Dad knew who I was talking to.
“Didn’t I tell you the phone is off-limits? What do I have to do to get you to listen? What’s the matter with you?”
I started to cry. The fury in his voice made me scared of what might happen next.
“You wanna talk on the phone to that boy? I’ll fix your talking on the phone.”
He bolted over to the desk and grabbed the Princess phone with his big hands. He gave a yank to pull the cord from the wall. The phone was hard wired; when the cord didn’t pull loose, he threw the phone on the floor and grabbed the wire closer to the wall. Using both hands, he pulled. Plaster and the phone plate flew, leaving a gaping hole.
“I guess that’s what I have to do to get you to listen. Go to sleep now. I’m warning you. Don’t you ever let me catch you talking to that idiot kid. Do I have to pull the phone out of the wall in the kitchen, too?”
“No, Dad. I’m sorry. I’m sorry,” I said.
He slammed the door as he walked out.
I pulled the covers over my head and cried until my pillow was wet. I turned it over and wished I could talk to Mick more than ever. My dad was nuts, crazy, insane. All I wanted was to be in Mick’s arms.
CHAPTER 10
THE INTERVIEW
Two weeks after the bust, I could use the phone again. Dad didn’t know who I was talking to because I did that in private, running up to my bedroom before I picked up. Mick and I made arrangements to meet elsewhere and I stayed out of his car, but even Dad couldn’t legislate morality. Eventually, I hopped back in the white Chevy, resumed the ducking at stoplights, and lived with a sickening angst about lying and the sexual exploration. The feeling of doing wrong nagged at me and sooted my spirit even though I told myself that church stuff didn’t matter anymore.
Finally, I turned sixteen and expected the dating ban to be lifted. I passed my driver’s license test, and Dad let me use Mom’s yellow Chevy because she couldn’t drive on her own anymore. The new freedom made it easier to maneuver my whereabouts without having to come up with lies. Dad had cooled down and the phone in my bedroom was repaired. I mustered up the courage to point out that I was sixteen now and should be able to date. I added that I was still friends with Mick and wanted to go out with him. Dad said he’d consider it, but that he would like to talk to this boy first.
This worried me. Dad already had a bad impression of Mick because I had snuck around with him. I was pretty sure Dad wouldn’t like him. But it would be good to get the task done. Mick came over.
“Hello, young man. I hear you want to take my daughter out on a date.”
“Well, yes, Mr. Liautaud.”
“And where do you live?”
“Over on the west side of Glenview, kind of near the Naval Air Base.” I could sense Dad’s mind working overtime to size up this kid—it was already clouded with negativity.
“And what does your father do?”
“He’s in the tool and die business.” Mick was standing next to my dad’s chair as he talked to him. I thought he looked like a tin soldier, short and stiff.
“I see. Do you have any brothers or sisters?”
“One sister, Mr. Liautaud.”
Dad took a sip of his drink. “You go to school, I take it?”
“Yes, sir. Glenbrook South.” I was embarrassed that Mick was calling my dad “sir.” Dad thought that was an unnecessary formality. It occurs to me now that perhaps this reminded Dad of where he came from, and the days in New Orleans when the family was always saying “Yes, sir,” and “Yes, ma’am.”
“What grade?”
“I’m a senior.”
“Going to college?”
“I haven’t decided yet.” Dad’s face fell. Dad thought college was a given for young people.
I offered a consoling tidbit. “Mick takes calculus, Dad.”
“I see,” was all he said. I didn’t like the way Dad glossed over that fact. It was hard to get into calculus and most kids didn’t take it until they got to college. He should know Mick was smart.
“Now you know Judy has a curfew at 11:00; I expect you to get her home by then. Is that understood?”
“Yes, Mr. Liautaud. I need to be home a little after that anyway, so it won’t be any problem.” Bonus point for Mick. He added a few words to his response, letting Dad know that he had good parents who also set a curfew.
Dad turned to pick up the newspaper, opened it, and said, “Okay, you’re free to go. Be sure to be home on time.”
