by Robin Brande
“But she has a child now. Every man will know she’s been used at least once. No one will believe she’s a virgin.”
Posie grumbled. “Awful.”
“And all those boys who were molested,” I continued. “Are they still virgins?”
Posie shook her head, the rage rising in her eyes. “Those boys are ruined. But you’re right—they can’t be penalized. They’re still virgins. They’ve never had sex.”
“Do you think they’ll be gay now?” I wondered. “Do they really have a choice?”
“I think they’ll be the opposite of gay,” Posie answered. “I don’t see how they’ll ever let a man near them once they’re old enough to fight him off.”
Round about the topic we went, in through its worm holes, up along the borders and through the muck of it until we felt dirty and diseased just knowing everything we did.
But out of it we reached a conclusion, and I think it’s a good one. It’s the only one that makes sense if you believe in God.
There’s a purity we all have, that we’re born with, down here in the core of us where nothing has touched us yet and we are ignorant of evil and we are what God made us, His children, bright and pure and immune to the world’s disease. And no one can take that away from us. We have to give it away. And until we do we’re still pure in God’s eyes. I believe that. I do.
Think about it this way: In the Garden of Eden, there was a tree called the Tree of Knowledge of Good and Evil. That was the one God warned Adam and Eve not to eat. He was trying to protect us all.
But they ate. And their eyes were opened, and they saw that they were naked and that there was evil in the world, and ever since then we can’t help but see the worst of what mankind has to offer. What a tragic day. Why did they have to eat?
But what if that story repeats itself in each new soul? What if we’re all born completely innocent of how ugly mankind can be? If we die young, we might never know, and that is God’s blessing to us—compensation for having to leave this world too early.
Otherwise, if we live long enough, we eat so much knowledge of evil we’re bloated and nauseous from it, and we wish we had never seen that beautiful, tempting tree in the distance.
At least that’s what Posie and I think.
I was about to test it for myself.
It Started with Cosmopolitan
[1]
My dad and I had this weird competition going on when I was little. We tried to see who could memorize the most things out of the Bible. I finally became the hands-down champion when I was in fifth grade and could recite all sixty-six names of the books of the Bible, in order, Old Testament and New. He took me out for a three-scoop sundae and shook my hand and told me he was retiring from the game.
Victory.
Until then he gave me a run for my money, always keeping a few verses ahead, but I guess a young mind can withstand more than an old—like they say little kids can learn languages so much more easily.
I know he wished he could ask me for tips as he pored through his Bible every night searching for more verses on adultery that he could include in his letters to my mother. He wrote to her every day. I sneaked into his room one morning when he was in the shower and read one, and believe me, he hadn’t done too badly. Ten pages on legal pad paper, filled with the best of the best on fornication, adultery, and other sexual sins. I think he retired from our game too early.
I’m sure my mother threw them away without reading them. Wouldn’t you? Who wants to get a thick envelope in the mail every day saying you’re a piece of trash and you’re going to hell? But the funny thing was, at the end of this awful, vicious letter I read, he had written, “The children and I still love you and beg you to come home.”
How pathetic is that?
[2]
How long can a man go without sex?
Jason would probably say two hours. For my dad, it had been about four months, if you include that month before my mother left when she was hiding out with me.
As far as I can tell, it started with Cosmopolitan. I understand why he did it—who knew who might walk into a Circle K or 7-11 and see you buying a Penthouse or Playboy? What would the church leaders say? What would his clients say? He was the Christian Real Estate King. His reputation was his business. He couldn’t be caught with smut.
So he figured it out. He could get away with buying Cosmo. He might be buying it for his wife. Or his daughter. No one would have guessed he was touching himself to the bra ads. To the articles—“How to Drive Him Wild in Bed”—to the covers with their digitally-enhanced bosoms. It was perfect. No one would have guessed but me. And that’s only because I heard him. Believe me, I wish I hadn’t.
And then one day he noticed me. What luck! I was a female, right? Right there in his very own home. No need to go to the store. No need to plunk down the cash. No need to risk being seen. Here she was, boobs and all, just walking around all the time. More convenient than a convenience store.
I don’t know how guys think we don’t know. You can tell when someone’s eyes are on your boobs and not your face. Hello. We know.
And I knew. He could tell me how many threads I had in each button hole, he was studying them so carefully.
I’m a modest person. It’s not like I flaunt them. But I have my mother’s generous breasts. They just grew that way, no fault of mine. And as far as my father was concerned, those breasts were on his child, under his roof, and therefore he had the right to look.
Besides, I was the daughter of a whore, right? What else should I expect?
I thought about what I could say.
“That makes me uncomfortable.”
“Do I have something on my shirt? You keep looking there.”
“I’m your daughter, for God’s sake! Stop being such a pervert!”
But I’m such a chicken. I could never actually confront someone like that.
So instead I wore the biggest, baggiest shirts I could find. I wore my apron around the house whenever he was home. I kept my arms permanently folded across my chest. But his eyes were still there, and no matter how many barriers I put between me and them, I could still feel them penetrating right to my nipples, right to my cleavage, right to the insides of my life.
