Lawrence Moran started to leave his office for the day when he noticed one of his staff, Assistant State Attorney Melvin Shapiro, waiting at the elevator. Moran motioned him over. They went into Moran’s office. “Mel, I heard that the wife of our victim Bruce Banks is down here from Delaware. That’s still your case isn’t it?”

  Shapiro nodded. “Mrs. Banks was over at the office of the medical examiner. The funeral director was with her. The M.E. phoned me to be certain it was okay to release her husband’s body for shipment back to Delaware. I said no problem.”

  “And you interviewed Mrs. Banks?”

  “And I interviewed Mrs. Banks. You want a copy? Not much there. In her statement, she said Banks just got in his pickup and disappeared. He’d done it before. Taken off for
a couple of days without telling her. Fishing or something. Apparently, they weren’t exactly a pair of lovebirds. She was surprised to learn he drove to Florida. They know no one locally. Never heard of Abby Olin or Sandra Reid. So we still have no idea why Bruce Banks was down here.”

  “Is she still in town?”

  “I believe so, she’s getting their pickup released from the sheriff’s pound today. It’s registered to him only. But I told the sheriff to let her take it anyway. It’s been searched. She’s going to have things tough enough without us giving her a hassle over ownership. We have no interest in it. She’ll drive it back up.

  Moran pushed the phone across the desk to Shapiro. “Phone the sheriff right now. Put a hold on that pickup until you can talk to Mrs. Banks again.”

  Shapiro shrugged. Moran waited. When Shapiro had completed the call, he said, “We’re in luck. She hasn’t picked it up yet. They’ll hold the vehicle until I give the word. So what’s going on?”

  “I want keep her in town for a few more hours. Locate her inform her that we’ll be prosecuting Sandy Reid for conspiracy to commit murder. Explain to her that she can bring a wrongful death suit against Reid and get some money. Then I want you to personally introduce her to some local attorney to handle it.”

  “I can’t do that. We don’t do that. We don’t get involved encouraging ancillary civil actions. And if Mrs. Bank brings a suit against Sandy, she must also bring one against Abby Olin the co-conspirator.”

  “If Abby Olin also has to defend a wrongful death action, that’s not my problem. I want Reid sued.”

  “I’m not certain we’ll even have a conspiracy case against Sandy.”

  “Don’t worry. We’ll have an excellent case against her. I’ve a feeling Abby Olin is going to tell us a whole lot more about Sandy’s involvement.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  We drove on deep into Georgia on I-95. My fondness for Betty Jo had grown into a strong liking for her personally, not just her body. Of course, with a woman that attractive, I do admit to a considerable preoccupation with her looks. But now I was interested in her personal life as well. I cared what happened to her.

  She had trusted me with her George story and I felt we were closer, as if we had a history. She was chatty and polite and that was fine, except there was nothing special between us. I wanted to have dinner with her, have a few drinks, chat across the table, and get to know her better.

  She was leaning forward searching for a better music station on the radio. I noticed how the shoulder belt crossed between and promoted her breasts. Had she positioned it that way on purpose?

  She saw me. “You know, Freddy, you’re the poster boy for an ideal customer in the club.”

  “Well, thank you very much.”

  “Yeah, loaded with lust and money.”

  “Few men can look at you and not get lustful. That’s the point isn’t it?” She could call me lusty. I was certainly guilty on that point. It would be difficult for me to conceal it. I asked, “What’s it like to have dozens of men mentally ravishing you while you dance?”

  “What’s it like to be so horny you can’t drive straight?”

  I might have drifted a little on the highway. I placed both hands firmly on the wheel and glanced in the rearview mirror just to show her I was paying attention. I thought my question was somewhat cool. I guess she didn’t think so.

  Things weren’t working out. She was still keeping her distance. I needed to change that. She turned away to look out the window. That gave me a chance to steal another glance at her. I pictured her in the spotlight at the men’s club, up on the platform moving to the beat of the soft slow music. Now she’s unbuttoning her top. Slowly one button after the other, showing glimpses of her breasts spilling out of a deep red bra. With hips undulating, she peels the blouse off her shoulders, swings it around, and tosses it toward me. She steps closer, her eyes fixed on my face daring me to look away. She runs her tongue over her cherry-red lips. Other men are wondering why I merit such extraordinary attention from the star. My eyes are glued on her captive breasts as she leans over close to me and reaches back to unclasp the bra. She shrugs her shoulders and the bra is loose now, but she’s holding it across her breasts teasing. She dances and sways before me. Then she...

  “Watch out you idiot!”

  I slammed on the brakes. We swerved. With a screech of tires, my car spun to the side of the highway facing the opposite direction. Dust mixed with the echo of angry horns swirled around us. We slid to a stop off the shoulder onto the grass on the edge of a ditch. Fortunately, we hadn’t hit anything. Everything was okay. The other cars kept on going.