After Dad’s interview, my impression of Mick lowered a notch. He stood up too straight, like he was trying to be taller than his true five feet, six inches. He didn’t talk enough—just gave one-word responses. Dad dispensed disapproval, and at the end he had that look that seemed to say, “Okay, I’m done with you, get along.” My dad’s opinion mattered to me more than I wanted to admit.
Still, I was relieved that Dad finally met Mick and had waived the Cars with Boys Prohibition. After that, when Mick came over to get me, he would pull into the driveway and honk. I’d run out lickety split before Dad said anything. Once in a while he’d say, “Tell that boy to come in here. I want to talk to him.”
And then I would run out and tell Mick to come in. We’d answer a few questions and then be dismissed, Dad saying, “Okay, you’re free to leave.” We loved getting out of the house then, relieved that we passed inspection. I finally had Dad’s blessing to drive in Mick’s car. Well, I wouldn’t call it a blessing, but Dad was reluctantly allowing it.
Mick and I weren’t comfortable hanging around at Mick’s house, either. When I met his parents, I acted the same way; I couldn’t think of anything to say. I didn’t think they liked me. Later I learned that they said to Mick, “She’s awfully young, isn’t she?” Mick was only one year older than I was. But it was true that people were often shocked when they heard I was sixteen. They said I looked like I was thirteen. This was highly insulting and I heard it often, but I remember Mom saying that it was a good thing and I would come to relish it later on in life.
I don’t remember my mom being there when Dad met Mick. I think she must have been in the hospital. She was in and out often. One time she contracted a staph infection and we thought we would lose her. We had to visit the hospital with masks on our faces and couldn’t touch her. Then when she got better and came home, she was pretty sick and had to have an around-the-clock nurse. Thelma was hired and turned out to be an angel, staying at Mom’s side, giving her back rubs and sponge baths, and putting lotion on Mom’s fragile skin. Mom loved Thelma. Her skin was black as night and she had large teeth that took up a third of her face when she smiled. She had an infectious laugh and was sweet as caramel. When Thelma came on the scene, it freed me up from my nightly duties.
CHAPTER 11
CROSSING THE CAVERN
Parking on the end of a dark street was good for first and second base, but it wasn’t conducive to a home run. One day, Mick suggested we go over to his friend Kurt’s house. It was a school holiday. We sat downstairs and watched TV with Kurt, then went up to the kitchen to get a Coke.
I was a bit nervous and thirsty, so I chugged my drink. Mick grabbed my hand and said, “Come on, let’s check out the upstairs.” My innards tightened with fright and excitement. He walked me up the carpeted steps to the bedroom. Soft light seeped through the drawn curtains. The double bed loomed like a drug dealer in a school yard, advertising its goods. It was dressed in navy-blue fringe pillows and a powder-blue spread. Mick quietly closed the door behind us, turned to me, and started kissing my lips and neck. His kisses lessened my anxiety and brought me to a dreamy place void of coherent brain function. I kissed back. He pulled back the covers and we fell on the bed. He undid my bra. His hands on my bare body felt cold at first but warmed with the excitement of his touch.
He unbuckled his pants. When they slid down he kicked them off. It seemed too fast that we were already naked. I could hear the wind whistling thro
ugh the window frames, making it cool and drafty in our dark space. We got under the covers. We continued kissing until my should-list went up in smoke with the fire that was gaining momentum.
He got on top of me and took it in his hand to point it toward my opening. The tip was all that seemed to fit. What on earth? How did this work? I had put Tampax inside that hole, but this cylinder was worth a dozen of those, kind of like the wicked stepsister forcing her foot into Cinderella’s shoe. He pushed harder. I was frazzled with sensation, scared now because the stretching burned. Then I heard someone come in the front door.
“Who’s here?” I asked.
“Kurt’s sister.”
“Are you sure?”
“I’m sure. His parents are at work.”
“We should get up,” I said.
“She doesn’t care.”
“What if she tells her parents?”
“She won’t.”
We started kissing again and he pushed harder now. It felt like something was tearing in my tender area. It went all the way in. I wanted it back out of there, but I wasn’t going to make him do that now.
