by Phil Stern
“Mom, I’m sorry to burst your Catholic bubble, but I don’t regret anything!” That wasn’t quite true, but close enough. “And this isn’t about me!”
“Then what’s it about, dear? Sweet Edgar?”
“Yes! But you know what?” I shot back. “It’s also about a stupid woman, who knows nothing of the world, delivering her teenage daughter into the hands of a rapist and a pornographer! That’s what it’s about!”
“I’m not going to listen to this!” Storming past me, she stalked back toward the house.
“They’re fucking, Mom!” I shrieked after her, my very volume sending a chipmunk scurrying into the woods. “Your underage daughter is fucking a 32-year-old statutory rapist!”
Grinding to a halt, Mom wheeled around to face me. “Honey, that’s merely your warped perception of this.”
“It’s not a fucking perception!” Boy, could Mom bring out the worst in me. “It’s what’s happening! It’s reality! Don’t you get that?”
“Don’t you think,” Mom began in that pedantic, enraging style of hers, “that I would know if my own daughter was engaging in immoral behavior?”
“No! You wouldn’t!” Laughing, I advanced a step. “An average teenager knows more about human relations than you do! You don’t know shit about anything! Actually, Mom, you’re the most fucking clueless human being on the face of the planet when it comes to sexuality, or desire, or basic human feelings! In fact, you know so fucking little, you don’t even possess a framework to know all you don’t know!”
Truer words have never been spoken, yet they came from a deep, dark place probably better left for future therapists. Spinning on her heel, Mom walked away.
So I skulked around in the woods for a while, feeling terribly guilty, yet knowing my anger was completely justified. Then I thought back on some of the information I’d been given over the past 48 hours and belatedly put two and two together.
Racing inside, I barged into Liz’s room. Appearing very prim and proper, my sister now sat at her desk doing homework.
“Hey, Soph,” she said, frowning. “Mom is really upset. Did you guys argue or something?”
“We did, but don’t worry about that now.” Closing her door, I now sat on the edge of Liz’s bed, facing her. “Hey, Edgar’s a photographer, right?”
“Yeah.”
“Has he taken any pictures of you?”
She scooted her chair around to fully face me. “Maybe.”
“Honey, this is important.” I put my hand on her knee. “Did Edgar ask you to take any naked pictures?”
A small smile. “Yeah.”
“And did you?”
“Sure.” Shrugging, Liz twisted some blonde hair between her fingers. “Look, Soph, they’re artistic, okay? Edgar’s going to use them to get me modeling work.”
“Do you have them? Can you show me?”
“Sure.” Carefully poking around underneath her bed, my sister pulled out a girlish folder with rainbows and unicorns. Passing the folder to me, she then turned back to her homework.
Girding myself, I opened it up. Inside were ten shots of my little sister in various states of undress. There was one in a negligee, another showing a topless Liz in tight jeans holding a teddy bear, and a third had her lounging around as a Catholic school girl, shirt pulled up to reveal most of one breast. Others went even farther, displaying what would be described in an 80's R-rated movie as “full frontal nudity.”
The sick thing was that, with the right outfits and makeup, Liz could easily pass for twenty-one, but the shots were designed to make her appear about fourteen. I became so angry I could barely see straight.
“Soph, are you all right?” Concerned, Liz leaned in close. “It’s okay, Soph. I think I look good in them.”
“Liz, you look great.” Sighing, I closed the folder. “But that’s not the point. These photos constitute a crime.”
“What are you talking about?”
“You’re underage, Liz. This is child porn!”
For the next hour we talked of our mom and dad and their distorted view of the world, and what constituted normal behavior for a girl her age. We also touched on many details of my own sexual past, and how it took me a while to gain an even keel. Wide-eyed, Liz drunk it all in.
Finally I told her of Edgar’s real identity. Liz didn’t even seem surprised.
“You know, something always seemed off about him,” she mused, in what must be the understatement of the century. “I mean, he was always vague about his past. And I don’t think real modeling agencies want to see naked pictures, do they?”
“No, dear, they wouldn’t,” I sighed. “Look, you can’t see him anymore.”
