Caught in the Crotchfire

by Kim Hunt Harris

  “Did you get all prayed up and sanctified?” Mom asked as soon as I came through the front door.

  I sat my purse down and decided the best thing I could do was ignore her tone.

  “I’m ready for lunch, how about you? Where would you like to go?”

  “I thought you Christians didn’t believe in working on the Sabbath.”

  I blinked.

  Sometimes peace is on the other side of conflict.

  In that moment, I wanted some conflict. I didn’t even care about the peace. She had stood me up, blown me off, made fun of me, and now she was mocking my faith. At the moment, peace wasn’t high on my list of priorities.

  I sat calmly in Frank’s recliner. My recliner, that I never sat in because Frank was always in it. I faced Mom straight on.

  “You seem to have an issue with my faith.”

  She waved a hand and gave a light laugh. “I don’t have any problem with it. It’s silly, that’s all. I can’t believe you of all people are falling for it. But whatever. You’re an adult. You can make your own decisions.”

  I bit my bottom lip and focused on remaining calm.

  “I am an adult, and I deserve the common courtesy that every person deserves. You don’t have to share my beliefs, but you don’t have the right to mock them, either.”

  “Honey, I can’t — ”

  “Don’t call me honey.” My voice was steely.

  She drew her head back. “Can’t a mother — ”

  “You never called me “honey” when I was a kid. You never treated me with any affection, any consideration. You weren’t sweet to me then, when I needed you to be. Don’t try it now, when I don’t need it.”

  “See, I knew this was going to happen.” She shook her head as if in disbelief. “That’s what it always comes back to, doesn’t it? I was a horrible mother. I screwed you up. You have no idea, Salem.” She shook her head again, this time as if in sadness. “No idea.”

  “I was there, you know,” I said. “It’s not as if I’m getting my information second-hand.”

  “You didn’t see all of it, though. You were just a kid. Life to you was just one big adventure after another, with the grownups handling all the problems. I shielded you from so much.”

  My mouth dropped open in disbelief. “Is that what you tell yourself? That I was unaware? That I didn’t realize every time we moved — those adventures you speak of — that it was because you couldn’t pay the bills? You think I didn’t realize that every time you complained about the responsibility of raising a child, you were complaining about me? Every time you said a good man didn’t want a ready-made family, you think I didn’t realize you were blaming me for the fact that you ended up with one deadbeat after another? One child-molesting deadbeat after another?”

  “Oh, please. Do not start in on this again.”

  The urge to scream at her was so strong, it was almost blinding. Her contempt for me and for what I’d been through made me so furious I was practically spitting with it.

  I forced myself to stay calm. I faced her, determined now to see it through, all the way through. Because Les could very well be right. This could be the only chance. After this, I was quite sure I never wanted to see her again.

  “All I’m trying to do is get you to see that things you did, things you said — they affected me. I have to deal with that, and I think a part of healing is to get everything out in the open.”

  Mom shook her head, her expression derisive. “Boy, that guy is doing a number on you, isn’t he? Convinced you that we have to dig everything back up, rehash crap that happened a lifetime ago. What’s the point? It doesn’t change anything.”

  I took a deep breath and offered what I hoped was a conciliatory but firm smile.

  “It does not change the past. But I’ve come to believe that what happens in the past continues to follow us around until we deal with it. And I don’t want this to follow me around. I want to get well. I want to start living my life again, not just waiting for each day to be over so I can check another day sober off my books.”

  “Do you really think it’s fair to lay all this at my door? I didn’t make you drink. You made your choices, not me. Don’t blame all your mistakes on me.”

  “I’m not blaming my mistakes on you.”

  “Of course you are,” she said. “That’s what alcoholism is. An excuse to blame someone and something else for your mistakes.”

  “I blame you for your mistakes!” I could feel the same pursed-lipped, flashing eyed anger mirrored in my own expression. “I blame you for me having to raise myself while you were out partying with Susan. I blame you for bringing home one child-molesting monster after another. I blame you for not paying the bills, for using me as your shield, for abandoning me to G-Ma’s, for choosing everyone else over me!”

  I no longer had any desire to “love” my way through this. I didn’t want to think of Mom with love, or visualize healing light filling the room around us. I wanted to take this and bash her over the head with it; I wanted to make her experience deep, staggering pain — the same pain she’d given me.

  “You chose every man who came across your path over me. You chose yourself over me. You chose Susan over me.”

  “See, I knew that’s what this was about. As soon as I got here Friday night and talked about meeting up with Susan you started being difficult. You always hated Susan. You always resented the fact that I had a friend who was important to me.”

  “I did not,” I said, remembering that there had been a time when I had really liked Susan, thought she was cool. And remembering the night that all changed. “Why did you not protect me from her?”

  “Protect you from her? What are you talking about? Susan never touched you.” Mom tilted her head, looking at me like I was crazy or silly.

