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♫ Just get me to
Limbo about Hell and Heaven Just get me to Limbo I'm well qualified too bad to be Blessed too good for Damnation |
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So few of my virtues have been listed for You Whereas my sins, alas, are known and well-recorded I lack the credentials to be saved or condemned bereft of belief in Man's Redemption |
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Just get me to Limbo I'll be satisfied Relieved of my doubts about Hell and Heaven Just get me to Limbo I'm well qualified too bad to be Blessed too good for Damnation |
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Hear tell the Almighty's Face from Limbo is obscured Which matters to me not one iota My only concern is that the End of Life once reached might offer us more than mere cessation |
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Just get me to Limbo I'll be satisfied Relieved of my doubts about Hell and Heaven Just get me to Limbo I'm well qualified too bad to be Blessed too good for Damnation |
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Don't care if it's scenic ugly hostile or serene As long as my mind proceeds to function Won't care if it's wholesome loathsome tense or fancy-free Regardless the state therein I'm queued |
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Just get me to Limbo I'll be satisfied Relieved of my doubts about Hell and Heaven Just get me to Limbo I'm well qualified too bad to be Blessed too good for Damnation |
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I seldom subscribe to prayer my knees are numb to worship Whenever I've sung the choir tolled one My Faith is in Self my Self's suspended in between Death's making me cringe with apprehension |
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Just get me to Limbo I'll be satisfied Relieved of my doubts about Hell and Heaven Just get me to Limbo I'm well qualified too bad to be Blessed too good for Damnation |
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I'm writing this with my left hand. If you are reading its printed version, you cannot fully appreciate the painstaking effort required by a 'righty'—reverting to a 'lefty' after decades—to achieve legibility. I say "reverting" because, when I first betrayed a preference, I was reprogrammed by my mother, who was trying to spare me and our family the expense of an impending 'wrong' handedness. I think she had in mind sports equipment that my older brothers, both righties, would be precluded from handing down. She may also have been foreshadowing the enmity destined to fester between her and my left-handed father. Though years away from divorce, my parents had sensed theirs lurking like an intravenous air bubble, wending its lethal way through their connubial bloodstream. Meanwhile, I would learn to cope with whatever psychological trauma was being inflicted by repetitive slaps to "Mister Bad Hand" so "Mister Good Hand" would preempt all dexterous tasks.
This actual, physical book—again not the version you're reading—is one I found on the street, its covers spread like wings of a fallen bird, its numberless pages blank, initially, yet etched with 'ghosts' of words that might have been erased, over time, or that, given time, might appear. Either palimpsest or augury, did this content preexist? Remembered or invented was its untold story empirical, with observations literal or yet to be contrived? To you who have the option of perusing front, back, and middle, the text herein is finished, as in cover-to-cover done. To me, however, nothing past my pen point's present blotch can be seen as verifiable, much less guaranteed. Intentions to Reality are vows with fingers crossed.
Which is not meant to indict myself for irresoluteness; once I start a work of fiction, I always see it through. In that regard (and perhaps in others?) this book is a fait accompli. I, like you, perceive it as a whole—albeit incomplete for my part and for yours unread past here*
*unless you've skipped ahead.
A 'former' friend of mine was in the habit of reading the first then the last line of any given book before deciding it was worthwhile. To an author, this is an outrage tantamount to hecklers shouting out punch lines before comics finish jokes. Do I know this novel's culminating sentence, is the question I now ask? Skipping ahead myself confronts me with empty pages only. Lots of empty pages. A daunting majority.
Experience would advise me 'not to worry'; letters, words, phrases, paragraphs, unto chapters accumulate. Books aren't born in toto; they 'gather' themselves page by plodding page. Conception onto delivery, for me, is a piecemeal gestation.
Do I know this novel's 'inaugural' sentence is the question I ought to ask. "I'm writing this with my left hand" does not count, being more of a preamble. Nor does the poem or song lyric represent line number one; it was composed as an overture; heralding themes to come?
Which reminds me, I have yet to mention the Pope and his 21st Century 'rectification' of Roman Catholic teaching with respect to Limbo—long considered the repository for unbaptized babies, a consequence deemed by Pope Benedict XVI as perhaps unduly harsh. For though Limbo is described, by those who profess to know, as "a place of perfect natural happiness," the souls who call it Home (for all Eternity) ne'er behold their Creator. And that, to a Catholic (and to numerous other denominations) constitutes punishment—moderate to severe, depending upon ones devoutness.
In my view, the argument, at base, is moot; there is no Afterlife. Furthermore, God does not exist except as Mankind's mirror. Seymour Starkey's viewpoint, however, is another story, is this story, come to think of it—when I think of it—waiting for you to read and for me to tell, essentially free of biases, yours notwithstanding.
How can I contend that an author's protagonist has an independent psyche?
The same way God is said to have fashioned Adam and then his errant sidekick
Eve, endowing each post-Eden with an attribute dubbed "Free Will." What
He missed his cue...
Seymour was supposed to have introduced himself... to have spoken up... to have let his voice be heard... to have overcome his sniveling inhibitions, demonstrated some backbone, and conquered unfounded fears about being misrepresented; by me, that is, despite my solemn reassurances. Wary of my vocabulary (admittedly superior), suspicious of my motives (noble to a fault), and mortally apprehensive about my knack for manipulation (guiltless though I am of harboring an agenda), my 'star' remains imploded.
"Come on,
Like a hermit crab, he appropriates safe havens lest confront the world at
large. Defamation of character? Well, isn't that my prerogative? Especially
when his-nibs is gesturing 'mum's the word,' expecting me to keep his filthy
secrets secret, in craven contradiction of our a priori bargain. To wit: I
retain all rights; he gains 'absolution'; fame and fortune are mine in
exchange for his 'sins redressed.' Not that I have any confidence in
"Will you get on with it! Start wherever you please, but hazard, please, a
start. 'We,' meaning I and the public, wait with bated breath."
I am a shy person. Not because I am ashamed of certain things. I mean, I am ashamed, but even before the really bad stuff happened I was pretty shy. Jack wants me to talk about the bad stuff...
"Stop! "Jack"? You've namedropped "Jack"? Number one: "Jack" does not exist. Number two: the nonexistent "Jack" wants nothing to do with Seymour Starkey. And number three (for some reason dramatic structure relies on triads): everything you say "can and will be used against you" irrespective "Jack's" noninvolvement. Is that clear? I'm giving you the chance to tell your sordid little tale. Tell it. Any way you like—provided you leave me out."
Sorry... I am a shy person.
"You said that."
When I was small I used to have a hat. It was leather and was lined with fleece and had earflaps. Whenever we got company—you know, people coming over (?)—I would put my hat on backwards and hide under Momma's bed. It was dusty, I remember; clumps would stick all over me after I came out. But that's what I would do: breathe inside the fleece, which made it wet; stay upstairs alone till the coast was clear. That's one example. Another is that I blush. Not so often lately but I still turn red. Kids could make me do it, back in school, without hardly trying; they'd get my face so hot I'd start to sweat. It felt as if I glowed, which only made matters worse. It's hard to stop the stares when your cheeks are flush as fireballs. Blushing is a handicap; if you blush, you know for sure.
I'm suspending
Believe you me, I'm not making up excuses for what I done.
"Did."
Did. Thank you. Hey, you put down 'done.'
"Because that's the way you phrased it."
But you promised not to make me look uneducated.
"You are uneducated."
I know, but you promised.
"Okay, okay, I'll resume correcting your atrocious grammar."
NOTE: At this stage I'm unwilling to do
The three story walkup where Seymour Starkey lived (prior to his arrest,
conviction, and incarceration) housed singles on its top floor, beneath
which several families struggled to contend with accommodations cramped,
with fixtures practically ancient, and with rents liable to rise based on
dubious pretenses. Classified "low income," the premises were grim, but did
include a small playground replete with sandbox, seesaw, and swing, visible
through the fire escapes that courtside units shared,
Minutes passed....
The foyer felt abandoned save for her who had sought its solace, crying with frustration? Anger? Love in a tug-of-war with hate? Parents, teachers, schoolmates ill-equipped to plumb the depths of an adolescent angst (though she who wept so bitterly was only nine)?
Violetta Violent, Violetta Vindictive, Violetta Vendetta were names she had inscribed, ballpoint pen and Sharpie her tattoo artist tools, fingertips to biceps her 'authorized' palette; designs were spreading elsewhere, though, as need for them arose and incited her to defy adult ultimatums by illustrating nom de guerres wherever she saw fit—Violetta Vehement her pseudonym, of late, outlined in bold block letters on the flesh of either thigh, either 'inner' thigh perchance to avoid detection, forestall the usual spankings such transgressions reaped, beatings Phil (her stepfather) all too eagerly administered, insisting she expose her bare bum first. Pervert! She had looked that term up, too, while rummaging for V-words—not on her computer; it and her cell phone were under lock and key, forfeited thanks to her most egregious breach of 5th Grader etiquette, her remonstrating, to the vice-principal no less, "GO FUCK YOURSELF!"
Cheating was the offense of which she had stood accused. On a spelling test, of all things. Patently ridiculous! No one in her class had a better vocabulary—Mrs. Grimes included, casualty of 'THE LIKE DISEASE' (before it grew epidemic), superfluous likes, sort-ofs, kind-ofs, and whatevers infecting the teacher's speech, symptoms Violetta (sotto voce) had impoliticly spoofed, earning her the charge of scribbling a crib sheet on her decorated forearm: Violetta Ventriloquist containing the evidential test-word.
Mrs. Grimes would pay for imposing said injustice; Violetta would see to that! Vigilant, Vengeful, Victorious were nom de plumes in store!
Meanwhile, Vindication would not be won by whimpering, though better done in private; wallowing in self-pity was grossly unattractive. Not to mention damaging to a person's self-esteem. Toughen up or join the simpering ranks of pompom girls and beauty queens.
Bolstered by her own gruff counsel, Violetta sniffled, wrist-wiped her snot, countermanded her tears—only to have her resurgent self-confidence suddenly eroded upon sensing an intrusion. There, on the stairs, scarcely three steps up from hers, sat a plate chockfull of cookies—their banality completed by a glass of milk adjacent.
This gesture's stealthy kindness felt more like a violation. Mortified by the certainty that her throes had been observed, embarrassed to the point of plotting retaliation, Violetta bristled with target-less animosity, for whoever left the token had done so sight-unseen. Her own tippy-toe reconnaissance confirmed the stairs were empty. Who? The question nagged... as Violetta munched on the succor-coated offering, then rashly washed it down; "never take gifts from strangers" was advice she failed to heed.
"And suffered no ill effects? The snack wasn't drugged? Laced with Spanish
fly?"
No!... What's Spanish fly?
"Ground up beetles; never mind. So this is how you lured prospective
innocents to your pedophilic lair, with nothing more original than humdrum
milk and cookies?"
That's just how we met. She knew it was I (sic).
NOTE: This is a reverse "sic."
We sometimes passed in the hallway, but Violetta never took much notice. After I left the food, though, I think she returned my nod. She also returned my glass and plate; lay them on my doormat, then rang the buzzer twice; but she did it from downstairs. 'In case she'd made a mistake,' she told me later. But she didn't; first guess, she got it right. "How," I asked? "It absolutely figured," was the only thing she'd say.
It had to have been The Retard, Violetta coolly reasoned, her nine (going on twenty year-old perceptiveness uniquely keen, deducing that people who take pity on people were often pitiable themselves, and nobody in their 'compound' fit that description better than "Seymour Starkey," initials SS, she noted on the mailbox registry, curious as to who in 'Cellblock D' might have tendered such a ploy. Silly, Stupid, Simplemindedly Sweet were S-words she applied—weighing whether to ridicule her meddler or appreciate his choice; Chips Ahoy was her favorite brand of cookie and what's more the milk had been chocolate!
Then again, he might be a closet pervert like her clammy-palmed Stepdad. One
man looking for excuses to feel her up was already one too many. Simple
Simon, harmless though he seemed, was probably a creep. At best a nerd. In
any case, she'd given back his dishes; no need to encourage any further
their passing non-acquaintanceship.
Pardon the interruption; "Jack" wants to speak—Jack, this novel's author and
omnipotent narrator; what I, the writer, write does dictate what you, the
Reader, read. Am I, likewise, omniscient, in-the-know—always—with regard to
what comes next? The truth is I know what comes next when next it comes.
This is not a tautology, though I've mentioned it before. Call it a
'preoccupation.' Does this book exist? I believe I said I found it. Whether
literal or metaphorical, that fact's established. I also said its unnumbered
pages were blank. But now that some bear script, are those that follow
scored, like a symphony with its first few stanzas hummed? If the melody is
in my head, are not the notes inevitable, in some sense predetermined, hence
ipso facto real? As in tangible? As in scrawled before they are scrawled;
here and not here simultaneously? Poised between what is, what was, and what
will be, as is Life itself while lived?
Seymour Starkey couldn't care less. You, too, may plead indifference.
Violetta 'Victim,' on the other hand, shares my flair for words. She might
prove an ally in sanctioning such 'digressions.'
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Happiness is...
... a shower. I take two almost every day. I used to take two baths but they
make you sit in dirty water. Showers get you cleaner and are more
economical. You can prove this by putting in the tub plug and comparing how
much water collects by the time you are through. Unless you wash for a
really long time, showers use less. (65) They also can be quick, in case you
are in a hurry. In the morning, I take mine after Mom goes to work. She
leaves early and sometimes I sleep late because I hate to hear alarms. But
even if I am maybe going to be tardy, showers are too important for me to
skip. (120) At night I take mine any old time. The key is having privacy.
Our apartment is tiny, with only one bathroom for three people, so the rule
we have is no one locks the door. I do not mind when Mom comes in , but
Phil, her husband, makes me nervous. If I can see him shaving through the
curtain then he can see me showering. Phil shaves twice a day because his
whiskers grow like chia. (196)
Anyway, showers make me happy. They are adjustable. They can run at any
temperature, scalding to freezing. They can spew as soft as mist or as hard
as heavy rain. Best of all they can wash away your troubles until you feel
they are gone for good. (243) |
Violetta tallied for the fourth and final time. Safely past two hundred, her
essay's length would do. What a royal pain it was not to have Word Count;
her computer (ditto her cell phone) was still in protective custody—which
meant that she was barred from running Spell Check, too. Recourse to a
dictionary—of the offline variety—seemed so anachronistic it made her want
to puke. Luddites, likewise, turned her Tech-Tyke stomach—foremost of that
ilk being Stepdad Phil, a carpenter by trade, a redneck by disposition. Why
her mother dumped Violetta's refined father in exchange for a hardhat bigot,
pheromones might explain but reason pronounced "imponderable."
As for Mrs. Grimes and her comeuppance, lack of PC access was hindering VV's
progress. To accomplish what the injured party schemed, Photoshop and a
printer would be minimally required. Whose could be enlisted? Borrowed or
appropriated? Used in such a manner as to leave behind no trail? Violetta,
(homework finished) checked her Betty Boop clock. One half hour to curfew.
Time enough, she reckoned, to think, to close her loose-leaf notebook, slip
a smock on, don her Nikes, leave her room (a walk-in closet Phil had
recently refurbished to atone for his stepdaughter's ouster once the
newlyweds had determined they could ill-afford to move), traverse the
hallway (reminiscent of Polanski's "Repulsion") wherein asymmetry lent the
walls a fun house warp unfunny (day from night indistinguishable; each and
every passage gave VV the creeps), escape the indoor gloom for the outdoor
twilit squalor (trash cans girding the courtyard like vagrants around a
campfire), enter the fenced off playground with its derelict apparatus,
cross to the rusty swing set, fit her fanny to its U-shaped seat, and launch
metronomic CREAKS apace with vengeful cogitations.
Irritating racket or song of a snub-nosed Siren?
Seymour, seated at his courtyard-facing window, profile rendered bluish by
an out-of-sight monitor, turned his under-lit, ghoulish, demoniacal features
in order to shift focus downward; disconcertingly to her who looked up,
squinted, grimaced, blanched, until distinguishing the light source from its
sinister effect, identifying each as fortuitous and familiar, while
recognizing both as a means to her vengeful end.
"I hope you're not expecting "us"—defined again as me and my readership—to believe your violating statutes of the California Penal Code was anyone else's fault, especially Violetta's. Villains hardly merit sympathy by blaming victims for their villainy. Possession of Child Pornography is only one rung up from producing it. You pled guilty to both—compounded by felony counts much worse. On the Ladder of Criminality, Seymour Starkey, you're at cesspool-bottom—and justifiably so. Not that I'm here to judge; I'm here to transcribe. But do make an effort to tell us the truth—or I'll paint your portrait black."
What Violetta wanted (though I got it wrong, at first) was to put her teacher's head on a naughty person's body—one of those women on the internet who have pictures posted nude. I said that was mean. She said, "Serves her right." I had lots of practice, on account of my collection. So I taught her what I knew, and she taught me what she knew, and mostly we had fun. Believe you me, I didn't think it was illegal.
