Crush

by Laura Susan Johnson

  I've seen his eyes do that...

  "Smile!" the woman screams shrilly, and Jamie's body jumps. "And do what you're told!"

  Jamie smiles. I see the fear.

  My heart begins to crack and crumble. He reaches up and lightly kisses the man on the mouth.

  The woman's voice is low with malice. "Smile right, Jamie, or you'll be really sorry..."

  The little boy begins to cry. Little pieces of my heart are splashing into my stomach acid.

  I need to turn it off. Now.

  Jamie tries to smile right for the woman. His mouth trembles as he tries to stretch it to the left and to the right. It's not quite right, because the woman shrills again, "Where's my lighter?"

  "No!" screams Jamie. "Please!"

  "Then you smile right!" is her growling injunction. "I mean it, you little fuck!"

  The boy turns back to the adult man, and slowly, Jamie's terrified, unreal smile transforms... his lips...

  It's the same smile I've seen countless times in the past several days.

  The only thing missing... is in his eyes...

  He's doing what he has to do.

  He's acting.

  He drapes his bony arms around the man's big shoulders, his small pink lips smiling.

  Like a pro...

  "That's more like it," the woman laughs lewdly. "Very hot, very hot... yeah... good... good... oh, yeah... keep going... what a nasty boy you are, Jamie!"

  It's a metamorphosis before my eyes, and I can feel the breakfast I had at Jamie's this morning, the toast with apricot jam, lurching up my oesophagus. Turn this off. Turn it off. You can't do anything about it. You can't help him. You can't save him.

  But I watch...

  The man's low grunts churn my gut. I burp sourly.

  Over and over I have to remind myself that the boy is being forced to do this, that he does not like what's happening to him, that he is less than ten years old.

  Because he's such a good actor. He's been well trained. The threats he's being given by the woman have facilitated his ability to convince anyone watching that he loves what the man is doing.

  I hate myself as I watch this video. I watch as the boy uses slow, tentative, economic movements, the palpable fear of "doing it wrong" coming straight through to me from the TV screen. He doesn't say a word, doesn't make a sound. I hear the woman's gruff, vulgar commentary as she hands the camera to the man.

  Now I see what she looks like. Her hair is almost black.

  Jamie has her eyes.

  No he doesn't. Her eyes are watery, bloodshot... glaring, wet blue ice...

  It's the rude bitch in the grocery store.

  I suspected she had something to do with why he's so frightened and ashamed.

  "Please, Mommy! I'll be good! I'll be good!"

  I figured she'd been a religious drill sergeant, guarding her son's purity and turning him into a neurotic tangle that I'd have to comb through.

  How far off I have been... how fucking far off...

  I had no idea it was anything remotely like this.

  Undigested food crawls into my mouth as I watch the woman use the thick, black flashlight. When Jamie cries in pain, she screams at him to shut up, pulls the flashlight out of him, hits him in the head with it. Blood begins to dye the white pillowcase.

  She lights a cigarette. "Come on," she says, and the video camera wobbles and jumps sickeningly. "Hold him."

  Jamie begins to scream. "No! No! Please!"

  "You're a bad boy," the woman says happily. "You gotta be punished."

  The man uses one hand to pin Jamie's scrawny shoulders to the mattress while he continues filming with the other. He kicks and thrashes hysterically. "Please, Mommy! Please! Please don't hurt me!" His screams drown what's left of my heart. My stomach eats it away. I see the woman's lit cigarette slowly descend, down, down, down...

  "Please don't do it, Mommy!"

  The camera zooms in as the cigarette hisses against Jamie's skin. Grey smoke wisps away from the blackened hole left behind. His wrenching screams split my soul into two huge red shreds and they collapse beside me.

  I burp back the vomit and eject the video. I run to the bathroom. The contents of my stomach violently project into the toilet.

  I feel weak as I make my way back to my room. Whether there are more videos or not, I won't watch another second.

  I feel convicted. I feel like I've victimised him every bit as much as the man and woman did, just by watching.