“How do I keep from getting pregnant?”
“I’ll pull it out just before.”
“Can you do that?”
“Yep.”
“You sure?”
“Yep.”
“Won’t some get in?”
“No, I’ll pull it out.”
“Don’t forget.”
“I won’t.”
It seemed strange to me, this in-out action like the dogs I’d seen humping in the park. I felt numb and wooden as I lay there, wishing it would be over. All of a sudden he pulled out and lay facedown on the bed, still for a minute, and then he emptied his lungs with a heavy sigh.
He rolled over and said, “I told you I could do it.”
I lay there in a smear of bloody fluid and dark feelings. So this was it. He had sexed me. I felt no love at this moment, just fright for how I let myself get carried away like a log in a river. I felt pain from the bruise between my legs. I felt remorse for my loss of virginity, the death of my innocence and purity.
“Let’s get dressed before someone else comes home,” I said.
“Good idea,” he said in a dreamy, satisfied tone.
I didn’t get what I expected. Sex didn’t feel good. I wasn’t expecting an orgasm, because I had never heard of it. I didn’t know that was what made it so sparky and ecstatic. I didn’t experience anything close to pleasure.
The next morning, I woke with a sick feeling of dread, like I had lost my head and murdered someone. It would have been different if it had felt good. All the lightness of heart, joy, and sweetness of my fresh youth were snuffed out of me at the moment of penetration. And the worst part was, there was no going back. If it really was a mortal sin, I had one on my soul. But there was no way I was going to tell this one in confession. My spirit felt limp and blackened. I didn’t like the feeling of the sex, after all. It was harsh and it hurt.
I got my period that month, so I guessed his pulling out worked.
CHAPTER 12
THE NIGHT MY LIFE CHANGED FOREVER
The thing was, I didn’t care so much about doing the wrong thing when I had the softening effects of alcohol in my bloodstream. Alcohol served as an effective off-switch to my annoying conscience. I was new to drinking. A few months ago, I’d been introduced to gin when, Lennie and Kurt, Mick’s friends brought some spiked cokes to a Glenbrook South tailgate party.
At first the taste was gross. I sipped it slowly. By the time the bottle was half empty, it went down easier and my body felt like marshmallow. My words came easily and seemed enlightened, on the verge of genius. I was finally the person I always wanted to be: confident and self-assured. I had a couple more. It was all good until the next morning, when I suspected that my drunken happy was more of an obnoxious blunder. I cringed with embarrassment. Did I tell Mick I wanted to be his forever? Oh, geez.
We were all underage, but we could score booze by waiting in the liquor store parking lot for a likely prospect. We approached the weathered wino-men who looked like they needed a drink or the very young, hip, and cool looking types. Mostly we put Mick’s friend Lennie up to it, because he was tall and looked the oldest. Lennie would do anything for a friend: he was a bit klutzy, hence the nickname from the character in Of Mice and Men. He was spontaneous, and a likeable guy.
Once I experienced the appeal of alcohol, it was cheaper and easier to lift it from my father’s liquor cabinet, which was well stocked for his poker parties. I took a little of each type to fill my 7-Up bottle so the lowered levels would go unnoticed: an inch of gin, one of vermouth, and just a splash of scotch. Dad drank the scotch; if the bottle was noticeably empty, it would be a red flag. Then came some Jack Daniels, Kahlua, and, to top it off, Cointreau. It was a nasty concoction, but we called it “Love Potion No. 9.”
If my line of morality was muddy, kissing and drinking were the combination that erased the line altogether. I walked out of my house on Friday evening with a freshly whipped-up bottle of The Potion.
My life would never be the same after this free-for-all open house party. It was September 30, 1966, uncommonly chilly and damp, like winter was in the wings. The parents were out of town, and there were beater cars lining the street. It was a teenaged free-for-all with no adults to keep us in line.