Framed at Seymour's threshold like a sawed-off femme fatale, one hand on her hip, the other hand toying with an ornamental knocker (a Cyclops cast in pewter, its inset eye a peephole), Violetta waited for The Retard to open his door. Instead, the eye went dark, its lens eclipsed by an indecisive scrutiny.
"Who is it?"
Pulling a face as gruesome as the Gothic-era Cyclops, Violetta leaned,
zoomed in on the animated pupil, and stuck out her tongue.
NOTE: As much as I would like to liken
"Pretty fancy PC. You a hacker?"
Meanwhile, VV made herself at home, conducting a glib surveillance, details
prompting her to pause at, examine, sometimes handle, noteworthy artifacts:
a model airplane, of Gulf War vintage possibly, the kind you must assemble
that comes in a kit;
a liquor bottle frosted by its life afloat at sea, corked as if to keep some
inner message dry;
gumballs in a glass globe with a coin slot underneath, mimicking a dispenser
but in fact an ersatz piggybank;
comic books stacked by trademark (Marvel, DC, Dark Horse); from super heroes
to Conan, the selection was extensive—and maybe symptomatic of
"May I?" VV asked with pseudo-prim politeness, like a child who minded her
manners whenever it suited her, a mix of genuine respectfulness and
calculated courtesy, charming to a fault until she encountered "no," or
"don't," or any number of terms employed to thwart her headstrong
machinations. Where other children pleaded, Violetta plotted. What she
wanted she got (or failed to get) by virtue of her guile.
Noting his discomfort, she clicked the URL. Jackpot! Instant lever with
which to work her will—
Of more concern capability-wise than the full-screen streaming video (its
prurience eliciting an apathetic shrug from the incidental visitor) were
programs hopefully installed that could be bent to her payback-seeking
purpose. Jackpot again! Not only Photoshop but its most elaborate version
greeted VV's glance at the desktop's menu. Checking the Control Panel, she
located
"My name's... "
"
"Hey, that's right. How... "
"Do I know? Looked you up on the list of current occupants downstairs by the
mailboxes."
"Smart."
"'Elementary, my dear Watson.'"
"Hey! That's from Sherlock Holmes. I got his comics. Want to see some?"
"I'll take a rain check."
Slightly disappointed,
"Mind if I close this, Mr. Starkey?"
Flattered by her choosing to address him by his surname, while relieved,
beyond all measure, by her query's offhand tone,
"This site has a section of sleazy schoolmarms, if you're into it. I need
one for a project." She scanned quickly through a page of bawdy thumbs—
Stopping at a likely prospect, VV clicked ENLARGE; the monitor framed a
full-length shot of an under-clad 'teacher,' context more than costume
signifying her vocation, wire-rimmed spectacles the stereotype employed to
symbolize 'scholarship'—an attribute the model's bust enormously belied,
bursting through the gap of a topmost-buttoned cardigan, loins in a similar
state of wanton dishabille, genitalia exposed and probed by a plug-in
device.
Right click / Save Picture As... /
VV typed in: "Mrs. Grimes 1"
A copy of the image occupied
"You mean to tell us she not thee initiated access to an adults-only
website? She, at age nine? Please; I've heard of children being precocious;
Violetta does sound bright, but even if she were 'mentally' advanced her
maturation 'physically' would like as not rule out any interest in the kind
of smut you crave. "Lusty Lactating Ladies" wasn't it; the category you were
ogling when Miss Violetta Vickers paid her first of many 'allegedly
unsolicited' visits?"
I was real surprised myself. Little kids like her need grown-up supervision.
NOTE: I had to bite my tongue so hard it bled when he said that. "Grown-up
supervision"? Prescribed by
Next she ran a search on
Home / Staff Directory / 5th Grade / Mrs. Grimes
zeroing in on another full-length shot, this of a thirty-something educator,
head angle roughly that of her wire-rimmed namesake.
Right click / Save Picture As... /
She typed in: "Mrs. Grimes 2"
With raw materials gathered and dragged into a New Folder presumptuously
labeled "VV's Stuff"...
"That's me, by the way—pleased to meet you—short for Violetta Vickers."
... she lifted her hand from the mouse and offered it to shake.
Once more taken aback by such unprecedented boldness, Seymour nearly missed
his chance to clasp the youngster's hand, sensing, when at last he did, that
a deal was thereby struck, a gentleman's agreement (no matter how
unspecified) that both henceforth must honor, come whatever may.
"Cuckoo" chirped the clock on
"Gotta go... I'm late, I'm screwed... My mom's already grounded me... PC,
cell phone iced... For one whole month... You believe that shit...? All
because I 'cussed' at our Principal of Vice."
These parting phrases kept pace with the cuckoo's Swiss-works cadence, most tossed over her shoulder as VV hustled out the door, then down the grimy hallway—their listener left dumfounded (and a little bit forlorn).
No one ever visited Seymour, not since he had moved, sold his trailer in
Columbus and travelled by Greyhound to foggy San Francisco, "Baghdad By The
Bay" as it sometimes was called, especially down on the docks where he had
landed a job (thank goodness) in Security, guarding dilapidated buildings,
by and large, until they underwent renovation, the city's waterfront too
lucrative for long-term neglect, every square foot of Fisherman's Wharf, for
instance, a retail opportunity few were inclined to squander. Thus, pier by
pier and year by year, rank commercialism spread... relegating
Somebody I'm not supposed to mention says my job back then was "ironic." I was a guard for Protective Services Unlimited, PSU for short, and I had to keep things safe—people but mostly property. What makes that "ironic," I guess, is account of how I failed.
Guarding is not as easy as most people probably think. You have to stand for
hours and hours without hardly moving, or walk for miles and miles checking
stuff out that always looks the same: locks and chains and barbed wire
fences, etcetera. Either way your feet hurt, even in hundred dollar shoes.
Worse than that, except for Dispatch, there's nobody you can talk to.
Talking is restricted, because it's distracting. Guards are trained to
concentrate. Also to notice things. Conversations get in the way; they're
like obstacles.
Where I used to guard, before they arrested me, was extra difficult.
Buildings owned by the Navy got sold then rented out to artists. All types:
painters, sculptors, printmakers, potters; you name it. Rent, I guess, was
cheap because most of the tenants looked poor. What made it hard for me was
some of them loved to talk. At all hours. I worked the graveyard shift, like
usual, but folks would be there anyway.
"Seymour, come have a cup of coffee, or tea, or a glass of wine." Sometimes they'd smoke dope, which of course was illegal, but I never once reported it. Guards are not Police—not even guards that carry guns. Besides which, almost everyone was friendly. Artists are odd but none of them ever looked down on me.
With VV's "Independent Study" parked on his desktop unexplained, and three
whole hours remaining before he had to leave for work,
Surely Violetta chose the floozy for her face.
Satisfied with his handiwork,
That night Violetta once more sulked in the gloomy stairwell, tearlessly
this time; pissed-off was all, her penalty re-extended. "Two fucking minutes
late" had earned her an extra week of techno-deprivation. Phil, it seemed,
would never give back her cell and PC. After Mrs. Grimes got her
comeuppance, Phil would suffer his! Though something more definitive was due
the interloper cum live-in lecher. Child Protective Services might very well
get involved. Groundwork must be laid, though, before she placed such a
call. Otherwise Mom was likely to contradict her—smitten as the woman was by
her hubby's touted 'charm,' mesmerized by his tool belt, VV conjectured,
with its dangling ball peen hammer.
I can't emphasize enough this novel's seeming to 'reveal' itself. Like steppingstones submerged until one's foot is poised to plunk, words emerge to give each stride foundation, and do so of their own accord, I contend. The chicken or her egg; which comes first? The Author or his Muse; which one is the original? If each exists solely in the moment, how can either claim a particular place in time—Past and Future always incidental to our everlasting Now? In what sense might one 'anticipate' the already-happened and 'remember' the yet-to-occur? This is the conundrum faced by your humble narrator—which is neither here nor there, no doubt, to those of you impatiently awaiting the story's recommencement.
Unlike Friday's fit of ignominious blubbering, VV's anguish Saturday owed
its impetus less to chagrin than to her mounting discontentment with
anatomy—namely hers—a recent growth-spurt fertilizing doubts that she would
ever boast of breasts. Sight of
"Beanpole," Phil had snickered when he trespassed last on her privacy. Always barging in, he was, "accidentally." Yeah, sure, right, as if the closet wherein she had been ensconced still housed his wardrobe—Ben Davis polyester overalls, Ben Davis T-shirts, and BVD briefs; a regular fashion plate was her voyeuristic Stepdad. Mom wore a C-cup bra, daughter mulled with guarded optimism. Nature might yet relent and raise the desirous bumps. Still the glimpse of fluid she'd caught spewing from nipples pert with passion (the website strumpet flaunting boobs like udders as a vibrator buzzed her lap), prompted Violetta to examine her significantly less developed glands, ruing their lack of an infinitesimal hint they would amount to more than flapjacks.
Half expecting milk and cookies to appear on the steps above, VV wondered whether her surreptitious 'sponsor' would support, conspire with, or ultimately betray her. Grownups were a treacherous lot. They lied and seldom felt guilty. They cheated and thought it was sexy. And even the ones who had kids got divorces in a blink. Grownups, therefore, were fuck-ups, no two ways about it.
VV took out her Sharpies to record said observation. Dressed in a flannel pajama top and slipper socks only, access to her ankles, calves, and thighs was virtually unfettered. Finding a vacant spot, however, presented a problem. VV, in response to the week's events, had been quite prolific. Disobeying dictums, she had plied her markers widely, straying from 'authorized' tracts (the length of either arm) to decorate both her legs with slogans and manifestoes. CHILDREN ARE NOT CHATTEL one such shouted from her kneecap. STEPDADS DELVE IN DEVIANCE charged her left foot, heel to toe. I PLEDGE ALLEGIANCE TO THE FLAG OF COUNTRIES THAT PLAY FAIR forswore her instep. SPELL-CHECK SPELLERS UNITE proclaimed her shin in letters big and bold.
ALL... GROWN... UPS... ARE... Out of space, she faltered. Dare she use her crotch to keep the string of words intact? Mom, if she uncovered such a breach, would go berserk, even though the ink washed off (with rigorous scrubbing) leaving only tinges that time and twice-daily showers gradually effaced. The issue, then, wasn't permanence so much as recalcitrance. Why must Violetta forever defy authority? Because grownups were, indeed... she finished lettering—FUCK - UPS—onto her prepubescent privates, hyphen bridging the cleft of her smooth-as-a-duck-egg mons.
Sometimes when a thing isn't where it should be you keep looking for it, like a wallet when it's gone from your right hip pocket. You check. It isn't there. But you keep looking in the same place anyway, just in case you missed it. That's what I was doing when I looked for VV's name on our building's list of tenants. I must have read through three, four times before it sank in I hadn't missed it; "Vickers" wasn't there. I even thought I knew the number of her apartment; I was sure I knew the floor. But the name next to Unit 3D was definitely McNulty. The goof I made was to think that Violetta lied.
"Vickers is my mother's other name; my 'founding father's.' McNulty is my stepfather, my mother's second mate. If she ever marries a third, who knows what I should call him; 'Step-step Father'? Meaning two giant steps removed from the genuine article?"
The bitterness in VV's voice was unmistakable.
"What's so funny?"
"You made Mrs. Grimes 'pretty.' 'Slutty' was what I had in mind. Why else would I search for stand-ins on a website full of trollops?"
"But... isn't she your teacher?"
"Meaning worthy of respect?"
"Uh huh."
"Teachers earn respect; they're not entitled automatically. This one said I cheated when I didn't."
"That's not good."
"Damn right!"
"'Thou shalt not bear false witness.' That's a Commandment."
"If you say so."
"'
VV leveled a look expressing withering disdain for what she haughtily dismissed as a spoon-fed platitude. Phil, an Irish Catholic, had insisted she attend church. "Every fucking Sunday?" had been her flip objection, earning her a slap in the face (prelude to the spanking which confirmed that Stepdad's motives were somewhat less than pious; the lap, over which he had bent her, betrayed a shameless bulge).
"They're not real."
Was she referring to the Ten Commandments?
"I beg your pardon?"
"What you're gawking at; they're fake, not true tattoos. Mom would ground me for a decade if these were permanent. Fact is they keep changing with my 'temperamental' moods. I have 'an attitude problem,' in case you hadn't noticed."
"They're really beautiful."
NOTE:
"That's a 'scholarly' appraisal."
"No; I really mean it."
And, indeed, she believed he did; the care he took in reading her words,
admiring her finely-drawn lines, encouraged VV to exhibit both arms,
affording an inspection that adults heretofore had conducted with unanimous
disapproval (tacit and overt) their censure either implicit or resolutely
punitive.
"How'd you do your armpits; in a mirror?"
"No. Mirrors are tricky. Everything's reversed. Like your jpeg of Mrs.
Grimes."
"Sorry I did it wrong."
"You did it perfectly, almost. Professionally. True, we'll have to do it
over. But the detail—wow—you're good! The only flaw is that you flipped the
image horizontally to make the layers match, then forgot to flip it back
after the layers were flattened."
"Whoops; you're right."
"No problem. That's a simple one-click fix. Not so simple will be swapping
body for body once we give Grimes back her head. You did keep the original?"
With VV at the helm, Seymour by her side, a pair of kitchen chairs
repositioned to accommodate their efforts, protégé with protégé traded
expertise, neither one a know-it-all, both of them eager learners (disparity
in pace their only source of friction), their enterprise collaborative...
Their enterprise ignominious! A nine-year-old and a thirty-year-old—yes,
Seymour Starkey is thirty; or he was when he seduced, suborned, and
sodomized Violetta Vickers—splicing photos of some top-heavy 'Toots' and an
unsuspecting teacher to impugn the latter's character, to besmirch her
reputation, to defile her public image in a most detestable manner,
incognito, like a pair of hoodlums posting their lewd pictorial on a raid
they soon would conduct under cover of pitch-black night—is less
collaboration than out-and-out connivance.
... the duo duly labored, losing track of who and where they were, the task at hand hypnotic, losing track of VV's curfew, which had passed and-then-some; time had become a non-factor, a background layer locked, a cuckoo clock struck dumb—or imprudently ignored, its measured chirps announcing eight... then nine—still disregarded. On its third intrusion of chirps, an alarm finally sounded.
"Can you shut that... SHIT, I'M SCREWED!"
VV leapt from her chair as if it had been hot-wired. On the fly, she hollered, "SAVE IT. PRINT IT. I'LL BE BACK." Out the door and down the hall she sped shouting, "WHENEVER I CAN." Her wake, like smoke at a drag race start line, hovered in a cloud... grew thin... then dissipated—mourned by him who sat transfixed, nay abandoned.
VV was a special little person. Smart, believe you me. Lots of problems, true, but being stupid wasn't one of them. "Stupid" can mean "mentally slow or dull or senselessly foolish." It can also mean "uninteresting." Of those, the first one is me. But I would have to say all four sometimes apply.
What we did to Mrs. Grimes was stupid; well, on my part. VV had an ax to
grind; on her part it was understandable. But even so the whole thing
qualified as "foolish," defined as "lacking common sense" and especially as
"lacking good judgment." Instead of talking her out of it, I was glad to
help. Truth is I enjoyed it; we worked together like buddies. I was slower,
naturally. That made VV yell. "Hurry up, you 'Sluggard,'" she would call me,
or you "
Mrs. Grimes had a touch of acne that her morning make-up covered, albeit pockmarks caught the light, as did the pimples on her chin—an outcrop due to suppurate as soon as she reached school. This year's class had come indubitably from Hell, comprised of pranksters, gangsters, misfits, and assorted nerdy freaks. She almost longed for the usual mediocrity that the public sent to be educated (in hopes each tribe of little savages might become civilized at some stage during the process). Ordinarily the good kids outnumbered the bad. However this semester's troublemakers had spread their misbehavior. Like measles, mumps, or chicken pox, misconduct proved contagious, with most kids showing symptoms if not the full-blown diseases—all afflicting their teacher, magnet for infection. Even the best and the brightest had a foul-mouthed infirmity. One Violetta Vickers—nicknamed VV—was a blessing truly mixed. Highest IQ on record, officially "gifted," vocabulary vast (if all-too-often vulgar), Violetta was saddled with a psyche so acutely troubled that her straight-As offered paltry compensation, in the eyes of all concerned.
Patty Grimes rebuked herself for fretting prematurely. Campus loomed a dozen miles distant. Drive, indulge her latte, nurse it slowly from the thermos Jeff, her 'hubby,' bought her as a please-forgive-me gift for having hurt her. Lovely pain! Did Jeffrey know, she wondered—listening to her IPod's next selection from the set she had labeled "Sappy Songs," as the morning traffic thinned—that pain was like the sugar she stirred into every drink she drank; the hot ones; the ones wherein each melted granule triggered pleasures deep-dark-primal? Sweet as chocolate (bittersweet chocolate with the highest cocoa content), pain released such hordes of the most delicious, dangerous endorphins that Patty found their onrush positively frightening. And unexampled; never had she felt—prior to this 'kink' in their recent sex play—raptures spurred by pangs, much less by outright agonies. Yet here she sat, reliving certain recherché sensations, squirming on the car seat, memories moistening her lap, captive to a newfound facet of her character—while thrilled by having discovered it within the bonds of Holy Matrimony.