  He told me that he'd been through some things. I never would have believed it was this bad. I'd heard his parents had mistreated him, beat him up.

  I hear Stacy saying, "He's been though a lot—more than any of us knows—and I know not to ask..."

  I remember the way he smiled, the way he kissed the man.

  The way he was so utterly convincing.

  I recall the threats his mom made to get him to do those things.

  My mind's eye sees the way the red-hot tip of the cigarette sizzled against his pallid backside. I smell cooked skin. I hear his screams tearing the membranes of his throat out. My rent soul shudders in memory.

  I'm so angry I could kill them.

  If they weren't already dead.

  I'm on a seesaw of emotions. No, a mechanical bull. It's flipping me, tossing me, up, down. I'm falling off, into a sobbing heap in the dirt.

  He was a child, a baby, and they desecrated him. They took everything pure and sacred about their own child, and raped it.

  They hated him. There's no other possible way to explain...

  ...the repugnance, the evil, of what they did.

  He did nothing wrong. I have to keep reminding myself. He was a child. He had no power.

  He didn't judge me when I opened up to him. I can't judge him now.

  No matter how it hurts.

  He was so believable, with Daddy.

  I have to forgive him...

  ...but he didn't do anything to forgive!

  My mind argues with itself.

  Because it hurts. So much.

  Why did I watch that fucking thing?!

  I feel like a pervert, a degenerate, my Uncle Price. It doesn't matter that there's no way in hell I was aroused or titillated.

  I watched. That's all I had to do.

  And now realisation avalanches onto me.

  It is a video depicting two adults defiling the body, and crushing the spirit of a beautiful, innocent child.

  It is a crush video.

  twenty-eight:

  jamie

  (december 29)

  I haven't heard from him since early this morning, and that's not like him. Sure, we had a bit of a thing last night. I had a meltdown after I asked him to do me kitty-style, but we had a long, good talk about it, and he's convinced me that we did nothing wrong. I didn't hurt him, he didn't hurt me. We're both adults. It was completely consensual, and in all honesty, we both enjoyed it. We loved it. It was fun, and like he said, it was dirty, but in a good way.

  I'm tired of feeling dirty about sex. I'm tired of feeling dirty every time I have an erection or an orgasm. I'm tired of the after-effects of what my parents did to me.

  They made me do things I didn't want to do, then they punished me.

  Guilt. Guilt. Guilt. Guilt. Guilt.

  My middle name is Guilt.

  I'm fucking tired of it!

  I called him "Daddy" again. Why did I do that? Fuck!

  Nausea and guilt are one and the same.

  He hasn't called. He hasn't come by. I've called twice, and there's no answer. I've left messages on the machine. I wonder if his mom has had some kind of setback, if they released her too early and she's back in the hospital with another clot or something.

  I call St. Paul's. She has not been admitted and she's not in the ER.

  I have a feeling something terrible has happened.

  Maybe he's had a chance to think about it.

  Maybe he does think I'm a sicko.

  Maybe I've lost h
im.

  More Guilt. Guilt. Guilt. Guilt.

  Late afternoon becomes evening, and still, nothing. I call over there again, leave a third message. Where is he?!

  By nine-thirty, I'm weeping in front of my TV with my kids surrounding me. They know when I'm sad. Misty drapes herself around my head like one of those neck pillows. Sam tucks himself under my left arm. Tigger snuggles under my right. Ginger sits on my lap and kneads my chest.

  At least I have them. They don't get angry and stop talking to me for no good reason!

  A knock at my front door has me knocking the kids off of me as I scramble up to answer it.

  But it's not Tammy, it's Stacy.

  "Ray stood me up. Wanna go sing?"

  "I don't feel like it."

  Her shoulders slump. "Why?"

  I have no idea how to talk to her about this. And somehow, just telling her that Tammy and I are having a "thing" isn't gonna cut it.

  She guesses correctly, "Are you and Tam having problems?"

  "I'm not sure."

  "Well, what happened?"

  "I don't know."

  "You don't know? Well, call him and find out, for pity's sake!"

  A big tear rolls down my face. "I have called him. I've left messages. He hasn't called me back. I haven't heard from him since this morning."