Mick and I started kissing on the couch and then he grabbed my hand and led me down a hallway. I was shy about anyone seeing us go into the bedroom, yet I was buzzed enough to ridicule myself for caring what other people might think and followed Mick to a room in the back of the house. Mick had gotten a condom from his friend John, so we wouldn’t have to worry about the “pulling out” routine. After we kissed a bit, he took out the “gift” and put it on. Perhaps it was stale and stiff, purchased years ago, safely tucked into John’s back pocket as it waited for its call to duty. Or maybe we didn’t have it on right: leaving some looseness in the tip. At any rate, the condom lacked integrity. And, maybe, so did Mick. Maybe he felt it, maybe he didn’t, but he failed to pause when the thing blew up inside me. I had no clue, but I thought it was awful wet down there if the rubber was supposed to be catching the fluids. I didn’t feel it break.
With wide-eyed surprise, Mick popped up when he was done. He held the shredded rubber between his thumb and forefinger, waving it like a dead mouse held by the tail. “Jude, look what happened,” he said.
After the party, I was morose and numbed by the alcohol as Mick drove the snowy roads back to my home. I stumbled into the house and knocked on Mom and Dad’s bedroom door to say, “I’m home.” I opened the window in my room to let the winter air freshen my drunken stupor, threw my clothes on the floor, and crawled under the covers. The electric blanket felt warm on my skin, but the inside of me felt like freezer meat.
Morning drifted in with a cloud of gloom. I could hear the tree branches scraping on the roof shingles from the heavy winds. Each time my heart pumped, I could feel it in the veins on the side of my head. My mouth felt like powdery sand. An aching thirst wrapped around my tongue and throat. Water, water, where was some water? I reached over to my French desk and fumbled for the glass. It had dust speckles floating on top, but I couldn’t get up for a fresh refill or I would puke. The more I drank, the thirstier I got. I might as well have been gulping air. Then I remembered the night before.
I drank too much. I lost my mind. I lost my protection. Was it true? Did it really happen like that? Did the rubber break? Even if my mind was foggy, my gut told me the nightmare was real.
Icy air blew the curtains on my window. I reached over and turned my electric blanket to high. I looked at the clock. It was 10:00 am. I hardly ever slept this late. I could hear Mom and Dad in the kitchen. Dad was on the phone making plans for a fishing trip, and Mom was wheeling around in her electric chair.
How could I face them ever again? The rubber shredded. How could
that have happened? “That was one big boo-boo,” I thought. I could cry and I’m using baby language. This is no joke. It’s more than a boo-boo. More like a natural disaster. It would have been better if we used the pull-it-out routine. Sex felt a little better this time; there was no bleeding. I still felt dark. I rolled over and tried to go back to sleep.
The truth smothered me like a soggy blanket. I sighed. I yawned. I couldn’t get enough air or water. I took another drink. I wondered how I could have let myself go along with the rubber idea. I screwed up. I was screwed. I am screwed. If only I could erase the reality. If only fairy tales were true. If only I could go back to sleep or back to last night and do it differently.
The horrible part was the feeling of blackness and filth that came with my lack of self-control. All the guilt I was squelching came forth in relentless stabs. After the first time, I kept telling myself over and over, “I’m not a virgin anymore.” My soul was blackened with mortal sin. I don’t know why I expected to have self-control. I never set out telling myself I wouldn’t do it. It just kind of happened. I didn’t think ahead. But yet, I beat myself up with my lack of self-control. It started back in second grade when I got those black marks on my report card for “lacks self-control” because I was talking to my neighbour. It was a long-lasting character flaw, branded right into my heart.
Now the real arrow struck the center of my soul—what about the chance of being pregnant? Oh, God, I couldn’t even go there. Another wave of nausea stabbed at my stomach.
I knew from the Maturation Booklet we got in seventh grade that on the fourteenth day after your period, you are fertile. When was my last period? I got out of bed and checked my notebook calendar where I marked my periods. They were always twenty-eight days apart, just like clockwork. The date circled was September fifteenth. Oh, God, NO. That was two weeks ago. I grabbed my feather pillow and stuffed it to my face so I could cry without Dad or Mom hearing me. I sobbed until the pillowcase had a puddle the size of a pancake, smeared with streaks of leftover black mascara.
Sunlight on My Shadow Page 6