Ugh! The faculty parking lot lay straight ahead, its spaces numbered, tree trunks, lining the aisles between each curbstone row... festooned? A 'leafleteer' had overdone it, evidently. Flocks of flyers flapped their folded sheets like seagull wings affixed, thumbtacks holding them in place against an early morning zephyr.
And what did every eight and a half by eleven inch posting splay (come one,
come all) to those arrived already, to those arriving currently, and to
those whose arrival was imminent?
Photocopies of Mrs. Grimes (3), in context; there was no denying the
setting; lettered on the blackboard—further confirmation—was Patty's name,
the chalk she had used still clutched in her one free hand, the desk beside
her littered with props uniquely hers (including a picture of 'Jeff' in an
ornate frame), her other hand plying a dildo to private parts exposed
(shaven, oiled, and partially engulfing the sex toy's lifelike shaft), cord
of the pseudo-phallus dangling like an eel to the overshadowed floor—Omni
highlight serving to focus attention on the teacher's naked torso, anchored
from below by the electrical contraption, roofed-in from above by a pair of
massive mammae, their lit-up undersides diffusing beams of brightness toward
an unassuming face, its every feature identical to hers who gaped in horror
at the mortifying slander.
Who—rather what kind of monster—would commit an act so base?
The unequivocal answer:
With Violetta's Vindication through Vivisection Verified, by Mrs. Grimes
being granted (effective immediately) a leave of absence (suspicion cast on
many, proof imputing none), school became a game of wearing out substitutes.
First to test her stamina against the skills of VV's ilk—classmates cum
confederates deemed notorious thanks to 'the incident' (no one taking the
fall, the 'credit' claimed by many)—was a fresh-out-of-college novice with
the unpropitious name of Pamela Everlast (a moniker contradicted by her
short-lived tenure).
Pamela Punching-bag, Pamela Pummeled, VV penned on either forearm;
Substitute One presented a wealth of possibilities for persecution—or for
'chronicling' persecution doled out by predatory classmates; VV mostly
refrained; the prey was too easy; and provided scant provocation. Though
absolutely tenacious when avenging wrongs done to her, Violetta rarely
engaged in gratuitous acts of malice. Her hostility was a reaction,
stimulus-specific, the prod she most consistently despised being Stepdad
Phil, whose unrelenting abuse, of late, had metastasized. Predicated on
curfew violations, paltry to legitimate (VV's overstay at The Retard's
admittedly prosecutable—not that she confessed her errant whereabouts to
either parent), persecution by Phil had taken a 'leaner' turn, starvation
added to his repertoire of corrective castigations.
Enter Seymour Starkey to the
'starve-ling's' mealtime rescue.
"Liver. 'Love it or leave it,' that
sadistic asshole whispered when I told him I would vomit if he forced me to
eat one bite. The smell alone got me so sick I turned gray. Every night this
week he's ordered dinners I detest. All on purpose, too, as part of his
diabolical plan to make me 'behave.'"
"What does 'diabolical' mean?"
"'Devilish. Cooked-up by Satan.' What he means by 'behave,' though, is to
jump through hoops for him. 'VV get my paper. Now! VV pour my coffee.' VV
this and VV that; I'm not a goddamn slave. When he asked me to rub his back
I told him he could shove it. Very next day I'm facing NO NUTRITION as a
'penance for my sins.'"
"'Thou shalt honor thy father and thy
mother.'"
"Don't you start, Dingbat. Spread that peanut butter thicker; I'm about to
faint from hunger."
Working graveyard shift meant that
"Where are you supposed to be?"
"Fetching mail. Like a retriever. If I'm not back any minute, it won't be my
head he'll try to pat. 'Drop trou' and bend over,' is his prologue to
chastisement."
"What does…?"
"'Punishment,' Chowderhead. Don't you read those comics, or ever look up
words?"
"Sure I look words up. I just don't
remember what the hard ones mean. You really ought to chew before you
swallow; otherwise you'll choke."
"Drink some milk, at least, why don't
you?"
VV took a swig.
"Gotta run. You're a sweetheart."
She pecked him on the cheek.
"I'll bet. You haven't had much to do
with females, have you
|
Any obscene photograph found in any student's possession is grounds for disciplinary action: detention, suspension, or expulsion should an offender also prove to have been a perpetrator. |
This edict, of course, made Mrs.
Grimes 3 such an infamous commodity its Facebook, MySpace, and YouTube
dissemination was guaranteed—though subsequently censored. Ultimate
expungement, however, could hardly undo the damage. "Doctored by a pro,"
authorities had determined. A pupil's work? "Unlikely." Unless some child
got help from a parent or an older sibling. In any case, further
investigation ostensibly was dropped. The District deemed it expedient to
let time make memory fade—in deference to Mrs. Grimes 2 (aka Patty) whose
leave had been extended.
What more could be done, the Grimes couple asked, beyond allowing the whole sordid incident to blow over? Pasts were best left past. Patty, in her heart of hearts, was relieved; she hated teaching. Jeff, if truth be told, found Mrs. Grimes 3 a turn-on; he had fucked his scandalized wife with accentuated zeal since the photo's posting... channeling anger at the unidentified malefactor(s) to enhance what was becoming a worrisome obsession... pulling Patty's hair as he entered her from the rear... yanking it so sadistically it made her sphincter squeeze... her anus like a cock ring that kept him huge and rigid... her grunts, groans, squeals, and shrieks unleashing verve he would have judged out-of-character... yet every step the couple took accelerated momentum into a dark, erogenous realm that threatened 'no return'...
… nudged in this direction by an inconspicuous detail, yet one which Seymour
might have 'corrected' had his accomplice not insisted that the slight
discoloration stay as it was on Mrs. Grimes 3, a bruise appearing to have
darkened her left breast's puffy nipple, suggesting ever so subtly it
perhaps had sustained a bite. No big deal, from VV's viewpoint, other than
'flaws' were acceptable—preferable, if they added to the image's overall
obscenity. Whereas
What did
Surfing 'safari' better describes his nefarious activity. Starkey tracked
down innocents, captured them as jpegs, and then slaughtered them in
Photoshop. Chopping the heads off 'tots,' he glued them onto 'tarts,'
blending each combination with extraordinary prowess. The resultant album
proved to be so incriminating, so incensing to the judge (on record as
having seven granddaughters) that
It's true I haven't had much to do
with females, but I wouldn't say I'm gay. A person knows if he likes girls
or he likes boys without another person telling him. How I know is simple;
when I see naked girls my you-know-what gets big. Naked women I ought to
say; it's their privates I like most. Why I enjoy putting heads of children
on grownups is a little more complicated. It wasn't even clear to me until
the prison's Staff Psychologist helped me sort it out. She said I'm "a
rather peculiar case of arrested development." Which is funny, if you think
about it. I mean, I sure did get arrested, and that sure stopped my
development. But what she meant was arrested before I got arrested, locked
up in my head when I was still a little boy. She explained it gooder...
"Better."
... than I can. Hey, you did it again.
"Did what,
Put down the wrong word.
"Do you have any idea how tedious it
is to correct your goofy grammar? Why not let me write it like you say it?
It would make you sound more honest."
Children don't tell lies as much as
grownups do; they're open. Even when poking fun they do it face to face.
That's how come I liked so much Violetta. She'd say real mean things but
never behind my back. How can a person know if someone is talking about them
in secret? I can't say, exactly, but somehow you can tell. That's how come I
watch while 'you-know-who' is writing stuff down.
Chosen for their facial features,
Seymour's TOT TARTs glimmered, lit as from within by an ethereal source of
light, angelic and demonic in alternating bursts, like haloes set on fire by
attributes inimical, each endowed with innocence and jailbait allure.
NOTE: Taboo; the word itself evokes rebuke and titillation. Province of the
primitive, practices sacred to profane, taboo is culture's closet for
harboring things prohibited. Taboo is fruit forbidden. Taboo is untold
truth. Taboo is all that tantalizes through want of ready access: urges to
be suppressed, desires to be concealed, sins left uncommitted, un-admitted
like impure thoughts denied. And none incurs more outrage (when confessed)
than pedophilia. How condone any upstanding adult's acknowledging sexual
arousal in response to an unclad infant, toddler, or juvenile? The very
thought, to parents in particular, repulses so instinctively that discourse
is avoided, or, if introduced, reviled—typically with such vehemence that
denouncements overrule, attempts to comprehend shouted down posthaste, as if
failure to condemn—condemn unequivocally—were almost to condone, as if
reason were by righteousness legitimately preempted, as if minds were
allowed to close in a climate of moral certitude, leaving controversial
topics circumspectly dodged—little of which contributes, I concede, when
trying to understand...
What motivated
Satisfied that the layers matched: colors, highlights, mid-tones, Seymour
chose those attributes he wanted to enhance—just enough to magnify their
intimate attractiveness; could aureoles really be that big, a mons so
cleanly shorn, a clitoris peek so far from the folds of protective labia,
and could those folds extend, reach down, agape like jaws of a steam shovel?
"Let's get something clear, before I forget it; these TOT TARTs of yours
were all concoctions? You never imported, downloaded, purchased, posted, or
shared your fabricated smut? Then why did you plead guilty to Possession of
Child Pornography? I mean, technically, legally speaking, it would seem your
Public Defender might have gotten that charge dropped. Not that I'm excusing
your depravity; 'making' indecent images is as reprehensible as 'procuring'
them. But insofar as none of your 'recruits' were actually exploited or
personally harmed... Never mind—get on with it—you got what you deserved."
Both suppertime and the hour of VV's curfew (readjusted from 8 to 9pm in
deference to daylight savings and recent good behavior) having passed, an
explanation was in order for her late-night appearance—inopportune on two
scores: hand-job interruptus, and
PHIL DID THIS! had been lettered in quavery lines across her freckled
forehead, the exclamation mark anchored by an arrow that extended to her
lip—so puffed up it gave her mouth a pout that few would dub "beguiling."
"Why would anybody hit a helpless little girl!?"
Thinking his had been an unvoiced exclamation,
"BECAUSE HE'S A FUCKING CRIMINAL WHOSE ASS BELONGS IN JAIL!"
Seymour flinched again; the incendiary timbre of this outburst nearly singed
his eyebrows—level with the wound (in front of which he had squatted to get
a better look). Cradling VV's upturned chin (crinkled from her effort to
keep tears in check), he felt it quiver, despite his tender handling.
"Bet that hurts a lot. Want me to fix it?"
She nodded solemnly.
"You go into the kitchen. I'll be right in."
Atypically compliant in deference to The Retard (said appellation in vogue,
still, if losing validation), Violetta parked herself in one of the two-only
chairs and awaited medical attention, plus, she trusted, a sympathetic
audience.
First Aid Kit at the ready, 'Dr. Spock' returned.
"Looks like there's a cut; a teeny-weeny one. This stuff's called
Merthiolate. Get ready; it probably will sting."
VV winced shut her eyes, clenched her teeth, and braced herself for the
worst, as
"Mostly it's just swollen, like a snake that swallowed a hamster."
Opening one eye to execute a cryptic
double take (while envisioning her lip as an over-nourished serpent), VV
cracked a smile. The upshot proved grotesque (and utterly disarmingly).
"Can I stay here with you tonight? I promise not to tell. Mom and Phil, I'm
sure, believe I've run away. I did run away; out the door and down the block
until I finally doubled back to sneak up here. No one saw—I'm certain,
Seymour, and no one will see me leave. Tomorrow. After Mom and Phil have
both gone to work; I'll scoot downstairs, collect some things, and split.
For good. To
"You haven't said what happened. How
come you got thumped?"
"'Thumped'? I didn't get 'thumped,' Idiot." She leaned forward and landed a
flat-fingered tap in the middle of
"Parents ought to listen when their
children say what's so."
"Goddamn right! You may be a halfwit,
but you still know foul from fair. Phil's a moral moron, by comparison. Can
I stay overnight or not?"
"I have to go to work."
"When?"
"Now."
"Perfect! That gives you deniability."
"Deny-a-what?"
"In case they track me here. I mean
they won't; we're still top secret since the Mrs. Grimes affair. Not a soul
found out about that because you and I can be trusted. Furthermore we are
careful. And one of us is smart."
She gave him another 'thump' to
emphasize their camaraderie.
"Isn't that convenient; the predator
gulls his prey, fools her into thinking he's granting her safe harbor, then
circles round to ravage the trusting imp as soon as she's off guard."
I did not! I let her stay; that's
true, but I went off to work. When I got back next morning VV was
up-and-gone.
All that night he had thought about
her, worried about her, wondered if she would be there when he got home,
hoped that he could cook waffles for her or French toast or pancakes and
sausage, hoped that she could eat, that her injured lip had healed, watched,
with more and more impatience, the hours creep by, forgot her, then
remembered; memories (most) were fond, how she had curled up on his Murphy,
reluctant then willing, after all, to let him tuck her in; how she had asked
him if he, please, would leave on a light; how she seemed to like the towel
and washcloth with an unwrapped bar of soap that he had taken fresh from the
linen closet and designated as hers, regardless her demur when he offered
her a shower; best of all how she had come to him in the first place, relied
on him for help; worst of all was the fact that 'Phil' had physically harmed
her, hit a little girl—his own stepdaughter—so hard in the mouth it had
broken the skin; "sticks and stones can break my bones but words can never
hurt me"; Seymour had recited this often while growing up, an adage
difficult to practice but one that had served him well. Would that 'Phil'
had learned to shrug off insults—though words could often hurt. Deeply.
Words like "Dummy," "Dumbass," "Dope," "Dullard," and "Dimwit" to mention
only the ds had drawn their share of psychological blood. Sometimes sticks
and stones might have done less damage. Still, slowness had its pluses… Or
minuses in disguise? Did each and every sluggish tortoise not envy the
speedy hare? Were plodding thinkers nobler by dint of deliberation, or were
they justly slighted for putting in their two-cent's-worth late? What kind
of credit was due to wits forever beaten to the repartee punch?
Rounds; Seymour did rounds, guarding empty lots, vacant warehouses,
abandoned buildings, nothing nearly so precious as her who he had left
behind unguarded at home in bed, wounded and defenseless, violated and
vulnerable, the injury to her mouth like lost virginity, innocence torn, a
tiny rip that aimed to sully un-ripened youth, bruise its fruit, and leave
the casualty cowed, wary, and evermore mistrustful. VV was defiant but
nonetheless impressionable. Thumbprints in her clay had already left their
mark, threatening to set, to harden characteristics into unhappy permanence,
misused as she was too soon—by an adult's anger fired; her attitude toward
Phil apt to remain antagonistic. Or to mutate from the hatred she bore him
into something more malicious (as formerly displayed when dealing with Mrs.
Grimes). Violetta Vickers was a hellcat, a terrorist-in-the-making, who had
chosen Seymour Starkey as her partner-in-crime, her confidante sworn to
secrecy by an unuttered oath, their understanding tacit but no less
inviolable, their connection such that 'SS' sensed 'VV's' flight from his
apartment before it was confirmed, due to an incident—possibly a
break-in—delaying his release from work, requiring him to file a report of
something amiss (shards from a shattered window incontestably qualifying),
thus Seymour returned later than usual (from his uneventful shift; a stone,
as opposed to an intruder, had been responsible for the breakage) only to
find what he anticipated and frankly feared the most: his status quo
restored, the hole in his life, so fleetingly filled, once more vacuous. Not
a trace, neither a note nor depression in the remade bed, greeted the
occupant's look of crestfallen sorrow.
To predict that Phil would rank his job above concern for an AWOL 'tween'
(overlooking a lawful-husband's duty to console his worry-sick wife) was
certainly plausible (5th grader 'logic' hardly being infallible); to predict
that Mom would be similarly indifferent (despite her penchant for the
antiquated maxim "Father Knows Best") was indicative of a child who felt
unloved. When VV quietly fitted her key to the lock of door 3D (expecting to
enter, pack a bag, eat a snack, write a note, take some cash— along with the
household's backup credit card—then hitchhike to Seattle), both her parents
lay-in-wait just inside the threshold (with "real Dad" Wayne and his
"lady-friend" Blue tuned-in on Skype). The beating VV therefore anticipated
(and richly deserved, if Phil's look askance was any indication) never
transpired. Instead—following heartfelt hugs and kisses Mom bestowed
interminably (a display of affection forborne by the recipient irrespective
its duration—surprise eclipsing embarrassment, discomfort trumped by
relief)—VV's cell phone and PC privileges were miraculously restored!
Grownups; who could figure them out?
All their questions with regard to where she had spent the night, how she
had managed to stay warm, clean, and safe, whether anybody had scared her or
treated her unkindly were deflected. "I'd rather not discuss it" sufficed to
end their prying. Phil's 'assault and battery' likewise went un-probed.
Further looks, from spouse to spouse, suggested that words had been
exchanged. Harsh words. Ultimatums, possibly. Whatever had been said, Phil
henceforth behaved—at least in terms of raising his hand to deliver blows.