I didn’t tell Posie. It made me too sick to say. Instead I just tried to stay out of his way.
But then I was at the sink one night cleaning up after dinner, and he sneaked up behind me and laid his hand on my back and stroked it up and down.
I froze like he’d pulled a gun.
“Don’t,” I managed to say.
“Don’t what?”
I couldn’t think of what to answer.
Greetings from Jackson Hole!
Dear Lizzie and Mikey,
Hello from Jackson Hole! I miss you both, but I’m having a wonderful time. Today we . . . Tomorrow we . . .
Who cares? I wanted to scream. Who the hell cares? Did I want to know that she was happy? Did she care at all what a hell I was living in?
I wanted to burn the letter but Mikey wouldn’t let me.
“Come on,” he said, “it’s from Mom.”
“So? She doesn’t give a shit about us.”
“Yeah, but . . .” He dropped his eyes. “I miss her.”
“I don’t.”
“Yes you do.”
“Mikey, how stupid are you? She left us here alone while she went off to have fun with her lover. How selfish is that? You think she cares about us at all?”
“She said she cries sometimes because she misses us.”
“I don’t believe that for a second. I think she’s screwing her brains out.”
Mikey winced.
“Here, keep it,” I said, throwing the letter at him and retreating to my room.
Mikey knocked on my door. I let him in. “I want to write her back.”
“You can’t,” I said. “We don’t know where she is.”
“She’s in Jackson Hole.” He pointed at the letterhead. “At this h
otel.”
“She was. She’s probably miles from there by now. Face it, she’s off on a different life now. You’re on your own.”
His face tightened. He stared at me bleakly. “Don’t say that.”
“It’s true. We don’t have a mother anymore.”
“You’re such a—bitch!” The first bad word I think I ever heard him say.
He slammed my door and started kicking it. I heard the flimsy wood splinter. “I hate you!” Another kick, then a fist, then his whole body rammed against the door. He opened the door and slammed it again and then he kicked once more and widened the hole.
I sat shaking. I wasn’t prepared for the violence. I understood it—Lord knows I could have used some of it myself at that point—but it wasn’t my way. I prefer to hide. To wallow. To take the coward’s way out.
But really, if I could have? I would have loved to smash something up. Start with my mother’s vases. Start with my father’s sales trophies. Start by taking a knife to his curtains and his bed and the clothes my mother left behind.
Mikey kept wailing and kicking and screaming, and I loved him more because of it. Good for him. I wish I could be like that.
But I’m afraid. Of how far I’ll go. I’m afraid if I start I’ll never stop.
If people really knew how much rage I felt they’d lock me away to protect the nation.
Consequences
[1]
Some of the people from my old church believe that AIDS is God’s curse on the homosexuals, like striking a blasphemer with leprosy. Even if you point out to them that nuns and babies are getting it, they refuse to change their minds.
Everything has consequences—I do believe that. The wicked will always be punished. If you’re doing something wrong you should expect bad things to follow. Wait for it like a piano falling from the sky.
“Let’s go out,” Jason suggested.
“No,” I answered, “it’s okay.”
“It’s your birthday,” Posie reminded me. “Of course we’re going out.” So they treated me to the latest Ryan Tremaine comedy/action/sci-fi/horror/date flick.
Ryan Tremaine meets Criterion Number Two. He could definitely carry me. He also meets Criteria One, Six, and Seven, and probably others, though I don’t know him well enough to say.
We sat three ducks in a row: Posie, Jason, me. His harem of two. And he alternated nicely, equitably, squeezing my knee, grabbing Posie’s arm, whispering one funny comment to her, the next one to me.
It wasn’t a real date, but it was good enough. I’d take it.
Ever since that bizarre scene with my father, Jason had been treating me differently. Almost . . . gently. Like he thought I had such a hard life. Like he pitied me.
He opened doors for me. He bought me little treats like Tootsie Pops and Hershey’s Kisses. And I even noticed if he ever had to choose between sitting by Posie or me, he chose me.
It was nice—definitely nice—but weird.
“Careful,” Posie warned me at one point. “He may like you.”
“Careful? It’s what I’m dying for.”
“He’ll only break your heart. He can’t handle a girl like you.”
“Which is what?” I asked, slightly offended.
“Decent, with morals. That boy is set to self-destruct.”
“Oh,” I said sarcastically, “so he doesn’t deserve a girl like me?”
“Precisely.”
But ever since she’d said that, I’d been feeling extra sleepy around him.
We went to IHOP after the movie for our ritual celebration menu: fats, salts, sweets. Fries, sundaes, a burger for Jason because he could eat that any time day or night. He sat between us and I could pretend he was sitting closer to me most of the time, except when he was falling over Posie laughing at something she said, or tickling her into laughing at something he said. But they were just friends. I could believe that.
Then came the moment I’d been anticipating all night: Who gets dropped off first? Usually it’s not an issue since Posie almost always drives, but tonight, for some reason, Jason had squired us in his parents’ dark green Land Rover. He said the Birthday Girl had to sit up front.
