The Prison Inside Me

by Gilbert Brown

  “Yes,” George smiled, “even find someone to occupy one or two of those empty bedrooms! Let’s just stay the course on which we have embarked—no detours, no wild dreams. We have created a great winning combination. It ain’t broke. Let’s not fix it!”

  Life became idyllic. Their love for each other grew, as did their business. They enjoyed their nightly martinis, the demanding work week in which each was involved with professional obligations, and the demands of the camp on weekends. Their Sunday afternoons after the campers left were their only escape time, with one Sunday a month at the shooting range, except if a holiday intervened to be used for that purpose. The two even found time to admire, somewhat longingly, the bedroom they had painted yellow, in expectation of an addition that both were sure would come one day. They talked at length of the family that they desired but that was being held in abeyance pending a firmer grip on their personal and business finances. But the room was ready to welcome whomever they would be blessed with.

  The anomaly in George’s sexual behavior continued. With overnight campers present on weekends, Susan would read the boys a bedtime story. On occasion George would take one boy into his office for private tutoring. Even during the normal daytime activities such as swimming or boating that Susan supervised, George might take a boy into his private office for a tutoring session. Some Saturday nights, after a private tutoring session, George would come to bed highly aroused, awakening her and making passionate love. She adored this special warmth despite both of them having put in a week of strenuous, tiring effort. This didn’t happen every Saturday, only perhaps every other week. Rarely did they have sexual relations during the week, never after his special night classes with the high school students. She thought this quite strange, wondering what it was that made him so amorous on those Saturdays.

  She accepted what she had and decided not to investigate, nor to ask George what got him so excited on occasion. She wished he would make love to her more often, relishing the attention and the fulfillment she felt in his appreciation of her femininity. She knew that during the week, he was working on his feet close to eighteen hours a day, Monday through Thursday. She rationalized that his fatigue after a grueling day of teaching and tutoring required the deep sleep into which he fell those nights without residual strength for lovemaking. Their relationship, however infrequent it was in total intimacy, was “as good as it gets,” but she wished it could be better.

  And then she missed her period. Could it be? She told George of her suspicions, since she had always been so regular. A visit to their physician confirmed that she was six weeks pregnant. George was elated. “What do we want? A girl or a boy? Whatever you wish,” he said at the news, “and we’re going to make it a winner. I hope he or she likes yellow!”

  They called their parents to bring the good news. It would be the first grandchild for George’s parents. Susan’s sister, Elizabeth, had given birth two years before to the Campbells’ first grandchild. Another bonanza fell into Susan and George’s lap. The two families discussed the loan they had made to their children to start their camp. They agreed to give this new addition a special baby gift of forgiveness of the remaining principal of the loans both had made to help create Recovery Camp. “You need something to help you furnish the house, get a nice layette for the baby, help with the medical bills, and maybe even hire someone to work in the camp or to take care of Susan to lighten her load.”

  With the forgiveness of these two loans, Susan started to furnish the lodge, finally creating a home for them and the new addition. They were able to increase payments on the outstanding bank mortgage; they could see themselves being debt-free within three years if the camp continued on its current course. They even bought a new car, larger and more accommodating of their expected family. Life was getting better; both expressed their deepest appreciation to their parents for this new generosity.

  It was the seventh month of Susan’s pregnancy with Caroline. She took leave from her work at CPS. She spent her days looking for small things she could do around their home, dormitory, and classroom to make them more attractive. She made sure that George’s multicolored whiteboard markers were arranged neatly, that papers and texts were all in their proper places, that the chairs were in neat rows, that pencil marks on the tablet arms were erased, and that she did everything she could do to make George’s tutoring and teaching easier.

  One day, as she was straightening things on the desk in George’s office, she noticed a dog-eared, much-used folder. She recognized it as the folder George occasionally took into the bathroom before returning in an aroused state for a passionate session of lovemaking. She smiled, thinking that she was about to find either camp financial records or hard-core pornographic pictures of men and women locked in carnal embrace. She picked up the folder and opened it.

  Her heart sank, and she gasped for breath as she saw the many photographs in the folder. Her legs grew weak. She felt she was going to faint. She fell into George’s chair at the desk. Each picture was of a different male, obviously a young boy, torso only, lacking the maturity of pubic hair, completely naked, genitals in full view, cropped so that neither head nor face appeared. She gasped for breath. She turned over a few of the photos, stopping before viewing all that were in the folder.

  Oh, my dear God, what have I done? What is George doing? What have I married? And now I’m pregnant! Is this the end of our marriage, the end of our lives together, the end of our business and financial success? How do I face him? Do I tell Elizabeth, my parents, his parents? Where do I turn? I should never have opened that folder. It’s none of my business. George is entitled to a private life. We share so much; we have such joy together; we really have come to love each other so deeply. I don’t think I can live without him, without all this that he has given me. He has worked so hard for us to make a great life for me, and soon for our baby. I have no right to pry into his private life.