“I know.” Looking down, Liz pursed her lips. “But look, at least he gets me out of the house and takes me places. And you know how Mom can be about other girls. I can’t even have friends!”
“Listen, let’s make each other a promise.” Taking Liz’s hands I looked into her eyes, exact green copies of my own. “If you promise never to see Edgar again, you can come up and spend a week with me in Boston this fall.”
“I can!”
“Yes. But you have to promise. No more Edgar.”
She shrugged. “All right. He’s getting kind of boring anyway. And his breath is bad.”
“Good!” I tried to act all happy, like we’d already accomplished something. “Did you two have any plans to get together?”
“Yeah. Actually, he’s expecting me early tomorrow morning at six o’clock.”
“On a school day?” I asked. “And why so early.”
“He wants to shoot more pictures. And he says the morning light is best,” Liz informed me. “Mom thinks I have an early track meet. I don’t even run track! Isn’t she stupid?”
“Don’t worry about Mom right now.” Standing, I looked down at her. “From now on, this is between me and Edgar.”
“What are you going to do?”
“I’m going to keep your modeling appointment.”
After making several phone calls I went to bed. Tomorrow was going to be very interesting.
At precisely 5:50 a.m. I strode into Edgar’s crappy little photography studio. Located in a run down strip mall, no one else was around.
Dashing out from the back, Edgar was stunned to see me. “Well there!” he announced. “As I live and breathe. What brings you here this fine morning, Sophia?”
“It’s over, Edgar. Or should I say Harold?”
“Harold!” He tried to laugh, but only managed a croak. “What are you talking about?”
“These, for starters.” Tossing Liz’s naked photos on the counter, I brought my fist down on top of them. “I want all the copies and the negatives, right now.”
“Please, Sophia, let’s think about this.” Edgar made no move to touch the photos. “Why should I give them to you, when it was your sweet, dear mother who commissioned these photographs to begin with?”
“What are you talking about?”
“Your mother gave me a thousand dollars to take these pornographic pictures of Liz.” Clearly, Edgar thought he was being very clever. “Because she wanted to sell them. At least, that’s what I’ll tell the police if it ever comes to that.”
“Mom said you were going to invest that money! Isn’t that what you told her?”
“Of course. But what does that matter, Sophia?” he gloated. “I have your mother wrapped around my little finger.”
“I know.” I did my best to look defeated. “She doesn’t even believe me about you and Liz.”
“Why should she?” Regaining his confidence, Edgar leaned forward, putting his foul-smelling breath in my face. “After all, dear Mrs. Danton would be the last person to believe a good, church going man such as myself was fucking her teenage daughter, wouldn’t she?”
“Yeah, I guess so.” Any moment now, I thought, standing back.
Now picking up the top picture, Edgar made a great show of admiring it. “Your sister is a sexy girl. But not h
alf as sexy as you.” Edgar blew me a kiss.
The front door burst open, four cops rushing in, guns drawn, yelling at Edgar to get on the floor. Falling down in fright he didn’t resist, yelling that he wanted his lawyer.
Taking the wire out of my shirt, I handed it to the lead detective. “Bye Edgar. Have a nice time in prison.” I then strolled out into the bright morning sunshine.
The police didn’t even need Edgar to incriminate himself on tape in order to make the arrest. That was just gravy, so Edgar would go quietly without making a stink. In fact, the price for both my tip and cooperation with the authorities was complete anonymity. Edgar was immediately extradited to Utah, where the evidence of his recent misdeeds in New York was held over his head to force a plea on the outstanding Utah charges. No press releases, no media attention, nothing. Liz was never even interviewed. No one in my family ever knew a thing, other than Edgar suddenly left town. Sentenced consecutively on the porn, rape, and grand larceny counts in Utah, Edgar should be getting out in five years or so.
The cops gave me all the pictures and negatives from Liz’s naked photo shoot, which I destroyed. Mom and I never discussed Edgar again, and she never got her thousand bucks back. Serves her right for being a dupe.