  “She didn’t, but her son did. I’m sure you probably think I don’t remember, that I was too young. But I do. Like it was yesterday. I was seven, we were at Susan’s house, and her son was there for the weekend. Her teenage son. He was, what, 16? 15? You decided we should spend the night because you didn’t want to drive home, and she said I could just sleep with her son, in his bed. I remember. I remember the look on your face when she said that. You knew it wasn’t a good idea. You knew it wasn’t right. I knew, too, but I wasn’t sure why. I found out, though, didn’t I? Later that night, I found out why it wasn’t right.

  “You didn’t want to agree to that, but you were more worried about what Susan would think of you than you were about protecting me. So you just stood back and let it happen.”

  “I didn’t know — ”

  “You knew! You knew the very next day! When I came out of that room a different person.” I remembered that, too. The ride home the next morning, slumped against the passenger door, confused and scared. Sore. Trying to make sense of what had happened. I’d been flattered by his attention the day before when he wanted to play with me, when he was taking me to the store to get candy and when he let me play his video games. I thought I’d found a new friend.

  The next day, and for weeks after, I had tried to tell myself it was okay. It was a good thing that had happened that night. It meant he liked me. He’d said it was a game we were playing. But I didn’t like that game.

  Seeing the whole thing from an adult perspective, of course, it was clear to me that this was what abusers did. They made you think it wasn’t bad. And that’s what victims of abuse did. They rationalized. They tried to find a way to make “okay” out of something that was not okay at all.

  That morning after, Mom had tried to talk to me at first. She had stopped and bought donuts. I couldn’t eat. She had talked about what we would do the next week. Maybe we’d go to a movie. She rattled on every once in a while, but I didn’t respond.

  We had pulled up at the house we were living in at the time, and she killed the motor, looked at me, and then said, “Well, if you’re going to pout, pout. But you’re on your own with that.” Then she got out of the car and lef
t me there.

  I was seven years old.

  “Why didn’t you protect me?” I asked again, my voice soft.

  “I always did the best I could with you.”

  “Did you? Was that the best you could do? Let Susan’s son molest me because you didn’t want to rock the boat with her? You didn’t know how to tell her no?”

  “You’re such a victim, Salem. You think anyone gets through life without getting knocked around a little?”

  “I was seven! I was raped. I wasn’t knocked around a little.”

  “You weren’t raped. Stop being so dramatic!”

  “It happened! It happened, and you let it. Why didn’t you protect me?” I asked again. “Why did you stand by and let that happen?”

  “Look, you have no idea what it’s like to be a parent. You can’t see every little thing going on in your kid’s life. You can’t protect them from every little thing.”

  “Stop saying ‘little thing.’ This wasn’t a little thing. Why didn’t you speak up for me? Why did you never speak up for me?” That last was a mistake, because it opened up the conversation from the one event and allowed her to latch onto her persecution complex about the whole of our lives together.

  “Here we go again! I was the worst mother ever. I never did anything right for you, did I? You never did appreciate anything, Salem. No matter how hard I tried, it was never enough for you. I tried, Salem. Believe me, I tried. But it was never enough. After a while, people just give up, you know?”

  “I’m not saying it wasn’t hard, being a single mom,” I said. “I’m sure it was.”

  “You have no idea.”

  “The point is, in that moment you had a choice to make. You had a choice between protecting me and risking looking like an alarmist fool — or even accusing your friend’s child of being a pedophile and thereby losing your friend, or just letting the chips fall where they may and hoping for the best.”

  “I don’t even remember what you’re talking about. That never happened.”

  I went on, determined now to see this through. “What were you thinking, in that moment? I remember the look on your face, so I’ve imagined all these years what was going through your head. But I’d like to hear it from you. You knew it wasn’t okay, didn’t you?”

  “That — what did you call him? Sponsor? That sponsor of yours has filled your head full of nonsense. There is such a thing as false memories, you know. People planting your head full of nonsense so completely that it feels like a real memory. You get so confused you can’t even tell the difference.”

  “That could be the case, if this was something I just remembered recently. But I’ve always remembered this. I was aware of it then, I was aware of it later, when you brought men home. I knew what you were doing then. I knew what all the giggling and weird looks were for. I knew what was happening. And when one of those men tried to touch me, I knew I could not count on you to protect me. And when the next one touched me, I knew I could not count on you to protect me. And when the next one touched me, I knew I could not! Count! On! You!”

  Mom grabbed her purse and stood. “I’ve had enough.”

  “Over the years, I feel like I’ve kind of come to understand what you were thinking. You were young and afraid and unsure of yourself. I didn’t agree with it, and I wished a million times you had made a different choice. But I can kind of understand. I don’t know what to think about Susan. I guess a mother doesn’t ever expect her child will be a pedophile. But still — he was sixteen. He was almost a man. And you put a child into his bed with him? It seems so stupidly, stupidly inappropriate. Was she stupid? Or naive? Or was I some special perverted present for her son?”