  Susan carefully closed the folder after rearranging the photos it contained so that they would appear untouched. She carefully replaced the folder in the exact spot she had found it. She stood up and looked at the desk to ensure that George wouldn’t suspect that she had been in the office straightening things. Obviously, he had been looking at the folder and had forgotten to put it back in his attaché case. She got up weakly from the chair, replaced it under the desk as she had found it, and went back into their living quarters to make a cup of tea. She wished she could have that regular martini that they both had foregone during her pregnancy. She waited for the water to boil.

  What do I do? No, Susan, you can’t just confront him; you can’t put him on trial. Do you think you can ask him to give up his pictures? Oh, my God, all those little boys. He must be doing something with them when he tutors them alone at night in his office! No wonder he comes to bed so excited! He’s doing something terrible to those kids. He gets all excited by whatever it is he does, and then he comes to me for the rest. Why the pictures, then? Probably it’s not enough when you can have the real thing at hand. What am I going to do? I’m a psychiatric social worker. I know what’s going on. And I send him kids, too! These kids are the most vulnerable; they need him more than the others. That explains why it’s not every Friday or Saturday night that he tutors that he comes to bed excited. It’s only on those nights when he has a willing youngster to abuse. There, I said it, abuse. He is an abuser; my husband is a pedophile, and now I know it. Help me, someone; what do I do?

  The kettle was whistling. She turned off the heat, took a cup from the cupboard, put a tea bag in it, and poured the hot water over it. She stared at the brewing drink.

  I can’t face this. I’m a big girl. I’m almost eight months pregnant. I must go on as before. I have to shut this whole thing out of my mind. My life was good before, and it will be again. I can’t just shut it off. George has worked so hard for me, for us. Yes, and look at all the good he has done for so many kids, turning them around, making them su
ccesses at math, learning to love a subject they hated before. Look at all the good he has done for those grown students at the college and in his college prep course. I can’t just throw that away. Susan, close your eyes. You had no right to look at his private papers. You never saw them. It never happened. Susan, don’t throw your life away, and George’s too. You love him. Maybe you can help him the way he has helped so many others, including you!

  She took the tea bag out of the cup and put it on the sink top. She took the first sip of comforting, hot tea. She felt much more assured of what she had to do as she sipped her tea.

  I can’t stop, either, sending kids from CPS to the camp. If I do, someone will suspect something and start investigating. I’ll go down along with George for having betrayed my professional obligation. How will we survive? If it comes out, George will go to jail. I couldn’t take that. Me? How about George? He would be destroyed. I can’t let that happen. George, I don’t know what you do with those little boys. I have never seen you do anything wrong. The boys have never complained. Maybe you don’t do anything at all; maybe you just look at those pictures the way you did before. Maybe you never touch those kids. Maybe I’m just playing worst-case scenarios. Maybe I’m seeing ghosts. I don’t know. I don’t want to know. I won’t know, ever, nor will anyone else. We can go on as before, just the two of us, even if it’s against the world. We always succeed, and we will this time, too.

  She finished her tea in a newfound strength to support her husband. The loomng tragedy didn’t happen, not then, but it would.

  And so their lives continued as before in an idyllic state with a successful business, a good name in town as people who helped children with difficulties, time for vacations, and progress in their professional lives. George became head of the department at the college. He was offered the position of provost but declined, as it would have interfered with his income from his other interests. Caroline was born, and two years later, George Nichols III, who was nicknamed “Trey” for the Roman numeral after his name. Both children grew up in a loving, fun-filled, demanding home. Both succeeded at school, in sports, and in other extracurricular activities.

  Both had lots of friends, with great pajama parties as they were growing up, using the camp’s small dormitory for their friends when it wasn’t being used for campers. Both also became very skilled at boating and swimming, although neither attended any of the week-long sessions at Recovery Camp. They were sent to another sleep-away camp far from Trout Lake during the summers when their parents had very little time for them.

  George reduced his private afternoon tutoring while their children were growing up so that he could spend more time with them. He continued with the successful college prep math courses and the weekend camping, but not on holiday weekends, so at those times the family could be together. Both sets of grandparents doted on their grandchildren, lending an even more stable and encouraging atmosphere to the benefit of both Carolina and Trey.

  Caroline was admitted to an Ivy League college, followed a few years later by Trey. Caroline married two years after graduation and had Susan and George’s first grandchild a few years later, followed by another. Trey graduated in engineering and took a job with an engineering consulting firm in another state.

  Both were now out of the house, leaving their parents to their professional work. George again picked up some late-afternoon tutoring after his classes at the college had ended. Recovery Camp was now out of debt and beautifully maintained, with an excess of camper applicants far beyond the camp’s ability to accommodate. The Nicholses were now wealthy, each driving an expensive luxury car, traveling to Europe and Asia for tours. Life was very complete.

  When George turned sixty, they sat down one evening over their lifelong martinis and discussed where they were going. “It’s time to get out,” George said. “We’ve made more money than we need. We’ve established trust funds to educate Caroline’s two and, when Trey marries, his children as well. We have all we need. I find myself tiring at the end of the day as I never did before.”

