A Beautiful Child

by Matt Birkbeck

  When Sharon arrived in late September, she hugged Mr. and Mrs. Fisher, then joined Jennifer upstairs in her bedroom. Warren followed Sharon inside, offered his usual hearty hello, and then asked Joel if they could talk. Sue watched as the two men went into the kitchen, where Warren once again asked for a loan. He needed three hundred dollars and sounded like a used car salesman trying to close a deal. Again, Joel wouldn’t budge, said no, and escorted Warren into the living room where he smiled weakly toward Sue, trying hard to mask his disappointment. He reached behind his back with his right arm and squeezed on his waist area and grimaced as if he were in dire pain.

  “I’ve got a really bad back from a motorcycle accident a couple of years ago,” he said. “I was on the bike and some guy hit me from behind and then took off. Caused all kinds of problems for me. I need physical therapy and money for a shrink, but the state won’t help me. Can you believe that? I’m in pain and the state won’t give me the money I need to get better.”

  Warren shook his head, then said he’d be nearby cruising through the upscale neighborhood, dropping off business cards and soliciting paint jobs.

  “I’ll be back later this afternoon for Sharon,” he said.

  Warren’s financial problems notwithstanding, the Fishers adored Sharon, particularly Sue, who became deeply attached. It broke Sue’s heart that Sharon had grown up without a mother. It was also clear to Sue that Sharon needed mothering, and her maternal instincts were always triggered during Sharon’s visits. During one conversation as Sue was preparing lunch, Sharon eyed a plate of fresh broccoli.

  “I never had this,” said Sharon.

  Within minutes, Sharon devoured the broccoli, stems and all.

  “That was one of the most delicious things I’ve ever eaten,” she declared.

  Sue also noticed Sharon had a propensity for mood changes, particularly during the rare occasions when she talked about her father. Discussing Warren provoked nervousness and a slight stutter. Sharon would fold her hands together and squeeze. Sue didn’t know what to make of it but didn’t pry. Warren appeared careful with Sharon, and it was clear he was a disciplinarian. Given the Fisher’s deep feelings for Sharon, Warren was tolerated, though Joel made it perfectly clear that under no circumstances would he ever allow Jennifer to spend a night at the Marshall home.

  The invitation was extended in November, and Jennifer, excited about the possibility, received the bad news as soon as she asked her parents. A day later, after her father left town for a three-day tour, Jennifer begged her mother to let her spend the night at Sharon’s house.

  Sue Fisher gave in and, on a Saturday afternoon, drove nearly an hour from Stone Mountain through Atlanta to Forest Park. When they turned onto the Marshall’s street, Sue was not pleased. The neighborhood was run-down, filled with small, ranch-style homes nearly all in need of fresh paint. Late-model pickup trucks were parked in short driveways, and toys and garbage littered the street. The Fishers were conspicuous in Sue’s brown Mercedes, driving slowly toward the end of the dead-end block. The Marshalls lived in the last house on the right, the one in need of a landscaper, with weeds sprouting all around.

  Sharon spotted the Mercedes as it pulled up her short driveway, and she flew out of the house with Warren not far behind.

  Jennifer jumped out and the two girls embraced. Sue remained in the car, rolling down her window to say hello, then quickly backing out of the driveway as Warren yelled out, “Don’t worry, we’ll take care of her.”

  Jennifer was led inside the house, which seemed even smaller compared to the view from the road. Straight ahead against the wall was an old sofa beneath a shelf with several photos, including one worn, color photo of a woman.

  “That’s my mother,” said Sharon. “Her name was Linda.”

  Sharon’s mother had long dark hair, but the photo was somewhat blurry, making it hard to focus on her features.

  Still, Jennifer blurted out that she thought Sharon’s mother was beautiful.

  “You must miss her,” said Jennifer.

  “Yes. I think about her a lot. But Daddy’s taken good care of me,” said Sharon, who continued the tour.

  To the left was a small eat-in kitchen. To the right was a short hallway that led to Warren’s room. Jennifer peeked inside and spotted dozens of black videotapes, one on top of another, lined up in rows against the wall. Warren was out of sight, but his arm reached out across the doorway and pulled the curtain, which served as a door. To the left was another room, but Sharon warned Jennifer not to go in there.