  “Okay, that’s enough. I’m leaving.” She stomped out the door.

  I stomped after her. “Not without hearing one more thing. I am doing this because I believe it’s necessary to get everything out in the open in order to heal. And I do want to heal. I want us to heal. And I won’t do anything to mess up your wedding — ”

  “If you’re even still invited,” she shot hotly, yanking open her car door and throwing her handbag inside.

  “If I’m even still invited,” I allowed with a nod of my head. “If I am invited, I’ll come, and I won’t cause a scene. But I will not be friendly with Susan. If she’s coming, you need to warn her to stay away from me, because if she starts a conversation, I will finish it by asking her what the hell she was thinking putting me into bed with her hormone-raging teenage son. And I don’t think it’ll get better from there.”

  “I should have known you would create some big unnecessary drama,” she said as she jabbed the key into the ignition. “I should have known there was no way we could just enjoy our weekend together.”

  She shook her head as if it was just one big crying shame, the mess she’d spawned.

  I watched her go, deadly calm, my arms wrapped tightly around myself. After she’d gone, I walked slowly up the steps to my deck, went inside my trailer, closed the door, then leaned back against it and burst into tears.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Something Like a Prayer

  I cried for a solid hour. I hated when I did that. It was so exhausting, and so weak. I hated feeling so weak. Worse, I knew I would feel better with one beer. One glass of wine. One drink would put everything back into perspective. I knew it would. It had worked hundreds of times before.

  If I could have summoned the energy to peel myself off the sofa, I would have gone straight to the convenience store and bought a six pack; I would have told myself I could start the struggle over again tomorrow. Or not.

  Les texted me. “You okay?”

  I didn’t reply.

  Viv texted me.

  “They’re letting the Barnstable guy out of the hospital tomorrow. Let’s interview him when you get off work.”

  I didn’t reply.

  I did not want to interview the Barnstable guy. I didn’t want to think about Bandits or robberies or solving crimes. I didn’t know what I wanted, but all I could summon the energy for was lying on the sofa with Stump, staring at the ceiling.

  Stump seemed on board with this plan. She lay with her chest against mine, and I could feel her heartbeat through her chest. I considered praying, but I couldn’t form coherent enough thoughts to even manage that.

  Lying there with Stump, though, the world silent around us, felt something like a prayer.

  Around six in the evening, I woke up from what must have been a two or three-hour nap. It seemed like a new day. I sat up and scrubbed my face. My tongue was stuck to the roof of my mouth. I stood and stumbled into the kitchen, ran a glass of water, and drank it down. I ran another one. Drank it.

  I stood at the kitchen window and tried not to think too much. I just…took stock. I’d done it. I’d finally faced the most traumatic event in my life. I’d spoken it out loud. It was no longer a shameful secret.

  And I finally felt something I had always known, logically. But now that the words were out there, I knew the truth of them. With all my heart. With all my soul. With all my strength. And with all my mind.

  I had been a child.

  It wasn’t my fault.

  The shame wasn’t mine.

  The adults in my life let me down.

  It wasn’t my fault.

  I moved back to the sofa and scooped Stump up, nuzzling her fat neck until I got on her nerves. Then, in an uncharacteristically facing-things-head-on kind of way, I picked up my phone and said, “Windy, call Viv.”

  Viv picked up. “So you are alive.”

  “Very much so. I need to talk to Tony. Would you mind driving me over there? Were you busy?”

  “So busy,” Viv said. “Yoga class in fifteen minutes.”

  “Oh. Well, maybe after?”

  “No, definitely now. Have you ever seen a 78-year-old man in yoga pants? It’s not good.”

  Viv took one look at me and grasped the seriousness of the situation. “You look awful.”

  “I’ve
been crying. Mom.”

  She nodded. “She’s gone now?”

  I nodded.

  “You seeing her again?”

  “To quote the Magic 8 Ball, the outlook is not so good.”

  She drove silently. When we pulled up at Tony’s house, she said, “Do you want me to go in with you?”

  I shook my head. “I will call you when I’m ready to go, if that’s okay.”

  “Stump can come with me.”

  “Okay. No ice cream cones, though. She’s watching her carbs.” I closed the door behind me.

  As she pulled out of the driveway, Viv rolled down her window and called out, “Not making any promises on the ice cream.”

  Tony was surprised to see me. “Salem? Is everything okay?”

  “I’m sorry, I know it’s not date night. I needed to talk to you, though. About…you know. The other night.”

  His face grew solemn. He nodded and stepped back for me to come inside.

  He led me into the kitchen. “Cup of coffee?”

  I shook my head. “I don’t think I’m going to be able to sleep tonight as it is.”

  We sat at the table.

  “I’m sorry I’ve been keeping other people around us so we couldn’t be alone together.”

  “Are you?” I asked. “That doesn’t sound like something to be sorry for, in the grand scheme of things.”

  He shook his head, smiling slightly.