When the moment came to turn toward my home or Posie’s, the face of God smiled on me and Jason angled toward Beaker Lane. Posie first. Me last.
She got out and leaned in at my window and gave me a significant nod.
Was it a warning or a blessing? Was she telling me to go for it?
My palms started to sweat. This was It.
There’s a park near Posie’s house. Jason drove there and obeyed the signs: Park.
He cut the engine and doused the lights. He unbuckled his seatbelt. “So . . . Lizzie,” he began.
I cleared my throat. A speech might be in order.
He trailed his fingers through my hair. “Happy Birthday.”
“Thanks.” I was looking somewhere to the left of his ear, afraid to meet his eye. It was like dealing with a vicious dog—you don’t want to challenge his authority. “Good movie, huh?” I tried.
“Mm-hm, but I’ve been waiting to do this all night.”
He leaned forward and I pretended to myself I didn’t know what was coming next, because I really did want that kiss and I was afraid I might try to stop it.
So different from that scary kiss of Chris’s. This one was soft and dry at first, then gently moist, then alarmingly sensual as his tongue explored more territory, including the fronts of my bottom teeth, and it went on for a good forty-five seconds before Jason pulled back, lifted my chin with his forefinger, made me look into his eyes, and then dove in again.
It’s something I hope scientists are studying, this disappearance of time between the start of a kiss and the end. Whole world wars could have been fought right outside the car and I wouldn’t have noticed. I was caught in a black hole—had ventured there willingly—and for all I knew I was an old woman when I emerged, because I lost any sense at all of where I was and how much time had elapsed, and all we had done was kiss, for heaven’s sake. I caught sight for a moment of a bum standing in the park lamplight urinating against a tree, and all I could muster was a faint, “Huh,” before closing my eyes and going back to the task at hand.
I was still awake. I hadn’t fallen asleep on him. Maybe I was cured.
Of course it was too good to last. I knew Jason would want more. With the deft smoothness of a safe cracker, he undid my bra with a single twist.
I jerked back. My breasts were already spilling out. “Jason, I can’t—” I fumbled to redo the clasp.
“Lizzie . . .”
I was a little afraid then, because I was already way beyond my level of expertise. I’m sure Posie would have known what to do, but I hadn’t read that far in the girl manual.
My fingers felt as limber as stumps. I could not refasten the clasp. I stalled while trying to work out the mechanics. “I really love you, Jason, but I can’t.”
That stopped him cold, at least for the moment. He sat back and looked at me funny. “Really?”
“Um . . . yeah.”
If I thought he was kissing me before, now he was really kissing. Meanwhile his hand slowly slid under my shirt. It was so warm and soft and welcome—
“No.” I grabbed his wrist and pulled his hand back out. “I can’t. You know that. I have to stay a virgin.”
Jason leaned back against his door and shook his head in a tired and friendly way. “Lizzie, Lizzie—you and Posie.”
I was happy to hear him confirm it. I didn’t really doubt Posie’s version of their relationship, but I was relieved just the same.
“You sure?” he asked. “Because it could be so good.”
“I’m sure.” Fairly sure. Almost certain. Please don’t ask me again.
He dropped me back at my house and kissed me once, mouth closed, and I thanked him for the ride but I really meant for the kissing, because it was exactly what I hoped that was like. Happy Birthday to me.
I walked toward
the house with my bra still open beneath my shirt and my breasts hanging loose and with each step I savored the tingling throughout my body. I was in a pleasant fog of arousal and had no better plan than to go to my room and lie awake and relive the whole night thirty or forty more times.
Through the window of the living room I saw the light from the TV.
That—right there, before I opened the door—that was the last sweet moment I would enjoy for a long, long time. After sixteen years of waiting, I had finally had my first honest sexual experience, and it was with a boy I truly loved.
Now came the consequences.
[2]
I stepped inside.
The room was nearly dark.
I saw two bodies on the floor.
My father hovered over Mikey, pinning his arms to the carpet. Both were in their underwear. Even in the meager light cast by the television, I could see that my father’s penis was erect.
At the sound of the door my father’s head jerked up, but he didn’t climb off my brother. Instead he bent over Mikey again and pretended to bite his neck and then jostled and tickled him like they were wrestling and not humping or whatever he was doing before the boy’s big sister came home and caught him and stood there staring but not saying a word or pulling him off or doing anything to save a little boy.
I couldn’t see Mikey’s face. I didn’t know whether he was laughing or crying or silently screaming. I turned away not wanting to see anything. I ran to my room and shut the door and wedged a chair under the doorknob to keep him out.
My heart pounded in my chest, keeping time with the chanting in my head:
Why, oh why, oh God—
Why did you let her leave?
Mistakes
[1]
Saturday.
I lay in bed unwilling to believe anything that happened the night before.
Maybe I had just imagined I saw my father humping my brother. Maybe it was a trick of the light. Maybe I was so discombobulated from my breasts being touched by Jason that I hallucinated the whole thing. It had to be a mistake. So I went over it again: I came in, saw them, saw THAT—