  "Did you guys have a fight?"

  It didn't feel like a fight. It felt like a problem, followed by a discussion, followed by what I thought was the resolution. It felt very similar to when Tammy was feeling bad about his childhood, and I was able to comfort him. Tammy comforted me today. Why would he suddenly...

  "No," I answer.

  She smiles. "Oh, maybe he had to take his mom somewhere or something."

  "Maybe." I hope it's something that simple.

  But usually, he calls me at least once a day, just to say, "Hi."

  "Come on," Stacy prods me gently. "Let's go out. You need to get out. If he comes by, he'll know where to look for you."

  I scold myself for being such a simp. My whole existence has become so wrapped up in him and how happy he makes me feel that I don't seem to have an independent bone in my body anymore.

  "I'm on call tonight."

  "So? You can still go out. Get your ass up," Stacy says with more force. "You still have a life. I know you're in love, but don't stop being yourself, for goodness sakes!"

  The End is decorated for New Year's with brightly coloured balloons and foil streamers. The only songs I have in my heart are melancholy love songs from the Jammin' Oldies station. From the catalogue, we select an early '80s R&B ballad we're both familiar with, entitled, "I Call Your Name" by a band called Switch. It's a pleasant surprise for the crowd, who is used to us doing up-tempo New Wave.

  "Here they are again," the emcee announces. "Old Reliable. We're still not sure they even like us calling them that!"

  Laughter, cheers and whistles fly up from the audience.

  "Jamie's in love," coos Stacy, and I take a swing at her. The mob goes crazy as we sing our hearts out. The song's mood can only be described as mutually sad and joyful, and the way it's structured, it soars into the air subtly... you'd have to hear it to know what I'm saying. It's every feeling I've ever had for Tammy Mattheis, and my voice, though deeper than Bobby DeBarge's falsetto, effortlessly carries each morosely effervescent note.

  I'm still me. I'm still a star, here at The End. I can still sing and make people happy.

  The song ends. We bow. The crowd applauds.

  Then I see him, sitting at a table in the back, alone.

  He's here.

  He's smiling at me.

  My life begins to move again.

  I leap off the stage and run to him, jump into his arms. I have absolutely no concern for the shock I give the assembly when I kiss him passionately, frantically, barely letting him up for air. When we finally part, he gently sets me down, and I glance all around me. Stacy's still up on stage, clapping and smiling. A few faces look surprised. Maybe a few are frowning their denunciation. I don't care. I'm so relieved he's here. I'm so relieved he's not angry with me. I begin to see more smiles. The cheers begin to increase in volume. "Woohoo!" Stacy hollers, and the rest follow suit.

  The people of Sommerville see the expression on my face as I run into Tammy's embrace.

  It's something they've never seen before.

  As the attention begins to shift to the next singer taking the mic, I ask him, "Where have you been all day? I called your house. I was worried maybe something happened to your mom!" I hug him again, feel his big arms roping around me. He's trembling.

  "What's the matter?" I ask, gazing into his eyes.

  They're... I don't know... sad? Angry?

  Something is wrong. I know it now.

  I glance to my right. Lard-Ash Battle-Feldman is standing there with her husband. Benny is only gazing nebulously, but Yvette is giving me one of those looks that makes my blood run ice cold. I turn away from her scorn and examine Tammy's eyes again.

  "Tammy? What's wrong?" I plead, smoothing my hand up over his hair, loving the way it clings and curls around my fingers.

  "We need to talk," he says in a wavering voice. His eyes are a sombre dark evergreen.

  Stacy nudges me with her cell. "It's the hospital. They couldn't get you on your cell, so they called mine," she scowls. "They want you to come in at eleven."

  "Shit. Why did I agree to be on call tonight?!" I turn to Tammy. "Sorry. I have to go home and get ready."

  "I'm coming with you," he says. "We really have to talk."

  Yvette walks up and taps Tammy. "Can I have a word with you?" She ignores me. "It's important."

  "It can wait," snaps Tammy. "It can wait forever, whatever it is!"