His eyes continued to manhandle, leer, and slyly extort—guessing VV had
holed up somewhere in the complex, suspecting a confederate, and pressuring
her via dark, subliminal threats to divulge this Samaritan's identity.
Back in business technologically, VV let her interest in
|
Hey Chucklehead... Sorry I haven't been in touch. Thanks
for the hospitality. "Believe you me" it saved my ass in a lot more ways
than one. I didn't get spanked, for starters. No one laid a hand on me. In
particular you-know-who, Mom's Salacious Spouse (look words up, if you're
clueless). And far from getting grounded—like FOREVER—they gave me back my
stuff. Which is partly why I've been incommunicado. With you, I mean. With
my other friends, I've been a Twitter and text-message chatterbox. Too much
communication is almost like none at all; most of what I send and receive is
absolute twaddle. I'll bet you're wondering how I got
your email address. You left it open (by mistake, I assume) the night we
posted my "Independent Study" in "Hawthorne Forrest." Verstehen Sie? ("Do
you understand," auf Deutsch—in German, Dingdong). Which reminds me; guess
who's back in class? Correct; Mrs. Grimes. She was supposed to be
out-for-the-count, not due to return until next semester, meaning the Fall,
meaning after I've moved on, inshaAllah ("God willing," in Arabic) to the
6th grade. Unless I skip again and go directly into 7th. Mom and the Satyr
are mulling over my options. Personally, I'm ambivalent (LOOK IT UP!). On
the one hand, I'd have to leave behind my chums. On the other hand, school's
so goddamn BORING maybe doing another leapfrog would keep me "more engaged"
(to quote my new Guidance Counselor, Mr. Middleton—"George" I'm allowed to
call him because he wants us to be pals). What do you think, Anyway, "let's get together for
lunch." Just kidding. Grownups always invite one another to lunch. Or for
'cocktails.' How did "a chilled mixed drink of liquor and juice or other
flavorings" get named after a rooster's butt-feathers? See? I look words up.
Constantly. Not only is it 'educational,' it's fun to flabbergast adults
with multisyllabic utterances. You'd be surprised how differently people
would treat you if you spoke properly, with more than a comic book
vocabulary. Even someone slow-of-speech can sound intelligent when what he
says and how he phrases it is worth waiting for. Blah, blah, blah; "Violetta Verbose,"
I'm lettering across my tummy after I click "send." By mutual agreement, I
curtail my body art, they (Mom and Whatshisface) double my allowance. Not
bad, eh? All I have to do is put tattoos in places that don't show. (Erasing
PHIL DID THIS!, by the way, rubbed my forehead raw.) You should see my
torso; it looks like a pirate's map, Xs marking the treasure spots over
surfaces easy to draw on—my only consolation for being flat-chested.
Thanks for caring, VV |
|
Dear Violetta,
If you are only nine years old and normal regular 5th graders is are ten and
you already skipped once and still made friends then maybe it would be okay
to skip again. Friends are numero uno (that means "number one" in Spanish)
so if you can make friends easy easily then that is a good reason not to
worry. Another good reason not to worry is that slow learners feel real bad
when they keep fast learners from learning fast. They sometimes learn even
slower because they get nervous when the fast children are waiting. Imagine
an airplane with lots and lots of passengers going to
The next issue is who will be your teacher if you do or do not skip? Mrs.
Grimes and you, this year, have not been getting along. Once, when I was in
school, my second grade teacher was also my third grade teacher, not because
I flunked but because she switched. If Mrs. Grimes does that, you
probably
definitely should skip. |
|
Lastly, is the subject of you and boys. "Grubs" is what you called us them, which wasn't very nice. I maybe don't remember what I felt about girls at your age, but I think I mostly avoided them and wanted them to do the same. As far as how your body looks right now, for sure it's gonna going to change. It will probably get prettier. I doubt that you'll get fat. If you want, I can make a picture of how you'll look as a grownup. |
And with that piece of boastful degeneracy,
"Good morning, class. All rise for our
Pledge of Allegiance."
The smile with which Mrs. Grimes surveyed her satanic rank-and-file was like
a ghost-print pulled to incorporate leftover ink; the original—cast so
luminously, her coloration vivid, livid (her throat, concealed by a
turtleneck, still bore bruises from Jeffrey's tie, which he had cinched, at
Patty's insistence, around her palpitating jugular)—fortified her spunk in
dealing with rebelliousness; one of the thirty-seven hellions, she took
note, lingered in her seat... refusing to stand (?).
"Ms. Vickers, would you join us,
please?"
A request or a cloaked command?
Pretending it was the former, VV deigned to answer.
"I elect not to."
As usual, she had chosen her words
with care, "elect" alluding to democracy wherein patriotic rituals were
(ostensibly) optional.
And, as usual, subtlety was wasted on
the figure of authority who identified dissent as clear-cut belligerence.
"Would you like to stand in the Vice
Principal's office, instead?"
Pretending again that her teacher's
dictum was actually a suggestion, VV declined.
"Our Principal of Vice has hardly
proven to be a champion of students' civil liberties. You all go ahead; I'll
sit here quietly."
Since Mrs. Grimes had returned, "Ms.
Vickers" had maintained a remarkably low profile—attributable to
improvements, the teacher surmised, in her pupil's problematic home life;
whereas VV chalked it up pragmatically to 'laying low'— the score having
been settled, letting bygones be bygones (one party still in the dark)
representing the wisest course. Why, then, had she drawn this line in the
sand?
Arm extended horizontally, stiff as a
yardstick, index finger pointing toward the classroom's open door, Patty
Grimes ejected the brainy Lilliputian, disinclined to spar with an
ultra-precocious whelp whose intellect (prematurely developed like some sort
of prodigy's) was definitely ABNORMAL, not to mention bent on spoiling this
morning's hum, echoes of which resounded in Patty's sodomized nether parts,
hubby's lingual gymnastics stirring wet reverberations, strangulation
heightening their rapturous effect, causing her to gush, upon climax, like
some G-spot-tickled geyser that left a viscose slick upon sheet and jowl
alike, shocking her who had ejaculated and him who had guzzled the
overabundant discharge...
"... and to the republic for which it
stands..."
... almost losing consciousness in the
masochistic process, in the sadistic process, Patty turning purple in the
polka dot necktie's grip, Jeffrey too busy lapping up goop like a
milk-parched puppy; only when his captive keened did he prevent her certain
death, by loosening the noose that had intensified their ecstasy.
"... with liberty and justice for
all."
"And what have we done this time,
young lady?"
The VP's condescending tone was
perfectly suited to make VV wretch. Why must grownups use upper-register
voices whenever addressing children? Furthermore, why use "we" (as if 'he'
shared the shit she was in) when what he really meant was 'you'?
"Flexing my fundamental right to
dissent, if you want to know the truth."
"Oh? And what form did this 'civil
disobedience' take?"
"I chose to sit while my classmates
stood like robots to salute the fucking flag."
The VP waged his finger.
"I thought we agreed to refrain from
using profanity."
"I said 'fucking'; you didn't. Okay,
'frigging' flag. You do get my drift?"
"So yours was a protest, of sorts?
Against what, pray tell?"
"Against programming as distinguished
from educating. It's bad enough that everything we do here is triggered by a
bell, from start of school to end of school, with recess, lunch hour, and
another recess sandwiched in between, which makes this place like a kennel
full of Pavlov's drooling mutts."
"And you want things to be different."
"Damn right I do."
"Having problems at home again,
Violetta?"
VV arched her brow, then scowled with
utter frustration at the VP's vapid change of subject.
"How could that have anything to do with my basic civil rights? Home is
fine, if you must know. Do I get detention or not?"
Unsettling as it was to hear a youngster talk like an adult, Mr. Cunningham
managed to take the anomaly in stride. Interviews with Violetta Vickers had
been frequent throughout his tenure. Seldom—strike that—never had he met a
more articulate (if deeply troubled) child.
"No, I think you were well within your
rights; I'll square it with Mrs. Grimes."
Anxious to escape before Mr.
Cunningham snapped back into character and resumed his role as Hawthorne
Elementary's number one hard-ass, VV rose to leave.
"Good to have her back, n'est-ce pas? You were chewing up our substitutes,
spitting out one or two per week until, with some encouragement, you all
simmered down."
What happened to "we," VV wondered but held her tongue? The "encouragement"
to which Mr. Cunningham referred had been a heavy-handed threat: "Shape up,
kids, or one by one you'll be shipped out to schools a lot less tolerant."
Everybody knew the schools he meant—deeper in the crime-ridden Mission
District.
"A curious way to demonstrate how much
you all have missed her."
He wasn't going to let it go. Resigned to yet another third degree, VV sat
back down.
"Very unfortunate mischief, that
pin-up of Mrs. Grimes. You had nothing to do with it, I trust, but maybe you
know who did? At this point, I mean? Now that the dust has settled? A name
or two that might have popped up, in passing? Someone bragging, after the
fact, secure she had gotten away with it?"
He was fishing. But the word that struck true terror in VV's otherwise
tranquil heart, the tipoff that his bait concealed a gnarly hook, was the
pronoun "she"; "secure she had gotten away with it." Worry—next-of-kin to
blame—encroached on Violetta's calm...
… which recommended (once home from
school, no further confrontations logged, and Mrs. Grimes apprised of her
country's Bill of Rights) a quick-change into play clothes for some
therapeutic swinging...
... the pump and whoosh of each rusty "CREAK" tantamount to a mantra; the
rush that tickled her midriff, tousled her hair, and goosed her loins,
instilling a state of mind conducive to working out problems—how she might
have roused the VP's suspicion foremost among them. Bingo; the program for
this year's Drama Club play, which VV had designed, a comedy "rather
specious in its middleclass morality," she critiqued, also having reviewed
the production for
... which VV failed to notice, focused
as she was on crafting a disclaimer that would throw the dogged VP off her
scent.
Afraid lest VV fall and break her neck,
"PSST! THAT THING'S NOT STRONG ENOUGH
TO HOLD YOU; BETTER SLOW DOWN!"
(Who the Hell…? Oh; speak of the
devil; my alibi or accessory is about to blow 'our' cover.)
"STUFF IT,
knock knock-a-knock-knock, knock knock
VV's signature rap felt like a summons
being served to him who thought, for a retrogressive instant, of hiding
under the bed. Instead, he hustled to the door, peered through its peephole
(out of habit), verified it was Violetta (who flipped him another bird),
turned the deadbolt—CLUNK—and let the minor in.
"What could you have been thinking,
Numskull, 'caterwauling' from your window when you know our 'association' is
supposed to be clandestine!?"
"You're mad at me, huh?"
"Oh, no; I'm tickled pink you've
announced TO THE WHOLE FUCKING COMPLEX that you and I converse."
With that, she reached up and gave
Chastened,
"Remember when I asked you for some
tips about that playbill?"
"When you were feeding me? When
Philistine Phil was rationing my rations, making sure my meals were all
inedible?"
"'Mr. Frog Meets Mrs. Squirrel.'"
"You do remember."
"We made children look like animals."
"That's the one. Well, it has maybe
'done me in.'"
"It was good, though, wasn't it?"
"Too good. Accomplished "with powers
and abilities far beyond those of mortal men.'"
"Hey, that's from Superman! I've got
lots..."
"I know. Pay attention."
Wary of getting 'thumped' again,
"If I were ever in trouble,
Pacing halted, handling things
suspended, VV stood stock-still, intent upon hearing an answer with which
she could be satisfied, fixing Seymour, eye-to-eye, where he sat on his
Murphy bed.
Aware he was on the spot, that whatever he said would be binding, while
equally aware he was expected to answer acceptably,
"See no evil, hear no evil, and speak
no evil; cute. What's all this about "Mr. Frog Meets Mrs. Squirrel," I'd
like to know?
One: Why did you leave that out?
Two: When did it happen?
Three: What do you think you're trying to hide?
Remember,
VV came with another project after we
did the Mrs. Grimes one. It was even funner (sic).
Why'd you write down "sic"?
"Because "funner" is not a word."
Funner is too a word; it means more fun.
"Okay, if you say so; I'll take out
the 'sic.'"
NOTE: Perhaps you, the Reader, think me duplicitous for telling
The reason it was funner is that we
turned actors into animals for characters in the show. On stage, they had to
wear costumes, which VV said looked silly. The boy who played Mr. Frog had
to hop around in flippers, and the girl who played Mrs. Squirrel wore a
feather duster tail. But VV borrowed my digital camera and took their
pictures—just their faces—which we opened up in Photoshop. Then we did an
image search for frogs and another one for squirrels…
"Spare us the technical details, if
you would. Was this, by any chance, the occasion when you first molested
her?"
"If you help me this time, Seymour,
you can see my new tattoos."
None were immediately apparent,
despite her somewhat skimpy outfit: sandals, shorts, and T-shirt all that
she was wearing—the T-shirt half tucked in or half pulled out, in either
case haphazardly.
His curiosity split between the task and its reward,
"I can take it from here," VV said as she copied and pasted the folder into
a
Dumbstruck for the first few seconds, eyes bugged, round as saucers,
Suddenly
"You were walking here," he tapped a
'smiley-face' labeled "WITNESS" that bore itsy-bitsy dots (standing for VV's
freckles) on either side of its nose. "And then a pooch got hit by a
mailman's truck" (U.S.P.S. identifying the vehicle). "It got killed; here's
you looking sad." A 'frowny-face' hovered like an isolated moon, above a
starburst (indicating IMPACT) with dots, formerly freckles, turned into tiny
vertical droplets. "Then people came here, here, and here. I think they pick
up Pooch to carry him down to there." Tracing the zigzag (like a switchback)
on its path over VV's tummy,
"In deference to the dearly departed dog? You must be kidding! You're a sex
offender, Starkey, you confessed. Now, as a convicted pedophile, you expect
us to believe this child exposed herself to you, and suffered nothing more
invasive than the fiction you've described? Bullshit. Admittedly, VV's no
angel. But even devilish children know nude is nude and don't display
themselves to full-grown adults."
"Was he yours?"
The fact that Seymour had interpreted her 'tattoos' with utter sincerity
(reinforced by perceptiveness; what he read was mostly accurate, if not in
literal terms, at least in terms of how an event had affected VV
emotionally), made him worthy of her trust, she decided, and undeserving of
ridicule—which meant, instead of sparing him, she would be ruthless in
poking fun, honesty being the hallmark of her newfound affection.
"No," she said with a wistful sigh,
her naked ribcage shrinking. With a modest motion, VV pulled her T-shirt
back into place. "I used to pet him sometimes, through a fence, on my way to
school. He'd wag his tail and lick my hand. I guess that meant we were
friends. Someone must have let him out; he got run over yesterday."
"You saw?"
VV nodded.
Not since they first met had
We are experiencing a let-us-hope brief hiatus in our exposé, narrative,
novel, biography—whatever you choose to call it—because our protagonist is
on strike. That's right; the 'estimable' Seymour Starkey is refusing to
utter another word. Until I apologize, it would appear, for remarks I made
debunking the previous tableau. "You can't make a Hallmark greeting card out
of child molestation," I told him.
"Without getting 'maudlin'—as Violetta might articulate, adding 'Look it up,
Lunkhead.' 'Sentimental,'
"And it is precisely your limitations,
Genius, that are preventing you from realizing I'm your best bet for getting
out the word, for setting straight the record, for telling it like it is (or
was) from the horse's mouth—that is to say yours—unless you continue to act
like a horse's ass.
No? Still pissed off about me pointing out you poked a nine-year-old's
nipples? Your finger did traverse a minor's naked chest? And it didn't make
your "you-know-what" get hard?
Okay, okay; maybe not on that
particular occasion. Pardon me, please, for doubting that a proven sex
offender could countermand his boner. There must have been other
opportunities to warrant the court's sentencing.
Proceed.
I'm sorry.
Can we get on with it?"
VV really was worried about skipping
from 5th to 7th grade. The school gave her some tests and I guess they
showed that her brain was way ahead. Mr. Middleton, VV's guidance counselor,
said she was "a little high-strung" but probably could handle it. Nobody,
except for VV herself, fretted over breasts. I thought, if she could see
what she'd look like in the future, it would maybe boost her confidence.
Extrapolating Violetta's age-eighteen
physique was not so easy.
Finally, there she was, in some
respects a lookalike, "Desiree's" hair identical (Seymour took a color
sample and checked it against the headshot VV let him snap in exchange for
borrowing his camera—"Only one, Doofus, and don't you dare do a 'Mrs. Grimes
3' with it, either"). Noticeably dissimilar was Desiree's intellect, evident
in her not-quite-stupid face, its expression patently coquettish, its
subtext plainly lewd, its eyes reflecting cleverness but scarcely outright
intelligence—which ought to have been irrelevant but somehow was not—though
sufficient smarts extended below her neck to render Desiree acceptable.