That evening I took a solitary walk in the park by our house. I’d loved playing here as a child, and it felt as familiar as my own soul. The night breeze played against my skin, caressing me with its soft, familiar touch.
In the path ahead a mother fox hopped into view, bushy tail curling up in surprise. A moment later her baby raced from the woods, careening to a halt.
Carefully I sat down in the path, simply watching them. The baby fox was very curious, taking tentative steps in my direction, though momma fox barked at him to keep his distance. Still, we all communed with each other, as wild animals sometimes do, the cub’s eyes lit in endless wonder. After a minute the mother fox loped off. Baby fox was confused at first, wanting to experience more of me, but knowing it was time to go. Finally barking a goodbye, he lit off after his mother, the sounds of pattering feet receding in the growing twilight.
Thinking back on the events of the past three days I began crying, tears flowing down my face into the earth. My mother had believed the crazy people who wanted to vilify these innocent creatures, labeling them criminals to be hunted down. Yet a fox cub is actually a wonderful little being, happy and carefree, understandably inquisitive as to the world around them.
Sure, fox cubs need some guidance. One needs to keep them out of the chicken coop, where they can get into lots of trouble, but chewing on an occasional wiper blade is all right. Too bad my mother never learned the difference.
STEVE LEVINE
People often wonder why most relationships don’t work out. It’s really very simple. In large part, the world is populated by seemingly well-adjusted people who are often crazy as loons behind the scenes.
Here’s a perfect example. I once moved in with a woman (we’ll call her Jane) who I’d been dating for a year. We’d met in a pet store, where I was pretending to shop for a dog just so I could pet a cute golden retriever puppy. Jane was really in search of a dog, and we wound up sharing a petting room with a bunch of bounding yellow lab puppies. She left with one, subsequently named Griswald, while I walked out with Jane’s phone number.
The non-cohabitation part of the relationship went fine, with plenty of sex, dog walking, and weekends away. However, one evening a few days into our new domestic arrangement, I was reading in bed. Jane walked into our bedroom holding an empty carton of orange juice in her fingertips, a look of horror pasted across her face.
“Did you take the last of the orange juice?” she demanded, eyes filling with tears.
“Uh. Yeah, I did.” Smiling idiotically, I sat up. “There was just a little bit left, and, um, I guess I wanted some…”
“How could you!” Jane screamed. “You glutton!” Flinging the empty carton away she ran from the room. Even Griswald gave me a dirty look.
To make a long story short Jane believed, to the very marrow of her bones, that it was a high crime to take the “last” of anything. Within two weeks our refrigerator was stuffed with old cartons and boxes containing a scrap of food or half-a-glass of juice at the bottom.
Look, I can understand how this attitude developed. Jane came from a poor family with an obese father. Apparently lacking strict ground rules her old man would literally clean out the pantry at night, and there might not be any money the next day to buy more food. So Jane’s mother was forced to assume the role of drill sergeant/animal trainer in order to ensure her husband didn’t starve the family.
But Jane, though she was otherwise a cool chick, could not get past her upbringing. There was no compromise, no discussion. She, as the woman of the house, was in charge of the food. That was final.
All right. We all have our hang ups. I simply adopted a policy of buying multiple numbers of each item. For example, I would get two cartons of orange juice, finish one, start the next, and by the time the second carton was half empty, another fresh carton of juice would be provided. This was annoying at times, but workable.
The problem was that the refrigerator became a garbage dump. As might some destitute, pathologically anal chipmunk, Jane would refuse to get rid of any container that wasn’t completely empty. And since she herself never finished anything, the frig was soon full of nearly empty food containers that she liked and I didn’t. You couldn’t open the frig door without them falling out all over the kitchen floor.
So, in tears from our lack of frig space, she began forcing herself to eat the last remaining scraps in each food container, most of it by now hopelessly spoiled. Other tidbits were given to Griswald. Ten minutes later both human and yellow lab were puking their guts up all over the floor.
By now I’d had enough. As she yelled and screamed I threw out every scrap of bad food in the house, then spent an hour cleaning and disinfecting the frig. That night we ate crackers for dinner, so there wouldn’t be any leftovers for Jane to first horde, and then poison herself with, in a month’s time. The next day she and Griswald moved back in with her mother.