  “So,” Susan interjected, “just walk away?”

  “No need to,” he answered. “I didn’t tell you, but a week ago the owners of a summer camp conglomerate approached me to buy our business. They want me to stay on for a year, but then they want to take it over. I’m not wild about working for someone else for the year, but at what they are offering, I don’t see how I can refuse. It’s time, anyway, to retire from the college and make way for someone who is closer than I am to these young kids. You know I’ve been eligible for retirement for almost five years. It’s time. I can stay and teach an adult class a couple of nights a week so I don’t get bored. I’ll give up the college prep classes, too. The challenge of bringing math to life for adults intrigues me—something new. What do you say?”

  “George, what are you going to do without all those young boys to tutor?”

  “I’ve gotten too old for that, and for a lot of other things, too. Life is too short to do nothing but work from dawn to late night. It’s time to rest, to have a little fun, and to have a little bit, but not all day, of a professional challenge.”

  “OK, my love, if you do it, so will I. I’ll tell the CPS board that I’m also on the way out, staying behind to help anyone they choose to take my place and to continue to assist with fundraising. We have a deal, a new life, where people will leave us alone!”

  The deal with the camp conglomerate closed three months later. Susan retired but went into the office three times a week, also speaking at luncheons to raise money for CPS. They continued to live in the lodge and run the camp, but now the finances were in the hands of the new owners. George was paid a small stipend for his yearlong work, but the rental of their living quarters was deducted from it. They started looking for a suitable new home. They found it at 2456 Andrews. At the end of the year, they moved into their new home and a new, more relaxed, but soon to be more challenging, life together.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  It was just as the session ended. One of the students, Mark West, came up the desk as George was cleaning the whiteboard. “Mr. Nichols, do you have a moment for me?”

  It was almost 11:00 p.m. when the three-hour session finished. George was tired. He longed to go back to the other end of the house and get some sleep before the early morning wakeup to get to his classes at the community college on time. He turned from the board to look at Mark, who was a fairly good student, not one of the best, but always interested and alert.

  “Yes, Mark, what’s on your mind?” George fixed him with his gaze, and as Mark stared back, George could tell that what Mark was about to say would have nothing to do with mathematics. “But, first, let me ask you why you seem to me, very frequently, to be staring at me during class rather than at the work I am writing on the board.”

  “Mr. Nichols, I have always admired you. You have brought something to my life that I have sought, that I have a deep need for. I sense you know my feelings for you. We are of the same type. We both have the same needs. I think you have helped me a lot with my math. I think you can help me in lots of other ways, too. I feel we are kindred spirits and that I can help you, too. We have no reason to feel ashamed of what we are. We should support each other.” During this time, Mark never took his eyes off George’s face. George continued to stare right back, trying his best not to betray any emotion, approval, or disapproval.

  Mark was a senior in high school. George had only known him through the evening course in which he had been enrolled for these past two months, only twice a week. In the middle of each session, there was a ten-minute break. George had noticed how the others, some male, some female, would get up, stretch, talk to each other, gossip, laugh, compare notes, or even discuss something on the whiteboard. George discouraged contact with students during this break, using the time to put additional work on the board or prepare a slide for the overhead projector. However, he noticed that Mark was a lo
ner. He would remain in his seat. Rarely, if ever, did anyone come over to speak to him. He would either review some work in his seat, or, as George noted from time to time, just stare at him. He thought little of Mark’s separation from the others. I’m here to teach math, not to adjust kids to the realities of social interaction.

  Now the situation was different. He was alone in the room with Mark. The others had left. Mark was making an approach. George was overcome with a feeling of discomfort. He thought of himself as an enabler of adult student achievement in mathematics, perhaps extending to similar benefits in each one’s self-image. How was he to respond to this needy young man without harming him, yet keep him interested in achieving something in his ability in math, at least to get acceptable results in the examination he was preparing for?

  “Mark, you are a great kid,” George began. “I think you are going to do just great in the college entrance exam next semester. You show ability to concentrate, to reason, and to stay calm when faced by frustration of things you don’t know yet. You are admirably ‘test wise.’ The way you have been so open in speaking to me just now shows that you have the stuff of which successful people are made.

  “But, Mark, you may have miscalculated who I am and what my needs are. I am a married man with a wife to support and, I hope, soon a family as well.” George looked for some sign of recognition, perhaps some disappointed rejection in the boy’s eyes. There was nothing but the continuous, expectant stare, as if Mark were hoping that something George could say would bring comfort and acceptance of the needs unreflected in his unsmiling face.

  With the boy’s continued silence, George felt he had to continue. “There is nothing either one of us has to be ashamed about. We are who we are. We were created this way. I suppose there is nothing either of us can do about the way we are. I bring mathematics to life. It’s a gift I have been given. I enjoy that gift. I am sure you have other gifts of which you can be proud.”