  "Noooo," Yvette shakes her head, still disregarding me entirely. "It really cannot."

  So Tammy sighs sharply and accompanies her over to another table. Nearby, Ray and Benny sip at their beers, neither of them looking our way.

  I turn to Stacy, who is wearing the same perplexed, insulted look as I imagine I am. "What's that shit?" she asks, indicating Lard-Ash with her chin.

  My heart is pumping ice water. "I have no clue."

  She hollers, "Hey Ray! I guess you forgot me!"

  But he doesn't raise and come over to us. He only mumbles vacantly, "Uhhh... yeah? Oh, shit, Stace... Sorry."

  "Fucker," Stacy mutters under her breath.

  "I think something's wrong. I think Tammy wants to break up."

  "What?! What are you talking about?! You and he practically made out in front of everyone just now!"

  "He's acting funny," I insist. "I think he's done."

  "You're jumping the gun, Jamie. Maybe he just needs to talk to you about something."

  "No! Something's wrong! I see it. I know him."

  He's leaning into Yvette. They're talking intimately. She reaches over and brushes her hand across his arm, smiles into his eyes. He shakes his head at her.

  But he's not resisting her advances.

  I look back at Stacy. Now she's not so sure.

  twenty-nine:

  tammy

  (december 29)

  How beautifully he sings, I think as I hold him against me and inhale his scent. I think about how most of this throng of people are cheering, how they love his singing. I think about how happy they are for him when Stacy spills the beans.

  These people love him, most of them.

  But there are some who hate him. Why else would they have sent it to me, that video containing the most despotic and violent atrocities I have ever seen. It is not a well-meaning person who sent it. It is someone who wants to hurt Jamie, to expose his horrifying secret, to open his wounds all over again, expose him to new ridicule and hatred.

  And when Yvette Feldman heralds her presence at The End by requesting a one-on-one with me out of the blue, after how many years of not even speaking to each other, you'd think I'd have sense enough to guess.

  "What is it?" I ask in exasp
eration. "I'm busy!"

  "Did you get your package?" she asks sweetly, a cruel smile curling her lips.

  Nausea and disgust burn through me all over again, the corrosive contents of my stomach ready to leap from my mouth. "You bitch!" I hiss under my breath.

  Her eyes widen. "What's the matter, Tam? Don't like seeing your little boyfriend fucking other men?"

  "Where did you get that tape?!" I grab her arm and my nails pinch into her sleeve.

  "Let me go or I'll tell Ray and Benny," she growls. "Let's just say I have a friend at the police department, and I was able to convince him to give me the tape. It's no secret that Jamie was a little whore before he was adopted by that bleeding heart cop!"

  "You're a fucking cunt from hell!" I shriek.

  "Oh, just deal with it, Tam," she sneers. "You're in love with a queer who's been fucking old men since he was barely out of diapers! How can you stand to touch him? Who knows what diseases he's got?"

  "Fuck you!" I spit. "Did you even bother to watch the whole thing?"

  "I didn't have to," she groans. "I watched just enough to get sick to my stomach. I was right about him, little faggot!"

  "If you didn't watch the whole thing, you have no fucking idea what you're talking about. You have no fucking idea! They coerced him! They raped him! They tortured him!" I'm crying.

  "Didn't look like he was being forced from what I saw," Yvette grins odiously. "Looked to me like he liked sucking that guy's cock!"

  I force back another caustic dry heave. "You didn't watch it to the end! And obviously, you couldn't discern from the beginning that he didn't want to do those things. Did you miss the part where his mother threatened him and yelled at him?"

  "His mother? Well, no wonder he's such a mess!"

  "She made him do those things!"

  "Oh, come on, Tam! Are you serious?!"

  "Yes, I am!" I scream at her. "Jamie was a child! No older than seven or eight! You really think he wanted to do those things?! They burned him, Yvette, you stupid fucking moron!"

  But there's no dealing with an unobservant and self-righteous bigot. You can try to reason with them, you can try to explain, but when they're dead set on hating someone, your endeavours are useless.