Another time I met a recently divorced woman. Oh, how she ranted about her ex-husband, how mean and awful…on and on. She wouldn’t even pronounce his real name. “I call him Hitler now!” she snapped, throwing an old book of his across the room. “Adolf Fucking Hitler! That’s what an asshole he is!”
Even so, in response to my gentle questioning, I was assured Hitler was truly gone. This was no alternate time line. The Fuhrer had died in the bunker, Soviet troops at the door, never to re-emerge from some Brazilian rainforest.
She even gave me a key after we’d been banging a few weeks. So I go over there one Sunday evening to find her in bed with…you guessed it! Adolf himself. I didn’t actually see the guy, but on walking in and hearing the blitzkrieg going on in the bedroom, I knew the Low Countries had once again been overrun.
“Steve!” she called out, wrapped in a sheet, chasing me across her condo’s parking lot. “Steve, wait!”
“You fucking whore!” Whirling around I pointed a finger, thoroughly pissed. “You told me it was over with him! Done!”
“But Steve!” Genuinely stunned, she stared at me. “He’s my fucking husband, Steve!”
“Your ex-husband! You’ve been divorced for a year!”
“God damn it, Steve!” she screeched back. “I took a fucking vow with that man! On an alter! IN CHURCH!”
Groaning, I looked up at the stars, bright and clear in the early winter sky. “If he’s Hitler, you know who you are?”
“Who, Steve?” Eyes narrowing, she strummed irritated fingers on the bed sheet. “Who does that make me?”
“Eva Braun.” Turning once again, I stalked towards my car.
“Who the hell is that!” she screamed as I drove off, neighbors now coming out to gawk.
Apparently the Fuhrer clued her in, because when I got home there was a Nuremberg-style diat
ribe on my machine.
“Eva Braun!” she raged. “That’s really cute, Steve, but you know what? Adolf and Eva were never married! At least not until the end, when they were about to be killed in the bunker! THAT DOESN’T FUCKING COUNT, ASSHOLE! That’s not a church wedding! There were no invitations. No bridesmaids. No priest! My God, Steve. You know what? THERE WASN’T EVEN A FUCKING WEDDING CAKE! How does that make me Eva Braun, huh? Explain that to me!”
This frightens me, the unrequited insanity we all harbor deep within our soul. It gives life the illusion of rationality, perhaps even some hazy form of permanence…of believability, even…yet eventually thwarts everything we do. Like some volcano blotting out a small city, the insanity can destroy relationships in an instant. Or the eruptions firmly nudge tectonic plates in different directions, people inevitably drifting farther apart with each succeeding year.
Either way the fires rage unquenched, and often unrecognized, by people now habituated to their own heat.
Makes you wonder, doesn’t it? About people and their lives? We’ve all read the stories about guys who go nuts, killing their families and then themselves. Last week a guy went into a gym, shooting at random, killing six people before blowing his own head off.
Often these mass murderers leave behind letters or diaries relating how they’d rationally concluded that going out in a hail of gunfire was the only option left. They’d accepted it with the same aplomb that drives us to take out the garbage at night, or pick the kids up at soccer practice. This is simply what had to be done, the commission of these acts granting them a peace they could never otherwise achieve. In many ways, the day they set out to immolate themselves, and others, was the most satisfying moment of their lives.
And what do the neighbors and co-workers always say? Quiet guy, never bothered anybody. Survivors of these attacks often speak of the calm, satisfied manner in which Mr. Crazy killed everyone in the bank.
Which makes perfect sense. The fires have finally been extinguished, the lava cooled.
And really, what’s the cognitive difference between Jane’s eating foible, the distorted reality of Eva Braun, or the out-and-out insanity of Mr. Crazy? I think it’s just a matter of degree. In each case they’re absolutely convinced, within the ancient portion of the brain where the survival instinct is housed, that they are right. Nothing will change that, ever. And if their warped inner certainty propels them ever farther out to sea, then so be it. At least they’ll have some peace and quiet on the open, empty waters.