Next, in order of importance, were her prepossessing breasts, prominent
enough to dissipate VV's childish doubts, modest enough to keep open a full
range of options (from scholarship to Triple-A Baseball aspirations),
rounded, high on the chest, endowed with upturned nipples—a lighter shade of
pink than VV's, but that could be adjusted (provided he remembered hers
correctly), and poised with just a hint of unaffected chastity. Last, in
terms of erogenous zones, was Desiree's dimpled lap, its "mound of Venus" (a
vintage appellation that appealed to Seymour's 'chivalrous' penchant for
euphemism) plucked as cleanly as the bifurcated bosom of a freshly
slaughtered quail, its pucker so provocative it might need toning down, lest
VV's main concern be (genitally) upstaged.
A labor of love, it was, from Seymour
Starkey's standpoint. Prurient unto perdition, from the Law's unbending
stance, scrutinizing evidence—exhibits A through Z (and more)—examining them
out of context the better to view each critically, un-persuaded that motives
for such depravity could be anything but felonious.
"Balk!"
"It was not a balk; his foot was off
the rubber."
"His toe was still in contact."
"Nah; the umpire would have called
it."
"Ha! The ump did; didn't you see him
waggle his red-tipped cane?"
Fans were having fun, as were their
progeny: the at-bat Mission Bull Dogs 3, Capp Street Cracker Jacks 5, bottom
of the sixth, 2 outs, runner at third, full count on the batter who had
fouled off the last three pitches, damned if he was going to let this
Cracker Jack pitcher strike him out, the same pitcher accused of but not
charged with a balk, who had overheard the parents' good-humored wrangling
and extracted from it pride, not because they argued, got the call right or
got it wrong, but rather because they both had been mistaken when referring
to the pitcher's gender.
"Strike three," called the umpire.
VV had retired the side. Her teammates
high-fived congratulations. Top of the seventh, Cracker Jacks in the lead,
one more chance to extend it before the Bull Dogs got last-ups, in this the
clubs' first meeting since their season began, the Inner City Youth Baseball
League offering 'disadvantaged' youngsters equal opportunity to spit and
grope their crotches, actions deemed traditional by most of the volunteer
coaches, actions deemed disgusting by VV's disapproving Mom, who nonetheless
signed the consent form over Sexist Phil's objection: "Girls could maybe
play softball, but keep them out of the Majors," construing co-ed sports as
'a slippery slope' of sorts that would ruin, if left unchecked, America's
Favorite Past-time—yet another incentive for VV to make the team, though her
games were mostly missed by Mom (due to conflicts with work) and boycotted
by Misogynist McNulty (on 'broadminded' principle). Stepdad not only refused
to drive her to practices, to buy her a decent glove, to chip in for her
uniform, or to attend a single game, he actively disparaged every mention of
her on-the-field exploits. Whereas Mom could be forgiven—not knowing a
base-on-balls from a bouillabaisse—Phil had actually played; his alma mater
drew scouts, and, though he never made the draft, his infield prowess had
been reasonably sufficient for a career in the Minors, had he not messed up
his knee, a spill on his Harley-Davidson having crippled any chance for a
livelihood from athletics.
As the lead-off batter grounded out,
VV waited on deck. Hitting was her weakness; she most often whiffed. How she
could 'throw' strikes but seldom make contact with any was a mystery, one
Coach Boileau had tried to help her solve. But no amount of extra batting
practice had made her a slugger, let alone relieved her of the 'sure out'
pressure she felt inside a batter's box.
"Ball."
Glad she hadn't swung at that one.
"Ball."
Or at that one, either.
"Strike."
The bat, glued to her shoulder, hadn't
so much as twitched.
"Strike."
At the very least she could go down
swinging…
"Ball."
… instead of standing like a petrified
stump. Hardballs, even if one hit you, hurt less than a called third strike.
"Foul ball!"
Did he hold it? No; her tip bounced in
and out of the catcher's mitt. One more chance to be a 'hitter,' not a
'looker.' One more chance to redeem her odious 0 for 4 on-base percentage.
"Strike three," called.
(Goddamnit!)
The umpire rang her up.
Being mistaken for a boy had a Catch 22, with respect to earning credit. VV,
on the mound, was proud to be a girl; VV, at the plate, was loathe to admit
it, or to have her poor performance excused by her ‘inferior’ gender.
Equality was the status she hankered to achieve. Girls would have to prove
they could play as well as boys, on the same playing field. She hated the
fact that professional sports were segregated. Women competed as pros in
greater numbers, in more and more events, but only against themselves. To
VV, this reality was a concession, an admission that boys were better, and
that girls, in head-to-head competition, would forever be second-class.
"Separate but equal" was the concept, and, in many respects, the goal. But
wasn’t that like ‘apartheid,’ which she was learning about at school?
"Take the world record for running 100 meters, for example. Whoever sets
that record is the world’s fastest human, right?"
"That particular human, at the moment,
is a man. But what would happen if his record got broken by me? I wouldn’t
want the ‘women’s’ gold medal; I’d want his. And that’s what I’m saying;
girls are never going to be equal with boys until we run faster, jump
higher, sink more three-point hoops, and out-slug Barry Bonds without
resorting to steroids."
As usual, VV paced while venting her frustration. The Cracker Jacks had won,
but that was beside the point. The point was made when VV had unpinned her
hair for the Bull Dogs’ final half-inning. That the Cracker Jacks’ closer
was a female came as no surprise to her teammates or to most of the
opponents, but it did widen the eyes of several spectators, whose
reappraisal irked Violetta no end: "Wow, that kid pitches pretty good, for a
girl"—the last three words an affront to her accomplishing the last three
outs.
"What position do you play for the
Cracker Jacks, VV?"
"Haven’t you been listening,
Knucklehead?"
"Sure; you lost."
"We beat them, 5 to 3."
"Then how come you’re complaining?"
VV stopped pacing, cocked her head at
an angle, and studied Seymour steadily, with a hypercritical eye. Having
barged in unannounced sans salutation—not a hi, how are you, nice to see
you—before she launched into her rant, Violetta finally considered her
jaundiced-looking host.
"Are you sick or something?"
In point of fact, he was, and had been for a week. A cold had settled into
"That's for being a martyr. You could
have emailed or texted me. I'd have brought you some soup."
"Why don't you lie down; I'll brew us
some tea."
Touched to the point of having a lump in his throat barely swallow-able,
"Earl Grey suit you, Seymour? Shame
you don't have chamomile. Mom always makes me chamomile, with lemon, when
I'm fighting off the flu."
'Momma,'
Of course a mother thinks highly of
and is predisposed to shield a 'mentally disabled' son; of course she sees
his virtues and none of his nasty little vices; if judges ruled on evidence
presented by 'Mom,' our prisons would be empty.
"We're not buying it,
And remember, I'm cross-referencing
everything you say; whatever 'facts' you impart will be rigorously
confirmed. As far as 'interpretation' goes, shovel your shit at will, but I
wouldn't be too surprised if, in the end, your slant and ours don't jibe."
A kettle's high-pitched whistle summoned VV from the edge of
By the time 'Nurse Vickers' returned, teacups in hand, her patient had
absconded—the sound of a flushing toilet attesting as to where. Subsequent
sounds: water spritzing from a showerhead... a curtain being drawn... runoff
gurgling down a drain... humming-in-the-plumbing... alerted VV to the
process and its progress by which
"At long last we get an unequivocal
admission of the twisted sexuality that landed you in jail! Sick as a dog
and you manifest a hard-on? Crudely phrased, I confess, but who is more
reprehensible, the convict or his chronicler? Starkey, you are warped. The
sight of you makes my skin crawl. The thought of what you pled to would move
a pacifist to take up arms. A machete, for instance, to hack off that which
you deserve to lose, you and your fellow perverts, instead of belling you
all like cats with that useless GPS 'de-vice.' What does it matter where you
are; it's what you're doing that counts. That gizmo fixed to your ankle
deters only socks."
I was really worried Violetta might
get scared if she believed that I would do things grownups aren't supposed
to. With children, I mean. VV talked about sex but not the adult kind. Boys
and girls for her were all about equality. The time when I got sick and she
came to visit was to tell me she saw red because some fans at a baseball
game—where VV was pitching (!)—said how good she threw then spoiled it by
adding "for a girl." I didn't even know that she played ball. Anyway, she
got mad at them but madder at herself because she wanted people to mistake
her for a boy whenever she struck out. VV said she could throw and catch and
field but couldn't hit "worth shit." Sorry. VV liked to cuss, which 'looks'
bad when it's written but when she talked it 'sounded' natural. Or maybe I
got used to it; VV cussed a lot.
I'm not changing the subject, though.
The subject is my you-know-what and how come it got big when VV was
playacting nurse. The prison's Staff Psychologist said that people sick in
bed often get erections and that mine was not abnormal necessarily. What had
I been thinking or imagining was what she wanted to know? Nothing in
particular, I said, which must have disappointed her. Doctor (don't use her
real name) Turnip (don't use a stupid one, either) Summerville used to shake
her head whenever I'd tell her stuff. She'd say, "Seymour, after you, they
must've broken the mold." I guess she meant I didn't answer questions the
way she expected.
The shower Seymour took helped clear
his head and made him feel half human. Should he go to work or call in sick
again were the choices he pondered; VV's serving him tea, reading him
Batman, sitting now in a chair she had positioned next to his freshly
plumped up pillow, posed such a cozy convalescence he was powerless to
resist. Crossing to the closet with a bath towel around his loins, another
draping his torso (thus modestly concealed), Seymour put on pajamas then
climbed back into bed, content beyond his capacity to express it... save to
close his eyes and sigh—an exhalation pregnant with consummate serenity.
Sleep was quick to follow;
We were at the seashore, VV and I,
dressed in our altogether on account of it being so warm. Even the water was
warm, so it couldn't have been near
It started off when VV wanted to ride me like an elephant. We were both sweaty and sandy so first we washed off, then I got down on all fours and VV straddled my neck. She's real little but I'm not very big so it wasn't too comfortable. Especially when she grabbed a hold of my ears and used them to steer. "Ungawa," she kept shouting, pretending to be Tarzan. Suddenly it was just the two of us; the beach was totally empty. The ocean went calm as a lake but there were storm clouds overhead; it stopped being sunny.
My hands and knees were getting sore and my neck was killing me so VV said I could be a lion, instead. She shifted to my back, squeezing my ribs between her legs and using my hair, this time, to steer. We weren't going anywhere, really, just following the water's edge, with VV calling me "Simba," and yanking on my so-called 'mane.' The sky turned purple at this point and it got windy. Breakers began to form.
"Pegasus," VV yelled, "You're now a horse!" And I
was! I was a horse with wings. My hands didn't feel like hands anymore, and
I was taller, not down on my knees. In fact, I couldn't see my hands and
feet at all; I had hooves, instead.. And my backside felt something swishy,
which must have been a tail. "Up," cried VV, "Up, up and away!" like I was
Silver and she was the Lone Ranger, but instead of galloping on the beach we
were soaring toward the clouds, thunder and lightning and hailstones all
around us. CRASH, BANG, BOOM, the sound was deafening, really exciting but
also scary. VV was hollering something but the gale drowned it out. Then,
like a whisper underneath all the noise, VV's voice came clear.
"
She smooched me on the cheek.
I missed work, which got me into
trouble, but it sure was worth it. Believe you me, I'd never, ever had such
an action-packed snooze!
His cold having run its course, his
memory of Violetta's visit gone hazy—her tending him, his hasty shamefaced
shower, and the strange tempestuous dream commingling in his mind like a
based-on-a-true-story fairytale, Seymour waited for his email (and
reiterative prompt: "jpeg finished") to incite VV's answer. Of course, he
could have attached VIOLETTA LADY, forgoing the recipient's in-person
response, but that would have left him guessing, and, worst of all, worrying
lest VV take offence. The more he looked at his handiwork, the thicker grew
his doubts. Perhaps the projection's nakedness was too risqué, thus
inappropriate for a minor. Except that VV had bared her breasts in front of
him, with nary a bashful twinge. He hadn't 'enhanced' the image, as was his
wont, but maybe the perky nipples and dumpling-esque pubes were improperly
provocative. Adding underpants and a bra somehow seemed perverse.
Rather late, wouldn't you say? Not that any intimate behavior fares well in
court. Imagine, for a moment, how play-by-play accounts—of acts that two
consenting adults might engage in—would sound to a magistrate, Jeff and
Patty Grimes a good case in point. Legal sex—yours, mine, Starkey's alone in
his shower—reads raw in transcript. Which is not to exonerate illegal sex
and its twisted practitioners. Submit for psychoanalysis
How can I 'divine' this book ends
controversially? The same way it is written before it is composed, or read
before it is legible. The same way we are dead the instant we are born as a
foregone conclusion. Cycles predetermine cycles. The serpent eats its tail.
"I am the Lord thy God, thou shalt not
have strange gods before Me."
Like most believers,
Angels live with God up in Heaven.
They have wings that really work because angels can fly. That's how they got
to Heaven in the first place; they flew. Satan and all his angels got their
wings clipped for committing mortal sins. That's how come they fell and have
to live forever down in Hell. Purgatory is a place in between where sinners
have to wait—sometimes for an awfully long time—before they get forgiven and
God let's them "ascend"; that means rise. Limbo is the place where babies go
if they don't get baptized before they die. They float on clouds way up
high. It's a lot nicer than Purgatory but not as nice as Heaven on account
of God's not there. I wouldn't mind going to Limbo but I'll probably end up
in Purgatory where it's almost as hot as Hell and you can only stand it
because it's temporary. I've made Acts of Contrition, of course, to get my
sins erased, but "Satan is forever busy," as the saying goes, and I still do
bad things.
No; not the ones I said I did.
Maybe; if you'll write it exactly the
way I tell it.
Contrary to what she told the "Principal of Vice," Violetta's home-life was
far from "fine." True, Phil had ceased his most egregious assaults on his
stepdaughter's person, having not laid a finger on her since landing that
backhand to "the brat's" upper lip. Assaults on her psyche, however, had
persisted, and, of late, grown perverse, due in part to the family's tight
living quarters wherein walls were thin and sightlines unobstructed through
doors left ajar—'their' bedroom door, in particular, affording VV the
spectacle of Mom and Stepdad in flagrante delicto, the latter facing outward
and catching the curious onlooker's disapproving glare; grinning, Phil was,
as if gratified by the circumstance of his virility on display, winking when
VV wanted to turn away but had forced herself to look, fascinated and
repulsed by the reproductive coupling, hating him who was penetrating her
mother like a boar impales a sow, grunts and squeals constrained but
nonetheless audible (given the threshold's careless gape), souring the
spectator's stomach with such severity as to make her truly nauseous, while
Phil, with soundless enunciation, mouthed "Want some?" then climaxed—his
subsequent lip-sync "You're next" cutting VV to the quick; whether actual or
imagined, Stepdad's menace sent Violetta packing...
... out of the frying pan, into the
fire of Seymour Starkey's lair.
knock knock-a-knock-knock, knock knock
Once again it was evident that
VIOLETTA LADY was not on her namesake's mind. Agitated-verging-on-hostile,
the visitor fidgeted, all the while making a cage of her host's cramped
environs.
"Can't you wear those pants like a normal human being?" Eying
Wearing a tie was regulation; wearing a bowtie was acceptable, if a tad
anachronistic; wearing pants well above the waist was merely for want of a
belt, which
"Don't you ever clean this dump? The
dust is inches thick. Yuck, and sticky, too! It coats this crap like
lacquer." VV plowed a path through an assemblage of action hero toys, their
poses fixed in place by a patina of gunk. "And what's with all this kid's
stuff; clowns and puppets and masks and trolls? It's like some retard's
romper room. Why don't you grow up?"
Unlike previous salvos, this one hit its mark.
Self-concerned, Violetta kept up her
siege, lashing, aiming at Seymour specifically, if plagued by another spur.
"I suppose you did a porn job on my
portrait—yes, I got your emails—made me into a slut from one of your
favorite websites. Well, I don't care about tits anymore. If mine don't
grow, I'm glad. Who needs boys for ANYTHING! Boys are vulgar! They all turn
into men! And men are filthy rotten assholes! Men like you! Who just want
sex! I'm only nine years old, you Cretin, you Feebleminded Perv'! You don't
like baseball; you don't like looking up words; you don't like reading books
except your stupid comics. Why don't you just die here, all alone! I'll bet
not a single person would care! I'll bet your mother wouldn't come to her
Pinhead's fucking funeral!"
If neighbors left and right 'maybe'
overheard this uproar, neighbors downstairs 'assuredly' did, and might have
dialed 911 had the tirade lasted any longer, or had every sentence shouted
been absolutely clear. Neither being the case, no one got involved.
Meanwhile, cowed by VV's ferocity
while ignorant of its impetus, Seymour stammered a humble but earnest
repudiation.
"I do too like baseball."
That did it, snapped Violetta out of
her misdirected tantrum and made her blink into recognition the difference
between Seymour and Phil, between the man she had befriended and the man she
gravely feared—Phil, whose gross libido had sabotaged her mother, Phil whose
innuendo and veiled an unchaste threat, and Phil whose subsequent denials
would doom a true-blue confidante while depriving VV (as a broken-marriage
casualty and troubled only-child) of him with whom she yearned to be
reunited.
"
"Sorry, Seymour," Violetta murmured
into the polyester pleats of his hiked up drawers, then felt the pressure
increase, ever so gently, where his palms conjointly pressed. "I didn't mean
it; any of it. The problem's not you, it's Phil."