  “No one is allowed in that room,” whispered Sharon.

  Jennifer didn’t ask why as she was led into Sharon’s room, which took up the right corner of the house. The room was as Jennifer had imagined, filled with plenty of fluffy stuffed animals, several porcelain figurines, dolls, and brown teddy bears set on shelves.

  Jennifer also noticed all the novels, magazines, and dozens of copies of Reader’s Digest.

  “You must read a lot,” said Jennifer.

  “I love to read,” said Sharon. “I just lose myself and imagine I’m part of the story or in some distant part of the world.”

  As she studied the room, it occurred to Jennifer that Sharon did not have a door. Instead she had a long curtain that hung in the doorway. None of the rooms in the house had doors, just curtains. It seemed odd, but Jennifer figured that Warren couldn’t afford doors. She had heard her parents whispering one night about Warren asking for money or something.

  Warren reappeared and announced that he was taking the girls to dinner. They jumped into Warren’s pickup for the ten-minute drive to the Piccadilly restaurant. Jennifer sat in the middle, with Sharon to her right by the window. They made small talk; Warren made a point of telling Jennifer she was attractive.

  “You know, you’re soooo pretty. Just like Sharon,” he said.

  Although somewhat embarrassed, Jennifer didn’t mind the compliment. As they neared the restaurant, the girls told jokes, and everyone laughed harder when Sharon began to mimic her father.

  “Oh, my back, my back hurts so bad!” said Sharon.

  Warren enjoyed the moment, then announced he had a brilliant idea.

  “Why don’t we drive down to Peachtree Street and make fun of the prostitutes,” he said.

  “Dad, the prostitutes don’t work there anymore. They’re on Stuart Street,” said Sharon. “And I don’t really want to do that, Daddy. Why don’t we just go eat?”

  Warren agreed, but said he first had to stop for gas. He pulled into a service station, stopped the truck by the pump, and turned up the volume to the radio, which spouted out the first few chords of “Iron Man” by Black Sabbath. He opened the truck door, walked over to the gas pump, and filled up his truck, singing along with Ozzy Osbourne.

  Sharon and Jennifer joined in the chorus, and they all clapped when the song ended. Queen’s “Bohemian Rhapsody” came over the air as Warren turned the key to start the engine. The song was unfamiliar to Warren, but the girls sang in unison.

  They enjoyed quiet conversation during dinner over chicken, mashed potatoes, corn bread, and vegetables. For dessert there were chocolate cake and ice cream to round out the meal. Warren paid the check. As they drove away from the restaurant, with the orange glow of dusk fading on the horizon, Warren announced he had another great idea.

  “How about I take you girls dancing?”

  The girls shrieked. “Dancing? Tonight? Wow!”

  Jennifer was only fourteen years old and had never even thought of setting foot in a dance club. She was underage, and it was something her parents would never allow. She also didn’t have any clothes to wear.

  “What would I wear?” she said.

  Warren calmed her fears. Sharon had plenty of suitable outfits at home, and he was sure she had something that would fit Jennifer.

  They drove back to the Marshall house and the girls ran into Sharon’s room, giggling as they rummaged through Sharon’s dresser drawers. Jennifer was excited, so
excited she didn’t notice the lingerie, the nightgowns, the string bikini underwear and the crotchless panties that filled the dresser.

  Sharon then went into her closet and pulled out a pink minidress with black tiger stripes. It was outrageous. And Jennifer loved it.

  Warren walked by the room and Sharon held the outfit up high.

  “What do you think, Daddy?”

  “Yeah, you should put Jennifer in that nice pink and black dress,” said Warren approvingly.

  Sharon decided she’d wear an off-the-shoulder shirt and miniskirt. They combed their hair, put on lots of makeup, and announced to Warren they were ready to go—two young teens out for a night on the town.

  “Boy, you ladies are something to see!” he exclaimed.

