Probably it will lead nowhere, but it is all I have. It is only a half hour drive to Carswell. I will go tomorrow.
In the evening, after leaving work, I drove down Farm Route 12. At the fourth mailbox, there was a small house on a large property, fields behind and to either side. The man who opened the door was in his forties. Blond hair spilled over into his eyebrows. He wore a battered felt shirt and stitched cowboy boots, his skin pleated and red from sun.
“I’m looking for Mr. Fochs,” I said.
“Looking at him. I’m Myra Fochs.”
I introduced myself and apologized, explained I was looking not for him but for another fellow by the name of Fochs.
“Oh?” he said. “Not many Fochses around anymore, and nearly all that are are related. Who you looking for?”
“Eldon Fochs.”
He looked at me a little strangely, demanded again to know who I was. I was a psychiatrist who had been working with Mr. Fochs, I explained, and who needed to get in contact with him.
“I suppose you better come on in,” he said.
Inside, the house was simple and small, the furniture covered with flowered sheets that had been pleated to hug them. The walls were a pine, stained orangish-brown. A small, ceramic plaque of a bear was on the wall, along with a lacquered bullwhip, a spread lariat, and a picture of a smiling old man in a black Stetson.
A woman, around the same age as Myra, sat awkwardly below the picture. She stood to greet me, touching her hair, smoothing her skirt.
“It’s about Eldon,” the man said to her.
“Oh Lord,” she said, and left the room.
He sat down in an easy chair, motioned me to the sheet-covered couch.
“I try to keep my distance now,” he said. “We never were close. We got different ways of being in the world.”
Leaning forward in his chair, he craned his neck to one side. He unbuttoned his shirt and tugged it back away from his neck. Underneath, along his clavicle and down into his chest, were three dark parallel scars.
“That’s his work,” he said. “Eldon’s, I mean. Did it with this kind of tool he made for himself out of wood and barbed wire. Long, skinny job, stiff and sharp. Saw him do in a rockgut with it too.”
“Rockgut?”
“Sure,” he said. “Prairie dogs they get called as well.” He buttoned his collar up. He sat still for a moment, just looking at me, then rolled up his pant leg, showed a portion of his calf where the skin was a scarlet band, dauped and irregular.
“That’s his work too,” he said. “He got me tied up one time when we were kids and had Frank’s cattlecutter and some tongs he stole, and started cutting and tearing. Was going to fry it up, but Frank caught him first.”
“Who’s Frank?”
“That’s the stepdad. He was okay mostly. That’s him in the picture,” he said, pointing to the Stetsoned man.
“What’s your connection to Eldon?”
“Why, he’s my brother.”
“He told me he was an only child.”
Myra snorted. “He never did like any of us much.”
“How many are there?”
“Let’s see. Three at first: Eldon first and me second and Janeen third—she’s a girl, a woman now—and then Momma went and divorced Daddy. Then Frank showed and dragged in two more about my age, and he and my mother decided to have one more just for good measure. All three of those have a different name, though. Bidwell. Only me and Janeen and Eldon were Fochses. Why’d Eldon come to see you anyway?”
“He was disturbed about some dreams he’d been having.”
He shook his head. “Eldon never was disturbed by nothing I know,” he said. “He could do just about any goddamn thing without a flinch to him.”
Myra got up suddenly, went to stare out the window, then came and sat down again and looked at his hands.
“Eldon and I don’t talk,” he said. “I could tell you why, but I don’t hardly know you.”
“Did you know your brother was a provost?”
“I’m not surprised. Just one more thing to make me glad I’m free of the Church. Eldon, he always was one to put on the pretty good face in public. Momma never would believe anything bad of him, even when I had that skin hanging off my leg. I don’t have no use for the Church anyway. I was always of Frank’s mind over that.”
“Do you take a newspaper?”
“You trying to sell me the paper?”
“Your brother was in the newspaper recently. I wondered if you’d seen it. He was accused of raping two boys.”
Myra got up and went to the window again. Came back and sat down.
“Like I say,” he said. “Eldon and I don’t talk.”
“You think he did it?”
“I told you we don’t talk no more.”
“I’m just asking your opinion.”
“I was even his own brother and I knew a lot about him but there was a lot he kept hidden from me. Maybe even from himself. I don’t know the why of it. He was just always uneasy inside, and he never could get easy with himself.”
“You think he could have done it?”
“I’m not about to talk on that subject no more.”
“What was your father like?”
“Daddy or Frank?”
“Your real father.”
“Daddy? He was a churchgoer, straight as a level. Could batter you pretty hard if you got out of plumb or even if you didn’t. Eldon got most of it, though. Hear Frank tell it, one time Daddy even picked up the spade and smacked him on the head so hard that some of his brains leaked out his nose. But Momma divorced from him before he could do me much harm.”
“Your father was a provost?”
He nodded. “His whole life was the Church. Momma took hell from everybody for divorcing him. Eldon looked up to him in spite of everything. Me, I was mostly raised by Frank. He was never a believer. Eldon, he was the oldest, got a full dose of religion and maybe even believes it still.”