"I think she saw us going at it."
"Who?"
"Who else; your daughter. Stood right
there at the door..."
"We left it open!?"
"... like watching a DVD."
"You didn't think to cover us up, or
to pause, or maybe cease?"
"I suppose I could have pulled out;
wouldn't that have been worse? She caught us as I climaxed."
"Up my ass?!"
"All she saw was you with your back
arched, me bringing up the rear."
"Good grief! Did she react; was she
upset?"
"Violetta? Cold as ice. Or 'cool as a
cucumber'—mine erupting 'wherever' it may or may not have been planted."
"This isn't funny, Phil. She maybe
acts and talks like an adult, but she's a child and a none-too-stable one.
Seeing things she shouldn't could have serious repercussions."
"Chances are she's seen much more than the peepshow we provided. Ever check
her hard drive for sites that youngster surfs?"
"No; I trust she's prudent."
"As opposed to prudish (?), which she is not! Trust me; your girl-genius has
no doubt seen it all."
"Wow! I'll really look like this by
the time I turn eighteen?"
VV stared with wonderment at the jpeg on display, its resolution high,
outlines crisp, mid-tones subtle, shadows dense, every technical aspect
accomplished to perfection, inviting her to focus on the forecast in and of
itself, flattering yet conceivable, 'almost' beautiful therefore real,
fostering no illusions about supermodel attractiveness; Seymour,
uncharacteristically, had included sundry 'flaws': freckles had been
'culled' but nonetheless were evident, alongside those superimposed on
grownup fair-skinned extremities, in patterns mirroring VV's with
awe-inspiring accuracy. Nothing short of wizardry could explain the details
that transformed traits in-the-bud, as it were, into traits in-full-bloom.
The mole near her left breast's nipple was an eerie example, retaining its
dimension while proportions around it swelled, the fact of its inclusion
ostensibly inexplicable, until VV recollected baring, once, her chest—though
she might have been less brazen had its contours rivaled these, laudable
less for bulk than for their bouncy brand of pertness that matched her
disposition... if not her expectations. How could she play Triple A ball,
share a locker room with her teammates, with boobs more akin to cupcakes
than to the crepes she sported now? Suddenly
"What if I took testosterone; could I
keep my 'bean-pole' figure?"
"I thought you were worried that…"
"My tits would never sprout; I was.
But now I'm worried about Fuckface Phil and his incestuous designs?"
"What does in...?"
"'Sex between relatives.' Cousins with
cousins, brothers with sisters, mothers with sons, and fathers…"
"With daughters?"
"Very good, Dumbbell; you're finally
keeping pace."
"But isn't Phil your stepfather?"
"Quite right; nix 'incestuous,' substitute 'lascivious,' meaning
lustful—and, in his case, to excess. What I need is a reliable deterrent
while I plot that Scumbag's downfall."
VV cocked her head and took a long
dispassionate look at VIOLETTA LADY. How could it be used to facilitate her
goal?
I think it might be apt to interject a caution.
VV sure was wowed when she saw herself
growed (sic) up. Grown up...
(Stop that, Jack. I'm trying
extra-special hard to say things properly. Please don't try to spoil it by
making me sound dumb. I'd do as much for you—I promise I would—if you stood
in my shoes.)
... Except she thinks that having to
wear a bra might keep her off a team. VV loves to play baseball almost as
much as using big words. She wants me to make a print—a really good
one—which means "suitable for framing." I said, sure, but, if she showed it
to her parents, they'd maybe get upset. She said, not to worry, just do it
"discreetly," and she'd do the same. Believe you me, I was proud she wanted
a copy. And I can have one, too, so long as there's—"deniability," VV calls
it—wherever I get them made.
Even to the casual observer, Violetta
Vickers' full-length nude morph would have spurred a double-take. Not
because it looked like a child's head stitched to a grownup's body
(regardless how imperceptible were its sutures) but rather because the
figure, as a whole, was unsettlingly convincing. It either depicted a young
woman with a remarkably immature face or a young child with a remarkably
mature physique. And it flip-flopped in the manner of a line-drawn cube: one
view hollow, one view solid; a girl, a maiden alternating—both providing a
turn-on for the clerk at Giclee Prints.
"Dude... Dude... DUDE!"
"What?"
"Come and take a look at this."
"At what? I'm busy."
"No, you really have to look."
"I'm busy!"
"She's got a real sweet pussy. Just a
wisp of hair. Orange; up top, as well. No kidding; she's a redhead."
"This better be good."
"See?"
"It's a fake."
"What do you mean 'It's a fake'? I
blew it up; not a pixel misaligned. Isn't she hot?"
"If you're into fucking
kindergartners."
"When have you ever seen a
kindergartner with a pair of tits like that? If those were plums, I'd chew
them, right off her 'speckled' chest; freckles, Dude! I'm a sucker for
leopard-skinned ladies; give me a girl with spots."
"To each his own. Can I go back to
work now?"
"Fine. Leave her to me. Guy ordered
two. I've got dibs on engineering both."
What weighed most heavily on Seymour Starkey (alias Victor Vanderhoff, for
the purpose of picking up the prepaid-in-cash prints) was how dull his life
appeared to be whenever VV wasn't in it. Which was the vast majority of his
regimental time. Having spent the greater portion of thirty odd years
avoiding people prone to making fun of him,
"Are you any good at drawing stuff,
Nitwit? Other than with a mouse?"
"I can color. And I can stay inside
the lines. Would that be any help for...?"
"What I have in mind? Possibly. Maybe
we could make a stencil. Ever see those warning signs they put on hazardous
materials?"
"Like triangles?"
"Yup, like triangles. Know what a
coccyx is?"
He shrugged.
She turned.
"Here's mine." She pulled down her
shorts. "This is where we're going to post our 'BETTER WATCH OUT' placard."
"Is that what you want written:
'better watch out'?"
She hitched back up her drawers.
"Words to that effect. You with me or
against me?"
Seymour, of course, acquiesced, and
thereby turned the key of his San Quentin prison cell, his future home (once
transferred from SF County Jail)—though acts not yet committed would
determine 'for what duration,' and whether that key, in the Interest of
Public Safety, should have been thrown away.
"VV, hold still."
The design upon which they had settled
was an amber colored triangle with a black border, a three-blade
propeller-like symbol, likewise black, centered inside, with the letters
C.P.S., one letter per blade, superimposed in white—this latter feature a
variation that Violetta reckoned would give her tormentor pause, and, just
in case he needed the caution spelled out, Seymour was to write, in a
rainbow arc, above: CHILD PROTECTIVE SERVICES plus the agency's
REPORT-AN-ABUSE phone number.
To realize this 'tattoo,' with
hard-edged precision, meaning 'clear-cut legibility,' VV lay face-down
across Seymour's kitchenette table, her toes at one end, her head (supported
by a pillow) at the other, her T-shirt rolled up to her ribs, her shorts and
panties pulled down past her bum—atop which Seymour rested his wrist and
forearm to steady his drawing-hand.
"Can't you go any faster, Slowpoke?"
"Not if you keep wiggling. We're using
ink; it won't erase; I've got to be extra-special careful."
"Well, move that lamp up, will you?
It's toasting my behind."
"Serves you right," she scoffed as
"My magnum what?"
"Your 'prime achievement as an
artist,' Slughead; your 'masterpiece.'"
"That was awfully smelly; what did you
eat for lunch?"
"I 'skipped' lunch, Picasso, so you
could autograph my ass. How's about you finish before I vent another
stinker?"
What Seymour could not know, unless
his taskmaster chose to tell him, was how his ministrations were making VV
feel: ticklish, at first; tattoos self-inscribed versus those rendered by
someone else triggered a fit of giggles she had been hard-pressed to
restrain, until a new sensation overtook her. Deeper, much less giddy
stimulation, sent a drone throughout her loins—not unlike the type induced
by energetic swinging, yet subtler, demanding scarcely any effort from her
(beyond keeping it to herself), its passive nature, in fact, intensifying
the pleasure as it toyed with her perception of responses linked to sex, a
connection immaturity still held at bay, details vague, yet one that tapped
a root in VV's outstretched body, inciting rhythmic quivers at a source she
could not name—sustained the while her flesh and each Sharpie pen point
shared confidential contact.
"There. Finished."
"Finally! Show me in the mirror."
"It's a shame that no one will see this... other than Filthy-minded Phil,
the person I want least to be ogling my posterior. Do you think it'll do the
trick, put a damper on his sex drive?"
Seymour studied the sign, then VV's
naked fanny—struck for the second time by its compact, half-pint charm, her
exposing it initially to exhibit the so-called "coccyx" (a term as
unfamiliar as its arm's-length proximity) had excited a reaction of which he
felt ashamed, one that now revisited (in the guise of a guilty hard-on),
advising him to be led not into temptation, to ask the Lord's forgiveness,
and henceforth to 'avoid the near occasions of sin.'
"Amen. You touched her, right? Her
panties were down? You admit to getting a boner? And now you expect us to
believe that nothing 'worse' took place? She gathered up her pens and
toddled off home downstairs?
Listen, Starkey, cut the crap. 'Oral sex performed on a minor under the age
of ten.' Ring a bell? Wasn't that a charge to which you plead 'no contest'?
When did that despicable act take place? I don't mean to rush you; tell us
what you did in your own sweet time; but do include the x-rated truth
whenever applicable—which must have been more often than you've deigned to
divulge thus far. You're either stalling or sanitizing. Neither suits my
purposes. Readers want an exposé, a glimpse at the mind of a pedophile—with
all the lurid particulars such a prurient peep affords. Most of what you've
told us could be classified as 'quaint,' and 'quaint' does not a
child-molester's inside-story sell."
I'm supposed to hurry up and talk
about the bad stuff. That's what happened with the judge when my case was
heard in court but not in front of a jury. You only get a jury trial if you
plead innocent. Then witnesses get called, sometimes lots, and that takes
time and costs money. Lawyers like it better when their clients say, 'I did
it,' so they can decide 'did what' and how long you spend in jail. I
'almost' got sentenced to twenty years, the amount I 'could' have served if
a jury had found me guilty, but I got mine reduced on account of I
cooperated. I also got out sooner because of 'good behavior' and because
Doctor Summerville determined I was 'no longer a threat to society.' I never
felt like a threat to society but I was glad she thought I'd improved.
Prison isn't a place that makes many people better.
Anyway, this is not about punishment;
it's only about certain crimes, the ones I said I did but never got the
chance to tell about.
Intrigued by the structure Phil had
likened to a cherry, VV did some research, starting with definitions: 3a:
HYMEN b: VIRGINITY, and ending with a thorough self-examination, to
uncover "a fold of mucous membrane partly closing the orifice" of her
vagina, disturbing, in this process, another point of interest, which took
but a superficial touch to agreeably arouse. More research, additional
definitions, and a concentrated course of intimate trial and error, rewarded
Violetta with a replay of sensations that awakened her eroticism fully,
culminating—presto—in the most ecstatic yet... which advocated further (and
frequent) variations, PLEASURE the end pursued and consistently achieved,
all endeavors 'other' left wanting for attention (with one indulgent episode
secretly observed).
Using her Cabbage Patch doll's head
for a fulcrum, VV lay atop it, face downward, elbows tucked along her ribs,
knees apart only slightly and poised as if to flex, her posture that of an
inchworm disinterested in progress, but very much bent on going through the
motions at a palpitating pace: respiration breathy, pulse pronounced, pores
percolating sweat, focus so transfixed she failed to notice her bedroom door
crack open, or the sliver of light that illumined her concentrated
shenanigans; and she surely didn't notice him who squinted through the
fissure with an unbecoming eye, rapt by the titillating sight of a
masturbating pre-teen, tempted, were the youngster less of a tattletale, to
offer her some help, substitute his tongue for whatever she was grinding, or
introduce his prick to her undeveloped twat...
Too late; the brazen bitch had climaxed with a shudder and a yelp. So much
for the myth that 'tweens' were pre-orgasmic. Phil had reconnoitered that
his spouse's smartass daughter was a nymphet-in-the-making who, with a
mentor's patient intercession, could slake the fiercest thirst for dewdrop
sexuality; his, for instance, which VV had detected before their first
imbroglio, when Phil hit on his stepchild; later he merely hit her, as in
spanked her, as in showed her who was boss; if she didn't want to be
'allies,' she'd regret their being enemies… not that he would ever act on
any of his impulses. Men who victimized children, Phil considered to be
wimps. Yet 'perceiving' kids as sexy was a far cry from 'molesting' them.
'Thinking' was not 'doing.' Manly thoughts were coarse. Manly men who were
civilized, however, managed to behave. Especially in the presence of a
cultivated-wife—a single-mother-cultivated-wife, in Sophie's case. She and
Wayne (the faggot) conceived VV out-of-wedlock. Never told her, either, or
bothered to tie the knot. Legally, then, Phil was Sophie's first husband.
Yet Violetta 'inherited' her genetic father's surname. Sophie had used it,
too, while 'pretending' to be legitimate; "for appearances sake," she
explained. The truth was she had hedged. As had Wayne Paul Vickers, though
eventually he proposed. Sophie turned him down. Which must have pissed him
off royally; big shot architect, rolling in dough at the time, condo in 
Would he act on impulse, claim
her hymen for himself, warp her to his will by dint of a Stepdad's
authority? With the question unresolved and the stripe of light
extinguished, Phil, having reclosed the door, skulked away muttering.
"Absolutely not!"
"How come?"
"I can't afford to be seen with you."
"Not because you're a retard,
Thickwit. It's Mr. Cunningham's cunning that's put me on my guard."
"But what has Mr. Cunningham got to do
you playing with baseball?"
·
he pretended not to know her.
"Check."
·
sat on the opposition's side.
"Check."
·
dressed in neutral clothing that would not draw undue attention.
"Check."
·
and covered his goofy hair and super-goofy eyes—which meant
crossing his heart and hoping to die if he failed to wear a baseball cap and
sunglasses.
"Check, check."
·
and kept them on throughout.
"I promise!"
"Okay, you can come. 1pm next Saturday,
VV's stepped-up studies cum extracurricular activities added to her
word-stock a plethora of terms. From Autoerotic to Zygote, she memorized
definitions. Aureole, Buttocks, Clitoris; each body-part had a name, and
most had capabilities she was eager to investigate, given the just desserts
of erstwhile explorations. Benefits recorded and pleasure pathways mapped, a
crop of new tattoos appeared on her anatomy, rendering Violetta a 3-D
Technicolor diagram (as far as she could reach), her privates serving as
palette and erogenous playground both—jeopardized and enhanced by
twice-daily showers, meaning soap was as much a lubricant as it was a
liability.
Exiting from one such masturbatory
cleansing, VV patted-dry, and though this action left no ink on her towel it
did suggest that outlines ought to be renewed, a time-consuming operation
she was happy to perform when neither Mom nor Nemesis clamored for the
bathroom. Unannounced (and of course uninvited) the latter now barged in.
"Whoa; what have we here?"
Her move to cover up, though quick,
had not been quick enough to prevent Phil's getting an eyeful. Shocked by
his very presence (home from work early, evidently) and frightened by the
smell of liquor she detected on his close-quarters breath, VV made a beeline
for the sanctuary of her room, a survival strategy as futile as it was
inopportune, affording Phil a glimpse at her backside in retreat, which
prompted him to lumber, in a none-too-straight pursuit, and to disregard her
insubstantial effort to bar forced entry.
The big day arrived to find
A Giants cap pulled low by its brim, Ray-Bans shielding his eyes, generic
jeans and T-shirt, nondescript belt, Converse sneakers, white cotton socks,
and a navy-blue un-zippered jacket (sans decals) labeled Seymour Starkey
"Mister Anonymous." He would go unnoticed. Provided he behaved. Meaning no
spontaneous outbursts of enthusiasm for VV or her team—fans of which were
seated beyond the opposite All-Stars' dugout (a bench half-caged by an
open-ended section of chain-link fence). Turf, at
With players amassed and asked to arrange themselves on the field,
introductions were made for each team's starting line-up, Violetta Vickers,
inexplicably, not among those named. Nor was she an alternate. Nor a
bystander. Nor anywhere to be seen.
Instead of swinging a bat, Violetta
sat swinging. Instead of pitching a ball, she pitched back and forth, then
twisted the chains above her… braiding them… When she let them go she spun…
unwinding with a jolt… her legs like a ragdoll's. Twisting the chains again,
in the other direction, she wound them even tighter… let them go… and spun…
the jolt more wrenching this time when the chains reverted to parallel…
momentum insufficient for them to wind themselves… her incentive unapparent…
her disposition glum… her downcast features deadpan—if expressive in their
abject expressionless-ness—the fact of their being fixed indicative of some
void, that left an echo where glee once dwelt, cast a shadow over
brightness, and drained indomitable vigor to its desiccated dregs. Robbed by
what, by whom, her gloom kept undisclosed.