  When they arrived at the club, the first thing Jennifer noticed was that it didn’t look like a dance club. It looked more like some seedy redneck bar. Warren walked the girls to the front door, where they were met by a bouncer who was checking identification. It was clear they were underage, but Warren leaned over and whispered into the bouncer’s ear, then turned to the girls.

  “OK, let’s go,” he said as he ushered them into the club.

  Inside it was dark, the only light coming from the bar to the right, and the reflections coming from the large, silver disco ball that hung over the small dance floor.

  Warren walked them to the middle of the bar, then turned to leave.

  “Ok, you girls have a good time. I’ll be back later.”

  Jennifer was confused. “You’re not staying with us?”

  “Hell no, honey. You and Sharon have fun!” said Warren, who left them standing on the small dance floor.

  Jennifer stood awkwardly, unsure of what to do. Sharon didn’t waste any time and began moving her hips and waving her hand at Jennifer to follow her motions, and the girls started to dance. They remained there the rest of the night, dancing to the throbbing music. Jennifer had danced before, but at home, in her bedroom, alone. She was unsure of her movements and kept her eyes focused on Sharon, who moved easily with the music, her hips gyrating back and forth, her arms raised high. Sharon wasn’t just good; she was sexy. Most of the men in the bar had noticed, and some of them had come onto the floor to dance with Sharon. They were much older, well into their thirties and forties, some with scruffy beards and bad body odor. All were poorly dressed, wearing faded jeans and T-shirts.

  Jennifer was simply terrified at the prospect of dancing with a man as old as her father. Sharon made it clear she wasn’t interested in dancing with anyone other than Jennifer and waved the men away.

  Warren returned at midnight and informed the girls the night was over.

  During the ride back to Sharon’s house, Jennifer couldn’t help herself, blurting out what a good time she’d had, and how cool it was that Warren would take them dancing.

  “I know what you girls like,” said Warren.

  When they got home, the girls went into Sharon’s room. Warren stuck his head through the curtain, telling them to get ready for bed.

  Sharon opened her dresser drawer and this time Jennifer noticed all the pretty and sexy lingerie.

  “Where did you get this stuff?”

  “My daddy lets me have this. He even buys it for me,” said Sharon.

  “Sharon,” said Jennifer, “you have the greatest dad.”

  Changing out of their sweaty clothes and still high from a night of dancing, the girls laughed hysterically as they recalled the awkward attempts by some of the men in the bar to dance with them, and laughed even louder at how Sharon ignored them.

  Jennifer was still giggling, pulling her nightgown over her head, when Warren barged into the room screaming, his face contorted in a monstrous glare.

  Jennifer didn’t hear what he was saying. She couldn’t. She felt faint. Feelings of exultation and joy were replaced in an instant by fear and terror. She noticed the gun in Warren’s hand, then looked over to Sharon, who stood naked from the waist up, wearing only white panties and blue, frilly socks. Sharon was trembling, staring at the floor and holding her hands together as her eyes welled with tears. Questions raced through Jennifer’s mind: “What’s going on? Can this be happening?”

  CHAPTER 3

  When the 1984 fall semester ended, Sharon Marshall earned near perfect marks, though she was disappointed with her first attempt at the college boards, or Scholastic Aptitude Test, on which she scored a respectable 1120 out of 1600. Her performance was good, but Sharon thought she’d failed miserably and could do much better. She planned to take the test again in June.

  Along with her heavy course load, which included advanced classes in math and science, Sharon took part in a variety of extracurricular activities, including the Air Force ROTC and serving as secretary for the junior prom committee. The previous year, after finishing the spring semester with perfect marks in six classes, which included advanced literature, geometry, and the World Wars, Sharon also held a similarly heavy extracurricular schedule. Among the groups she joined were the Future Business Leaders of America club and the Math and Computer clubs.

  For her junior year, Sharon dropped the Math Club but remained with the Future Business Leaders and added the Strategic Gaming Society, the ROTC, the ROTC Rocket Club, and junior prom committee.