“Did your father sexually abuse him?”
“Excuse me?”
“I don’t mean to pry,” I said.
“I don’t have an answer to a question like that,” he said. “I just don’t.”
“Please,” I said. “I’ve only a few more questions. If they’re too personal, you don’t have to answer them.”
He looked at me long, without expression. Then he looked around the room, at the picture, at the lariat, at the base of the couch. “All right,” he said. “What the hell.”
“Did Eldon ever kill anybody?”
“No chance,” he said. He kept shaking his head. “Killed animals when he was a kid, though,” he finally said. “Killed our cat by twisting its head mostly off. Had a thing with heads and animals—sometimes didn’t like to see the two together. Used to find stray dogs too and lop their paws off. Most people were just glad that someone was getting rid of the strays, so they didn’t ask no questions.”
“What if I were to tell you Eldon might have killed someone?”
“I’d ask you what you’re doing here talking to me instead of talking to the police.”
“If your brother is to be held responsible, you’ll have to help. I need you to speak with the police.”
He sat regarding his hands.
“It’s not your brother,” he said.
“You wouldn’t have to say much,” I said. “Just the truth.”
“I don’t know you at all,” he said. “You’re probably crazy for all I know. Besides, they’re all good Bloodites around here. They protect their own, especially if he’s a provost.”
“Please,” I said.
He got up from his chair, opened the door.
“Can’t help you,” he said. “Nothing personal, just can’t.”
Was awakened at dawn today, the sun burning through the slats, the talk with Fochs’s brother still awash in my head. Went in and looked at J. for a while, sleeping blankly. It could have as easily been J. as those two other boys, given the right circu
mstances and the wrong provost.
I thought that over awhile, then went downstairs and cooked and dressed and woke J. and left.
…
Between patients scanned again the newspaper article on Fochs’s alleged abuse of two boys. The names of the two boys were withheld, though the full names of the two mothers were printed, making the withholding of the boys’ names pointless. The last name of one of the mothers is Young, too common, but the last name of the other is Mears, hardly a common name at all.
I looked the name up in the directory, called the only listing, spoke to the boy’s mother. We’ve agreed to meet.
A letter from an apostolic elder, Blanchard, out of nowhere and without warning, raising the stakes. I am, he informs me, not to publish anything about the Fochs case nor to discuss it with anyone. If I do, I will lose my job.
It seems someone, Kennedy surely, has given him some of my Fochs papers, my preliminary work. What he doesn’t realize is how faulty the conclusions of that study are. Fochs, I am now convinced, did much, perhaps all, of the things he described as thoughts and dreams. He is not merely a mentally confused provost: he is a pedophile and perhaps even a killer.
Wrote an aggressive reply back. Perhaps a mistake to do so—it might cost me my church membership. But once you start giving in, you never stop.
Met with Patricia Mears, the mother of one of the boys (Nathan) that Fochs allegedly abused. Very cooperative, her husband as well. They were certain that Nathan had told the truth. She gave me a thick packet of documents, ranging from the original medical report and a transcript of conversations between Nathan and Patty about the abuse, to an account of Patty’s excommunication because she refused to let the matter drop. This latter account included a summary of the church court proceedings, which contained a number of inconsistencies and procedural irregularities. Also in the packet, a three-by-five card to which was taped a hair found inside Nathan’s sweater after the rape, next to it a hair sample from Fochs. The lab report revealed the coloring and composition were identical. Fochs, however, had argued that since he had interviewed Mears on the day of the rape, the hair could have easily passed onto him during that time, that it was no indication that he had raped the boy.
I asked them why they had withdrawn charges. It was too hard on Nathan, they said. It was humiliating. He couldn’t bear the strain.
I asked them if they felt there was a single incident or if the abuse had been a repeated practice. Patricia said she did not know. She said that Fochs had met frequently with the youth. He had often come to visit Nathan and had invited him and other children over to his house for evening discussions, particularly on evenings when his wife was absent. She had thought nothing of it: since Fochs was a provost it seemed natural for him to pay close attention to the youth. He seemed above suspicion. All she could say for certain was that the time they had discovered the abuse was the only time in which the physical damage done to Nathan had been severe enough that he could not hide it, though he had tried. The father said that it had made them reconsider every time Nathan had been with Fochs. They believed that yes, this was not the first time.
I asked them if they had noticed sudden shifts in Nathan’s behavior. They indicated that his personality had changed dramatically in the course of the last year, that he had been increasingly anxious and withdrawn. They thought at first this was part of puberty and becoming a teenager. Now, though, they were unsure what to think.
Woke in a sweat and with a premonition about J. Rushed down to find him sleeping peacefully. Returned to bed, heart still pounding.
Met briefly with Nathan, somewhat informally. He was reluctant to speak, frightened, nervous. Slowly he is learning to trust me.
It is clear now that with Fochs I let his being a provost disarm me slightly. There are things I should have noticed about him that I didn’t. Now, at least, I have a chance to make amends.
Yanked out of Sunday school today by my provost, who tells me he has heard that my professional practices are in direct contradiction to the gospel. We spoke for some time, nothing satisfying him.