Mrs. Grimes was quick to note the change in her smartest pupil. Physically
speaking, VV's arms and legs were devoid of 'graffiti.' No slogan, epithet,
or pictograph marred the youngster's pasty skin—pallid irrespective its
surfeit of freckles. In fact, her freckles looked faded, like she had tried
to scrub them off. Yet the flesh that showed, far from appearing cleansed,
bore a waterlogged paleness, as if it had soaked overlong in the confines of
a tub. Another visible alteration was the lipstick VV wore. Make-up was
discouraged, at school, but not per se forbidden. Mrs. Grimes could not
recall Violetta ever having worn any. Today, however, in vivid contrast to
her colorless complexion, VV's lips were scarlet.
Psychologically speaking, the redhead
seemed depressed. This was more pronounced than her meretricious mouth
(which uttered only uncommunicative monosyllables). The aura encircling VV
had gone from spirited to bleak. Like a star when it expires, her luminosity
had contracted, flickering now and then, yet on the verge of dying out.
Instead of welcoming one less source of classroom aggravation (Violetta's
funk, if that's what it was, having tranquilized her contentiousness), Patty
Grimes regretted her student's impassivity. It reminded her of a famous
prizefight stopped when one of its contestants cried "No mas, no mas" and
his corner man threw in the towel. Patty loved a good scrap—between worthy
adversaries (recent scuffles with Jeff having tweaked her taste for combat,
hand-to-hand, fist-to-fist skirmishes wherein anal rings had undergone
mutual infiltration, abusive and erotic, as sphincter muscles strained,
struggling to contain either party's 'punch,' tender tissues stretched then
lustily contracted with colonic fervor, hers, compared to his, elastically
capacious, his, compared to hers, inflating an erection that Patty bade him
force past the glottis of her throat, where spastic peristalsis swallowed
his spurting cum).
Inappropriate subtext though the
teacher's might be deemed (a classroom is not a bedroom and neither should
overlap), how find fault with a person's private thoughts if actions fail to
follow? Patty Grimes, regardless her raunchy sex life, noticed her student's
depression, wanted to remediate, and to that end asked VV to "stay, please"
after school. "No, you're not being punished"; compliance would be
"voluntary."
But when the final bell rang and class en masse was dismissed—her peers
filing out with nary a backward glance—VV rose, gathered her books, wedged
them under her arm, and mimed the words 'No thank you' upon making her
somber exit...
... proceeding home to the solace of
her solitary swing... setting aside her schoolwork... buttocks hugged by the
seat... she twisted the chains above her… braiding them… When she let them
go she spun… unwinding with a jolt… her legs like a ragdoll's. Twisting the
chains again, in the other direction, she wound them even tighter… let them
go… and spun… the jolt more wrenching this time when the chains reverted to
parallel… momentum insufficient for them to wind themselves… every
repetition like a trance-inducing mantra... numbing dread emotions (?)
disengaging hateful thoughts (?) separating spirit from bodily desecration
(?) twisting... spinning... twisting... spinning... lost in a dizzy vortex
wherein memories fond and foul released disruptive sway and lulled their
liberated captive into self-subscribed forgetfulness.
Thus it was that
"VV, you alright?" He knew she was not. He took a step, then froze... wary
lest she scold him for approaching her in public. Nobody else was about, but
windows equaled eyes, and drapes like lids were open throughout the
surrounding complex. Better wait for the go-ahead than to hazard getting
thumped. Perhaps she hadn't heard him; except he knew she had. The world was
closing in on her, he sensed, like a winding sheet of mesh, porously
un-protective, insecurely snug, promising insulation while delivering frigid
solitude—happenstances
"I looked for you at the baseball
game."
She dangled—no response—her toes in
contact with a section of cement directly under the swing, just enough to
anchor her apathetic motion, former spins reduced to a sluggish side to
side, her list resembling a lifebuoy when the surrounding sea has lapsed
into temporary doldrums.
"Want some soup? I'll go heat it up. It's chilly here in the shade. 'The
coldest winter I ever spent was a summer in
Enacting his retreat as might a rebuffed stranger—Violetta's body language
hardly suggesting otherwise—
... from which he surveyed (having set
the soup to simmer, its surface no more animated than...) the brooder down
below, whose molecules (too) might be moving, heating, as memories
reconvened, soon to bubble up in fiery agitation.
Chances are Phil only made her bathe. The man was tipsy, but he wasn't
incapacitated. Stepdads get short shrift when it comes to understanding
pressures certain situations foster. We have yet to learn the details;
That said, I think it's becoming obvious what Starkey is up to. Phil is
Satan incarnate; Seymour's the Angel Gabriel. 'Chicken noodle soup,' 'milk
and cookies'? The next thing you know he'll be plying Violetta with homemade
apple pie. Maybe
And having said that, how to square it with my underlying assertion that
this book already 'is,' that I found it fully written, despite its pages'
'seeming' blankness, and that I know (as surely as you know—being free to
skip ahead) everything that happens unto the story's finale? It could be
argued, I suppose, that once conceiving a cast of characters, an author
merely records how they 'inevitably' behave; set the scene, and actors will,
on cue, perform their given roles. Invention or precognition? Does a writer
'imagine' the prose, or does it proceed of itself, once the seed has been
planted? And, like a chestnut does not a maple tree grow, does each seed
predetermine the ultimate offshoot, bringing into fruition only features of
a kind?
One more 'aside,' if the Reader will forbear, is that I continue to write
left-handed while 'composing' or 'transcribing' this a priori
work-in-progress. If nothing else, my dexterity has improved (speed, alas,
still lags) but something more significant may have been 'emancipated'—a
psychosomatic phenomenon in reverse, whereby emotions are being influenced
by a physical 'aberration' with 'Mister Bad Hand,' at long last, flexing his
stunted 'inner child.'
"All I did was toss her in the tub and scour off her nonsense. I might have
been a little rough; she fought like a shrew. This constant moping around of
hers, though, is strictly VV pouting. I'm the villain always; she's always
in the right—which I'm frankly sick and tired of. Why not ship her off to
"
"So you've told me, many times before. But Deadbeat Dad is getting off too
easily; he doesn't pay a nickel of child support. Meanwhile, we stay poor,
constantly having to 'update' your daughter—who's worth her weight in
software."
"Most of what she asks for..."
"Is crap she doesn't need. Gadgets
have undermined know-how, in this culture. Kids can't make, or, Heaven
forbid, fix a single thing they own. They're all thumbs, figuratively and
literally, competent to text-message and test-message only. Ask them how
stuff works and all they can say is 'Huh(?).'"
"What did she 'tattoo' that got you so
upset?"
"The usual; foul language and
stick-figure hieroglyphics. Why we—you—let her deface herself is why she
treats you so smugly and me like… What's her favorite slur; 'A steaming
piece of excrement'? I laid down the law; ALL TATTOOING STOPS. What we're
seeing now is her retaliatory sulk. Trust me, Sophie, she'll get over it.
Let the spoiled brat stew."
knock knock-a-knock-knock, knock knock
The child awaiting
"How come you decided not to pitch but
didn't let me know?"
"Do you believe in Santa Claus,
Seymour?"
Thrown by Violetta's question in lieu of an answer (the statements were
unrelated, as far as he could tell),
"I used to, when I was little."
"Not anymore, though?"
He paused, reluctant to be the source
of a child's disillusionment. If VV had her doubts, far be it from him to
add confirmation. Following her example, he answered with a question.
"Do you believe in
"Not since I was three. That's when I
did the computation. Too many chimneys divided by insufficient time equaled
someone wasn't telling me the truth. I stopped asking Santa Claus for things
and started asking God."
"God's a better listener."
"But gives no better odds for getting
what you want."
"Maybe, what you’re asking for, God
doesn’t want to give."
This had been Seymour's conclusion after countless prayers unanswered;
intelligence, as a gift, would forever be denied. This was not a conclusion
Violetta would accept—though she, perhaps, was praying for something less
ennobling. Whatever the specifics,
"Is there really a Hell, or is that a
fable, too?"
Once again,
"God is not a fable. There’s a Heaven
and there’s a Hell; there’s even a place called Purgatory, and a stranger
one called Limbo."
"So where do children go if they do
filthy dirty things because they’re forced to?"
"If someone has to do bad stuff on
account of being forced to, it’s almost like they didn’t do bad stuff at
all."
"So where do they get sent?"
"Limbo," he asserted with a pretense
of authority—braced for VV’s predictably terse reply.
"Why?"
"Limbo’s where the babies go, the ones
that don’t get baptized. They can’t go up to Heaven but it’s mean to make
them suffer. Instead they stay in a beautiful place, except it’s missing
God, where everybody lives in peace, happily ever after."
"Sounds like elves at the North Pole."
"Huh?"
Considering the source, VV took this description with a heavy grain of salt,
yet she nonetheless reasoned: if stupid people believed in God, did that
cast doubt on God's existence? If stupid people believed in gravity, did the
ground give up its hold? VV's answer to both was a perspicacious 'no.' And
Limbo did sound attractive. Not that she liked babies. But 'happy' babies
were a lot less apt to cry or poop and pee their pants; Limbo babies might
not even need diapers. Implausible as the prospect seemed, inane as were the
particulars, VV wanted there really to be a place where every wrong got
righted, where good deeds got rewarded, and where wholesome kindness
reigned. She also wanted there to be a place where evil-doers
roasted—nonstop—especially those who overpowered the weak and imposed their
wicked will, then threatened to do unspeakable things if their victims ever
tattled.
"Just get me to limbo."
"You bet I would, but it isn't up to
me. Where a soul gets sent is up to…"
"Ol'
"You look awfully pale. How's about
that soup?"
Were Phil to acknowledge any
deep-seated yen for subjecting immature privates to acts adjudged 'obscene,'
it might be admitting his delight in performing cunnilingus, enhanced
tenfold when his partner's pliant pubes had been waxed or closely shaved.
Thus all the more rhapsodic if there were no hair to begin with?
To nuzzle such a nubile organ, to
engulf it with his mouth, to insinuate his tongue and lap at zones
erogenous, savoring the sap, once tapped, encouraging its flow, gratified by
the undeniable fact that a nine-year-old could climax, could ooze in
contradiction to her disingenuous protests, could squirm with spastic
quivers irrespective fear embedded by a merciless depiction of adverse
consequences should she:
A. keep resisting,
B. disallow future trysts, and
C. tell a solitary soul about what was
done to her or how she must reciprocate
was behavior Phil forbore, when push
came to shove.
Amazing, though, how the body could
overrule (or try to) restrictions placed by conscience, shutting out shame
and scruple when genitalia got involved...
bent on pure sensation like the
breakthrough gasp of tissue that admitted, with delicious tightness, skin
turned livid, flesh turned hard, throbbing with a pounding pulse so
thoroughly invasive that the pain induced intensified both the penetrator's
pleasure and the 'penetratee's' alarm, filled the former with unprecedented
lust and the latter with viral semen that infected when injected, that
despoiled what had been chaste, and left a slippery-slimy legacy of
innocence-corrupted…
or would have, Phil conceded, had he gratified his urge, an allegation none,
to date, had avowed.
Okay, okay; it doesn't look good, I admit, for Phil McNulty. But thoughts, I
repeat, are not actions. Words don't constitute deeds. Fantasies are merely
figments to which everyone is entitled—though Phil's subconscious maybe
steps across some fundamental line that separates 'normalcy' from
'psychosis,' and therefore makes us cringe. And clamor for his arrest. And
insist that he be jailed. And maybe advocate castration as the only
deterrent that would keep our children safe. Or maybe we should execute the
fucker and call it one less problem! Sex offenders are pernicious, prone to
recidivism, and never to be trusted. Sex offenders are anathema, walking
libido-bombs villainously ticking. Defuse them, chop off their balls, and
don't be overly squeamish about making a few mistakes. Collateral damage, in
their case, is perfectly acceptable—provided we eradicate the worst of the
worst. Whether Phil or Seymour or both abused Violetta, may your gavel fall
decisively!
Patty and Jeffrey Grimes had
matriculated, that is moved from belts and neckties to harnesses and whips.
Owing to their respective work schedules (Jeffrey often stayed late and came
home exhausted; Patty nightly graded papers and labored over lesson plans,
neither task conducive to being 'in the mood') 'sessions,' as the couple
called them, typically were initiated shortly after dawn, when Jeff awoke
with a reliable piss-proud hard-on that Patty craved to soothe... slowly...
sometimes excruciatingly slowly... preserving it with a cock ring... cutting
off the exit route for its pent-up store of pee, which likewise shut off
ejaculate, both emissions competing, with alternating urgency, for immediate
release... anywhere and everywhere... depending upon the orifice Patty's
bindings might display... mouth or cunt or ass, it really didn't matter;
yes, it did, so long as one got the job done, and got it done fast... except
'fast' was not the object of these elaborate forms of intercourse, that both
participants wished to prolong, to sustain, to make excitement tremble on a
teeter-totter edge... and then to pass, at last, onto points of no return
for each imminent orgasm... climaxes cresting, breaking simultaneously, two
become one... just in time for a riptide to drag the pair offshore, lift
them onto a wave, and send them crashing in separate directions: Jeff to his
real estate office; Patty to her classroom...
...wherein she confronted thirty-odd results of similarly 'unsafe sex,' each
fifth-grader the upshot and the offshoot of unsung copulation. None of which
the students or their satiated teacher thought it prudent to declaim. Except
in sanitized language sanctioned by the Board of Education, notorious for
taking out the fun, replacing oos and ahs with cross-section diagrams,
limiting scores of voluptuous variations to a single dreary theme, stressing
function over flexible use of forms that fit together in common-to-shocking
combinations. Mrs. Grimes, surveying her devil's spawn, could not help but
wonder 'what act bred each' (?)—suspecting most of the misbegotten lot had
been sired by Mephistopheles... with Violetta Vickers leading the
Archangel's throng.
Lately, after a remarkably sedate
period, followed by a week of taciturnity as grim as it was mute, VV had
reemerged as Problem-Child Number One, rallying the allegiance of every boy
in class.
Heretofore, it had been the girls who held Violetta in high
esteem, prizing her superior wit and feminist sensibilities—qualities lost
on the males, who gave to her a wide berth, indifferently or charily. With
the advent of VV in lipstick, however, all that transformed.
Boys now
turned, eyeballs following noses—lids and nostrils flared—gawking, sniffing,
their prepubescence wooed like bumblebees by honeysuckle, positively
hovering wherever VV sat, or stood, or strolled, or mysteriously disappeared
in a vacant lot off campus where truants were known to congregate, biding
their time until school let out, joined then by those bold enough to defy
the NO TRESPASSING signs, to smoke, sniff glue, or drink vodka under cover
of a broken-down 'service station'—worthy of retaining that sex-suggestive
name as amorous neophytes frequented its dilapidated toilets.
Popularity aside, the antics
demonstrated recently (that rankled Mrs. Grimes most) was a CLICK VV made on
the roof of her mouth whenever she detected a superfluous 'like' (a word
that veritably peppered the hapless schoolmarm's everyday speech).
"VV, would you stop that, please?"
"I will if you will, Mrs. Grimes."
"You will in any case, Miss Violetta Vickers."
Using VV's full name was a warning; it
usually meant 'comply or visit the Vice Principal' (whose inquests Violetta
would just as soon avoid).
"'If Columbus thought he was like
sailing straight for like the Indies and ran smack dab into land like in
between, wouldn't it be like natural for him to sort of believe he'd reached
his goal?'" VV quoted. "I think I CLICKED you four times during that like,
like, like, like sentence, Mrs. Grimes, and I should have CLUCKED you for a
'sort of' but my tongue got tuckered out. Those words don't contribute to
the meaning. Why not leave them out and spare us all my editing?"
Glib was VV's verbatim example and
off-the-cuff critique, further fueling her teacher's slow-burn ire; the fact
that, from a usage standpoint, faults found were legitimate, merely served
to deepen the guilty party's pique.
"Why don't you go straight to Mr. Cunningham and spare us all your
sauciness?"
Finger pointing North-Northeast, namely out of the classroom door, Patty
Grimes ejected Violetta for the umpteenth time—to the boos (suppressed) and
bright-eyed admiration (widely evident) of her venerating peers.
"Ah, Ms. Vickers, how are we today?
Nice of you to pay your respects so often. Would that each occasion were
less vexingly inspired. What have you done, this time, to earn my
intervention?"
If truth be told, Mr. Cunningham
relished VV's repartee. The few times she sat repentantly submissive had
sorely disappointed him. Dull were most of his exchanges with students
needing to be disciplined. VV's caustic sarcasm was a relative
delight—though tempered by his concern about her moodiness of late. Children
altered quickly in response to psychic traumas. One such, he felt sure, had
afflicted VV not long past. Changes had ensued, psychological and physical.
It crossed the VP's mind that Violetta, despite her tender age, might be
sexually active, a prospect not only distressing but criminal, depending
upon the circumstances—about which the articulate child, most likely, would
not speak. Still, he had a legal obligation to ascertain the facts.
"Cat got your tongue?"
VV leveled a scornful look at her
idiom-prone inquisitor, weighing whether to talk or to mope in cryptic
silence (and thereby test the VP's mindreading skills—snickering, to
herself, whenever he read her wrongly).