  Sharon was popular in school, evident by her election to the student council. She was approachable and could chat with just about anyone, teacher or student. She rarely missed a class, always caught on quickly, never daydreamed, and remained focused on her teachers, class work, and after-school activities, particularly the ROTC. Of the sixteen hundred students enrolled at Forest Park, some two hundred students, from ninth to twelfth grade, participated in ROTC. Students were taught discipline, respect for the flag and country, ethics, and moral leadership. Every Tuesday ROTC cadets were required to wear their standard-issue blue Air Force uniform to school, neatly pressed with earned ribbons placed properly on the left lapel. Students were graded each week for their appearance.

  As she did with all her other pursuits, Sharon excelled at ROTC, quickly rising to the top rank of lieutenant colonel. She impressed Earle Lewis, the ROTC instructor, with her leadership and intelligence, a rare combination, and she could drill the cadets, which meant forcing them to submit to her will. Sharon was self-motivated and barked out orders better than any of the boys when she presided over the weekly drills and drill meets with other schools.

  Warren would even attend the drill meets, and took pride in Sharon’s ability to lead the troops.

  Popular and well-liked as Sharon was, some teachers at Forest Park noticed some unusual behavior.

  No matter where she was or what she was doing, Sharon dropped everything to be home by 4:30 P.M. to clean the house and cook for her father. If something important came up and Sharon was asked to stay a few minutes longer, she’d decline.

  And teachers such as Carol Worley noticed Sharon’s clothing. Aside from that one day a week when Sharon was required to wear her Air Force ROTC uniform, she’d often dress in loud shirts and short skirts that suggested something more tacky and even provocative. And the colors wouldn’t match. It was as if someone else short on fashion sense were dressing her. Worley and other teachers also discussed the fact that Sharon didn’t appear to have any close friends at Forest Park. She was friendly and would always be seen chatting with someone, but never the same person day after day. And in casual discussions with other students, the teachers learned that not one person had ever been invited to the Marshall home or had ever seen her father.

  Aside from his first meeting with Terry Magaro and attending a single parent-teacher meeting and several ROTC drill meets, Warren Marshall was a virtual ghost. The consensus among the faculty was that Warren didn’t have any additional time for school functions. He was a single parent who worked as a painter. Given Sharon’s performance in school, Warren was admired for his devotion to his daughter. Yet some thought he was too strict. And there was that one inconsistency concernin
g the death of Sharon’s mother. During that one parent-teacher meeting he attended, Warren relayed that his wife had died of cancer. Terry Magaro recalled that he once said she’d died in a car accident, something Sharon validated on a number of occasions. The discrepancy didn’t cause a stir. Everyone figured it was the Marshall’s business, and if they wanted to set the record straight about Sharon’s mother, then let them do it. With so many mixed-up kids and their dysfunctional families stressing already overburdened teachers at Forest Park, Sharon was the least of their worries.

  While Sharon excelled, her friend Jennifer Fisher continued to be plagued with problems in school and by bouts of depression. Her parents often used Sharon as a role model, telling their daughter to emulate her friend, who pushed Jennifer hard to improve her grades.

  “You’re just not trying hard enough,” was Sharon’s typical lament to Jennifer.

  During sleepovers at the Fisher home, Sharon engaged Jennifer in conversations that went beyond the usual mindless teenage fare, touching on everything from religion to politics. Sharon loved intellectual conversations—some of which Jennifer found too deep to understand or keep her interest. So Sharon would save the topical discussions for Jennifer’s parents, particularly her mother, Sue.

  One subject Sharon would never broach, however, was her personal life. Whenever Sue or Jennifer would ask a question about her past or her father, Sharon quickly changed the subject. On rare occasions Sharon would let something slip, such as when she told Jennifer that she had to massage her father every night to soothe his arthritis. But those insights were few and far between, particularly when they spoke on the phone. Sharon was far more restrained and kept the conversations centered strictly on school, boys, and other things that interested teenage girls. As Sharon spoke, Jennifer could always hear Warren close by, as if he were sitting next to his daughter monitoring the conversation. On occasion Warren would join in. Once Warren grabbed the phone to offer his commentary as Sharon and Jennifer talked about music. Sharon loved Pat Benatar and Prince, and knew by heart the lyrics to “Little Red Corvette” and “When Doves Cry.” Warren favored hard rock.