  “Didn’t you see that goddamn car?”

  I sat there for two or three minutes breathing heavily with my eyes closed tightly. My hands still firmly gripping the steering wheel. So embarrassed I couldn’t speak. My daydreams were getting the best of me, as though they were unconstrained and out of my control.

  After a few more moments, I merged back into traffic with exaggerated caution. I risked asking, “Are you okay?”

  “If you don’t stop leering at me, I’m sitting in the back seat.”

  “Don’t do that. Please. I’m just fascinated with you. You know how men are.”

  “Yeah, I know how men are and it’s not a comforting thought.” She shook her head slowly as if I was an exasperating child. “How soon will we get to Florida? Assuming we make it.”

  I glanced at the dashboard clock. “Can’t make it tonight. We’ll have to stop somewhere.” I was glad I’d thought of that. I was certain she didn’t have money for a hotel. That might be an opening.

  “You could drive overnight, Freddy.”

  “No thanks.”

  “We could trade off driving.”

  “No thanks.”

  “What’s with this, we must stop somewhere shit?”

  She didn’t want to appear too forward. I’d have to be subtle. “I’ll find a first-class hotel with a fine dining room.”

  “Don’t have money for that. I’ll sleep in the car.”

  She couldn’t be serious. “I can’t let you do that.”

  “So, I get a separate room in your hotel, that what you’re saying?”

  I thought about it a minute and answered, “No, I guess not. How about double beds, Candy, and you can put that gun under your pillow.”

  “You just called me Candy.”

  “I didn’t.”

  “Freddy, I have no interest in getting laid tonight. I think I’ll skip the endless hours of begging and get my own motel room.”

  Perhaps I still had a chance. That wasn’t a definite rejection, was it? After some wine and a pleasant dinner, she might change her mind. Isn’t that how it’s done?

  After half an hour, I spotted a likely exit. I thought it safe to tell her I was tired of driving. We came to a Marriott and I slowed. She said to drive on past. I ignored her, pulled up into the driveway under the canopy, and stopped. I turned off the key.

  She reached over and turned it back on. “Sleeping with you wasn’t part of the deal.”

  She wanted her own small motel. I told her we were in rural Georgia and I didn’t think there was much else down the road going away from the Interstate. Try anyway, she said. A mile farther into the sticks, at a small crossroad, we came to Mom’s Cafe and across the road was Papp’s Motel with a flickering vacancy sign. In spite of how the place looked, the faded sign out front assured us the place was very up-to-date with not only air conditioning, but free TV as well.

  “Pull up in front, Freddy.”

  “You’re not serious. There are no other cars parked here.”

  If Papp was eighty and wore a NASCAR cap, that must have been him sitting outside the motel office leaning back on a wooden bench. He wasn’t whittling, but otherwise it was a perfect homespun tableau.

  “Wait here.” She took her shoulder bag and walked to the office, with her long legs disappearing up under that skirt and gently swaying those wond
erful hips. Her head was up as if she was about to enter the Mayflower in DC.

  The old man jumped as if he was eighteen and held the door for her. I waited. After thirty minutes, maybe more, I thought she’d dumped me and gone out the back way. At last, she came out front smiling and jingling a room key from her fingers.

  I hurried over. “How’d you get that key?”

  “A box of crackerjacks. It came as a prize.”

  I had to raise my eyebrows at that. “It’s the Bates Motel. I can’t let you stay in this dump.” To tell the truth, the place appeared okay, it just wasn’t a modern multi-story.

  “Grandpop in there gave me the best room. He says the bed is clean, the shower has a new glass door, and there’s a nice view of the road.”

  Clearly, I didn’t understand this woman. “Okay, but let’s go back to that Marriott and have some dinner.” Maybe after dinner and drinks I’d have a chance.

  “I’m not dressed for that and no money for anything fancy.”

  “I’ll pay. I promise...no obligation.”

  “Let just go across the road, Mom’s Café. Do people eat chili in Georgia?”

  There were five other people in the café. Betty Jo brushed back some of her delightfully curly hair and stared up at the menu on the wall. No chili. A child in a far booth, who had been sitting with an open book and writing in a notebook, skipped over to our booth. When she saw Betty Jo she stopped frozen, her mouth open. Betty Jo called her over and managed to get her talking. She was Mom’s nine-year-old daughter. She slowly recited her spiel, which twice informed us there was no additional charge for coffee, and we could have all the refills we wanted. Looking upward and moving her lips slightly as we spoke, she took our order without writing it down. She then ran into the kitchen. Through the large window behind the counter, we could see her talking excitedly with Mom, who gave us a playful wave with a spatula. Then the child ran back to Betty Jo and asked her if she was a movie star. I had also decided, in the last eight hours, she was a very attractive woman.