“Who has told you I was out of line?” I asked.
He would not say.
“Was it Elder Blanchard?” I asked.
“No,” he said, “definitely not.” Though under further scrutiny it became clear that he had been lying to me, that it was Blanchard.
“But it’s my authority,” he said. “He alerted me to a potential problem, but I’m the one investigating it. I’m the one making the decision.”
Nonsense. A man you consider to have a direct conduit to God calls, tells you there’s a problem, tells you what you should do about it. There’s little chance, if you buy into the system, that you’ll disagree.
It’s the beginning of the end for me. It’s just a question of time before I am forced out.
Nathan opening up a little.
What disturbs me is that though there seem to have been indications all along that Fochs was a predator, his standing in the Church largely blinded others to the signs. Even before he was provost, the fact that he was a clean-cut, regularly attending, apparently worthy member of the Church aided the will-to-blindness of everyone around him.
I was called in this morning again, before regular services, for a meeting with my provost. He again echoed his “love and support for me” but (always a but) “cannot allow me to stray any farther than I already have.”
“It seems clear Elder Blanchard has been speaking to you,” I suggested.
“Well,” he said, “not precisely. I was going to speak to you anyway. Have you thought about what we discussed?”
I plunged through the charade, explained again with at least a pretense of patience what I do in my practice, why I don’t resort to “Christianalysis,” why I feel what I practice does not in the least contradict the teachings of the Church. As we talked, it became clear that either he had been given a copy of my Fochs papers or he had been told about them in detail. His questions were too knowing, too exact. When I called him on this, he denied it, said the Spirit must be guiding him.
It is a dirty game they play.
At the end, he still sat across the table, looking at me, all business in his suit, a faceless mannequin. His posture, attitude, gestures, made clear he had paid no attention to me and intended to pay none. This is the same man who told one of my patients whose husband was battering her that the “most important thing is that the family stay together,” convincing the woman that she should drop charges and forget the abuse ever happened because the husband had promised never to do it again. Now she is dead.
“I’m sorry,” he said, smiling. “I just can’t see it. You must be deceiving yourself.”
Then he had risen and was shaking my hand and guiding me toward the door. He was telling me that he was sure we could work this out, that we could come to an understanding, that if we continued to work together and I continued to pray and read my Scriptures, my heart would soften and I would embrace the truth fully. “Either you’re on the team or you’re against the team,” he said, and smiled again. Then I was out in the hall and away from him.
It is a good religion, I told myself. There are good things about it, good values, even though there are problems as well, even though its leaders often choose to operate by coercion. The Church makes a lot of people happy. But it destroys people as well.
I sat in the pew and suffered through services, accepted the communion, making my appearance for the sake of my provost. From the podium, he smiled his encouragement.
Nathan is moving quickly forward in our daily meetings, though the long-term effects of Fochs’s abuse have not even been glimpsed yet. Child abuse rewires the mind, often in subtle ways. It is impossible for me to predict, particularly in the early stages, how extensive the internal disruption has been.
He is old enough and has enough family support that I hope he will largely be able to absorb the abuse. He might survive it easier than, say, a five-year-old. Still, Nat
han’s life has been forever altered, and some of his potential has been shattered.
What I can surmise from Nathan’s behavior and from what he has just now begun to tell me is that his abuse by Fochs went on for some time, that Fochs spent many months, and perhaps even years, gaining Nathan’s trust and slowly manipulating the boy for his own purposes. There remains in Nathan an inappropriate amount of dependence on Fochs. Fochs, once he was provost, apparently took steps to convince Nathan that he was God. There seems to have been nothing random or unthought; rather, Fochs preyed on Nathan in cold blood. He spoke to Nathan at length and in increasingly graphic detail about sexual intercourse, claiming that since Nathan was “growing into a man” there were things he needed to know, but he would slide almost imperceptibly from speaking of heterosexual sex to what he told Nathan was “the sacred love between a child and a man,” which, he claimed, was the most holy kind of love. Over an indeterminate period of time, Fochs suggested to Nathan that the temple rituals were tied to this sort of pedophilia, that all church members shared in it. Since access to the temple is restricted and the rituals cannot be discussed outside of the building itself, Fochs had a blank spot he could fill in with whatever image he wanted. Nathan could not know he was lying.
Soon Fochs began to caress the boy. When the caresses were responded to positively Fochs might slowly, over the next few weeks, do more. When his advances went too far and were again repulsed, he would step back and redouble the religious rhetoric he used to lower Nathan’s defenses.
Fochs was expert at manipulating sacred texts to suit his own desires, an expert at parleying some of the teachings of the Church into a justification for his sins. The results for the children were a degree of ego extinction, loss of a clear sense of self, collapse of self-esteem, anxiety, anger, depression. Soul murder.
Church is hell. But if I stop going my clinic will fire me.
Provost again all over me. J. asking me, “Are you all right?” asking enough times that finally I told the truth and said no. He just stared, then looked uncomfortable.
Father of Lies Page 9