"Interviews are like dancing; it takes
two to tango."
VV added a twist to her unvoiced
disdain, wetting her mouth's circumference with a slow-motion lick,
deepening her lipstick's fire-engine red, while fixing the VP's calm,
bespectacled eyes with a mixed-message glint that struck him as
confrontational and pointedly coquettish.
"Very provocative shade; clashes
rather charmingly with your pumpkin-orange coif."
VV rewarded this more original phrase
with a deferential grin; perhaps the 'Principal of Vice' would understand
her objection to 'Mrs. Like-Like Whatever.'
"I was merely trying to help Mrs.
Grimes overcome her speech impediment."
"Oh? I'm unaware that Mrs. Grimes
suffers from..."
"You mean like you've like never like
noticed how she sort of interjects words that like don't like belong in her
irritating sentences?"
VV's impersonation was so
exaggeratingly artful, Mr. Cunningham likewise grinned deferentially.
"Oh, that."
"Yes, that."
"And what was the form this benevolent
assistance, on your part, assumed?"
"I was CLICKING her."
"Meaning?"
VV made an oval with her lips, tongue
pressed against the roof of her loudly-colored mouth, and produced the sound
she had utilized in class to count extraneous verbiage.
"I can appreciate how a teacher might
find that annoying."
"Any more annoying than her incessant
'like, like, like'? Not to mention her constant use of 'sort of,' 'kind of,'
and 'whatever.' Shouldn't teachers be exemplary, not abuse their captive
audiences with substandard usage?"
"Point well taken."
Marveling at the word-power this mere
nine-year-old possessed, while worried about the gap between her intellect
and physical maturity, Mr. Cunningham censured his selfish savoring of their
'nimble-witted' discourse and sought to redirect it into VV's 'troubled
waters,' determined to discover the cause of their turbidity.
"Meaning you'll back me up, Mr.
Cunningham?"
"I'll restate your case. The CLICKS
will discontinue; two disruptive behaviors do not a problem solve. Now,
there's something else I think we need to discuss."
VV winced at what she felt was coming
next. Just when it looked like the VP's dogged enquiry finally lay dead and
buried (since last the subject was broached, not a soul had been 'called in
for questioning'), Mrs. Grimes 3, it appeared, was about to be exhumed.
"Reports of your excursions to an area
off limits have come to my attention."
VV flashed on Seymour Starkey's apartment. If somehow the offending image
had been traced to there, to him, surely the jig was up; denials would prove
unavailing. For if
Regretting that he had put Violetta
back on the defensive, Mr. Cunningham hedged his unintended threat.
"Lots of students hang out at that
service station, VV. All of them know it's forbidden; I don't mean to single
you out. I'm simply asking, what's the big attraction; why do you want to
join them—apart from it being fun to disobey adults?"
Whew! The jig was not up. VV sighed in 'brief' relief; then realized acts
performed, at the derelict gas station, might spell serious trouble—as
opposed to escapades with
A shrug was the only answer Violetta
offered.
"Things we put in our mouths should be
edible and/or wholesome."
Oh, oh; what was he insinuating, VV
wondered?
"Excluding a clarinet?"
"Touché. Okay, add 'playable.' I
believe you know what I'm alluding to. Habits can form quickly; bad habits
form even faster. A practice that seems bold and daring, or cool because
older kids do it, might become an obsession; instead of you controlling it,
it controls you."
Giving blow-jobs was addictive (?), VV almost quipped, unsure what the VP was advising her to avoid, or to refrain from, or to cease doing altogether; why be so oblique? Was he trying to entrap her? Was he really talking about one thing by pretending to talk about another? She hated grownups for their use of underhanded tactics, for preying on childhood fears while entertaining grownup fantasies…
... the way Phil had done to ensure she wouldn't squeal, by telling her what
might happen to a 'certain person' once she fell asleep and a pair of pliers
(stashed under this person's mattress) was applied, first to ears because
they had listened to Violetta's lies about how Stepdad forced apart her
legs, then punched her in the stomach, how the air went out of her lungs,
and stayed out, all while she got tied, a belt employed to bind her wrists,
a pair of jump ropes lassoing either ankle, yarn affixing pigtails to
bedposts keeping her head stock-still—if allowing glimpses downward, bearing
witness to an infiltrating tongue turning pain into nasty titillation at the
very place Phil threatened to clamp his tool in order to "make a mess"—his
words exactly—after slobbering in VV's lap, then slithering up her trunk to
suck on her undeveloped breasts, making them stink, making her want to bathe
and bathe and bathe to scrub his smelly spit off, to erase the stench of
liquor from her body, to expunge his oily sweat, and finally to flush what
he had squirted into her crotch with his ball-peen-hammer penis; as VV
further imagined what metallic jaws would do to that 'certain person's'
privates, someone waking up too late to save the most important part, the
little rosebud she herself had discovered (via inchworm masturbation) that
swelled with ecstatic palpitations then drowned in gobs of gunk when he who
entered uninvited tore away her hymen, his member much too big—compared to
immature erections she had diddled at the off-campus station, with her hand,
for the most part, though sometimes with her mouth; Mr. Cunningham was
correct...
... unless he was referring to some
other habit-forming practice like…
"Smoking cigarettes is hazardous to
your health, not to mention the ill effect it has on those around you.
Whether smoke is second-hand or first-hand, nicotine products kill. Read the
warning label, VV. Why would the U.S. Surgeon General misinform the public?"
Grounds for another sigh of relief? Or
sucker-punched by a man whose methods were unconscionably devious? VV's deep
mistrust made it difficult to decide.
"If you're gunning for the Marlboro
man, Mr. Cunningham, I'm not your hombre. I will, however, consider your
advice about boycotting Shell."
Pleased with herself for addressing
the matter in code, VV got up to leave. As usual, she had been seated 'at
the pupil's disadvantage,' in a chair to the VP's left significantly lower
than his, designed, she felt, to reinforce their roles of subordinate versus
authority. Mr. Middleton, aka 'George,' always sat beside her... on the few
occasions he was available... his time divided (due to budget cuts) among
several schools... his caseload such that he often needed reminding (by the
students themselves) of who was who... his very position in jeopardy (and
slated to be discontinued). Truth be told, Mr. Cunningham (more and more)
would be taking up George's slack.
"You're always in such a hurry; are
you really so eager to get back to class? Sit, Violetta. Relax. Honor me
with your presence. Share what's going on, in your 'complicated' life."
At which point, a fire drill
opportunely commenced; VV made her exit, saved by the bell.
When 'Victor Vanderhoff' went to
collect the prints he had ordered (BARTing his way to Berkeley), something
was amiss. Despite his showing up a week beyond their pick-up date, Seymour
found neither print ready—or so he was informed by a clerk who went to
"double-check" then kept the customer waiting... long enough for Seymour to
take fright and pell-mell flight when he sensed impending peril... escaping
the police but caught by Giclee Prints' surveillance camera, recording his
disguise, the clothing he had worn to VV's All-Star game re-donned, mindful
of his pledge to operate 'discreetly'... his trip back to the city fraught
with paranoiac glances at anyone in uniform... his Giants cap and Ray-Bans
ditched in a dumpster at 16th and Mission Streets... his jacket in a
trashcan outside of Walgreens... his path from there to home a veritable
goose chase should officers (sight unseen) be hounding the gander's gait.
Once secure in his apartment, deadbolt
thrown—CLUNK—and curtains drawn, Seymour activated his computer to delete
incriminating files, opening first the high resolution prototype named
VIOLETTA LADY, its comely attributes impressing him anew with their flawless
realization, every freckle, every pubic hair meticulously depicted—details
he had forecast from the photo VV sat for, sanctioned him to take in
exchange for her borrowing his camera. Yet prized as both of these images
were, it was the one that he had fabricated that proved to be the dearest,
and, like any artist mesmerized by his own "magnum opus," Seymour could not
part with it—nor, in the end, with the snapshot from which it had been
derived. In point of fact, he kept his entire TOT TART collection, reasoning
that punishment for one or for a dozen amounted to the same, were he
ultimately convicted—a likelihood verging on a certainty, given his mistake.
How could he have been so blind to the furor kiddy porn roused in those for
whom the innocence of childhood was sacrosanct? How could he have been so
naïve to expect a commercial enterprise would overlook the apparent
illegality of VIOLETTA LADY—tasteful though he had rendered her, un-enhanced
as were her parts? How could VV's provocative expression have left him so
oblivious to its overall salaciousness?
Investing in a laser printer, matt-finish photographic paper, and cartridges
of very pricy ink,
Meanwhile Phil denied succumbing to appetites reprehensible. Sure, he had drunk the equivalent of a six-pack at the bar that day. Sure, he had caught the kid stark-naked, in the bathroom, covered with 'tattoos.' And sure, he had found himself 'tempted' by her soap-bubble butt, a replica, in miniature, of her super-sexy mom's, whose ass stuck out like a Hottentots', not as huge, but, in its tilt, as buoyantly inviting, affording easy access to either randy nook—only one of which had been broken-in by Wayne (the Wimp). Phil had staked his claim, so to speak, on the other, reamed it like a piston tube till its gape was a perfect fit, snugger than Sophie's less-discriminating orifice. A man who married a woman earned the right to fuck her first, or such was Phil's old-fashioned, admittedly sexist attitude. The double standard implicit in his position he regarded as counteracted by affirming he was a virgin, in one respect, too, when it came to sodomy; Sophie's was the only rump his cock had ever plumbed. Somehow this was important when his conscience called for equity, because Phil had a sense, like any person "brought up right," that fair was fair, no two ways about it. And his becoming a "backdoor man" was eminently fair—so long as Sophie reserved her rearward hatch for Phil and Phil alone.
Similarly, it was fair for him to discipline his stepdaughter. The roof
above her head, the clothes on her back, the food inside her belly were all
bought by him, or supplemented by the bucks his labor brought home. Where
was
At the risk of alienating Readers who are superstitious (or religious, "same
difference," to cop a phrase from Phil), let me offer an author's
explanation of the Creative Process. Think of Divine Intervention whereby
The Word is miraculously revealed. That's how I've been writing this
book—with 'Mister Bad Hand,' remember. If it doth offend thee, should I
venture to lop it off? Am I to blame for Phil's nocturnal (by day)
emissions? Did I know about them prior? Did Seymour, who is generating the
bulk of this story's grist? Should content, due to pornographic excess, be
expurgated? I'm as outraged as you are by Starkey and his ilk—Phil McNulty
included, if thoughts engender actions. Patty and Jeffrey Grimes are none
too wholesome, either. Even Violetta appears to be engaging in some pretty
raw behavior—little wonder, given her surrounding influences. Maybe the
problem is describing anybody's sex life. You'd think the most basic
Creative Process, the one that spawned each and every one of us, would be
less fraught with bug-a-boos. Nobody gets begotten without begetting, yet
look at all the to-do we make about the practice itself.
I've interrupted—again—to recant
previous statements that may have left an impression of bias, on my part, as
though I'd taken sides, and also to confess how and why that happened. If
you haven't already guessed, let me divulge that I, at the age of nine, was
sexually abused—though any similarity between my story and this one ends
with that admission. Suffice it to say the topic, for me, is emotionally
charged. And though a novelist, unlike a journalist, is under no ethical
obligation to relate facts evenhandedly, an 'accomplished' novelist absents
himself/herself from characters portrayed, favoring none by empathizing with
all, expressing the humanity of each, while allowing the Reader to identify,
pass judgment, and aesthetically enjoy—which entails more than providing an
escape into page-turner entertainment. A bestseller this is not; sage
pre-assessment or foregone postmortem? Popularity has never been an upshot
of my work, so it doesn't require clairvoyance to assert that this is no
exception. You the Reader, therefore, must be atypical, your taste in books
unique, or idiosyncratic enough for me to project that you have precious few
imitators. More's the pity.
Anyway, from here on out, I resolve to
curb my prejudices and to dispassionately relate Seymour Starkey's tale
(replete with idioms and florid alliteration), allowing the chips to fall
wherever they merrily may.
Wet dream #1: the Brain was at her
favorite pastime, humping her Cabbage Patch doll head, in the privacy of her
room, butt-action like a swimmer's swimming the butterfly without getting
anywhere except 'off' on the clit-friction, suddenly all upset to find her
skirt hiked inside-out, exposing her panties-less behind and its pair of
puckered niches, one unused to what the other would be getting used to, if
someone had his druthers, he who skewered the former, niceties swept aside
as his member muscled in, aided and abetted by a vulva indisposed to
accommodate full-grown manhood but slicker than an oil spill from the climax
just achieved, furthermore youthfully elastic and gratified (granted
grudgingly) by an overwhelming surge thanks to thorough penetration, every
inch inserted stuffing every inch available, 'a frankfurter in its bun,'
Phil rhapsodized, relishing the image with a serves-the-bitch-right zeal for
her trespass on America's favorite pastime, pulling her toward the bed's end
and suspending her, forklift-fashion, by his stiff-as-a-mainstay schlong.
|
A recent change in my life is... ... I have started to wear dresses.
Before now, I associated dresses and skirts with housewives. Housewives,
like the term suggests, are women married to their homes. They are domestic,
which can mean "devoted to family," "tame," or "a hired household servant,"
or all three, like my mother, even though she works. I want to be
independent. But guess what? Dresses are much more independent for the body
than pants. (76) Here is how. Number one, dresses are easy to get in and out
of. There is no hopping around on one foot because a pant leg gets stuck.
Number two, they make it much, much easier to poop and pee. Plus, if you
have to go badly and you are out-of-doors, a dress can hide what you are
doing. Number three, dresses let your legs breathe. This is important when
it is hot out. When it is cold out, just put on knee socks, which can be
warmer than jeans. (166 or 168) |
Violetta trapped her tongue thoughtfully, its pink tip pressed against her crimson upper lip, her head cocked sideways at a contemplative angle, her eyes, unseeing, cast vaguely toward the blackboard, blind to all save the essay she must finish within the test-time allotted.
| Those are functional* advantages of wearing what
the British call "frocks." There are others that deal with
'aesthetics,' which means the philosophy* of beauty. Dresses
represent an endless variety of colors, patterns, and fashions. They
are wonderful for expressing a person's different moods. I like
wearing black a lot because lately I have been in mourning, but even
when a person is sad, dresses offer lots of choices. And black is
not only depressing; it can also be sexy. Men like girls in dresses
for obvious* reasons. I have mentioned one already; they come off
easily. Dresses expose girls' bare legs. Men like that, too. Dresses
let girls' smell out when they walk or tuck them under to sit.
Sometimes girls really stink but men react anyway. I used to think
it was breasts that made men pay attention. Now I know it is really
what is under our skirts that gets them hot and bothered. (322 or
324) |
VV glanced at the clock. There were ten minutes left. Papers had to be
finished by 3pm sharp. Introduction, development, and conclusion, a minimum
of 400 words, with extra credit for using vocabulary from this week's lists
(*), were the requirements, bonus points to be awarded for originality—which
VV hoped to win by implicating Stepdad in a revamped plot to rid herself of
his menace once and for all (without her Mom incurring Phil's
pliers-pinching retribution).
| Finally, dresses are psychologically
liberating*. Children often are blocked by silly inhibitions*, like feeling
guilty about touching our own bodies or feeling dirty after a grownup has.
Certain acts are natural and girls should learn to stay relaxed. Even stuff
that hurts at first feels nice when you get used to it and you are taught to
trust sensations and that nothing is really bad. Dresses are reminders of
open-mindedness. I have begun to like them as my views on growing-up shift.
Shift, by the way, is another word for dress, one that is "loose-fitting."
Dresses turn girls loose, is my conclusion. Dresses make us free. (400+) |
VV folded her essay to protect its
inflammatory content, fairly sure that it would earn not only an A but the
scrutiny of authorities; from Grimes, to Middleton, to Cunningham, to SFPD
was her expectation, and once the police were involved, Phil's days would be
numbered. She had merely to plant a bit more evidence—physical proof—and the
scoundrel's ship was sunk.
knock knock-a-knock-knock, knock knock
"Who's there?"
"Who do you think, Bozo?"
"Are you alone?"
"No, I've brought along the Mormon
Tabernacle Choir. Of course I'm alone—open up—you don't think I want our
association witnessed."
Seymour threw the deadbolt—CLUNK—to
admit his insolent caller, craning his neck beyond the threshold to scope
out the corridor. Satisfied VV had come sans pursuers—CLUNK—he nervously
locked her in.
"What's up, Meathead? Wanted dead or
alive for first degree stupidity?"
Glad to see that Violetta was back to
her wisecracking self—though she still was wearing lipstick and a
mid-thigh-length skirt—Seymour backtracked to the kitchenette where he was
roasting marshmallows.
"Want one?"
He held out a golden brown sample at
the tip of a long-handled fork, retrieved from the cobalt-blue flame that
ringed his gas stove's front burner.
"Cool."
"Careful; it's hot."
VV plucked the offering from its
two-pronged skewer and ate it, or rather popped it into her mouth, then
panted around it to bring down the temperature...
"Told ya."
... burning her tongue only slightly
when her teeth rashly chewed.
"More."
She opened her mouth post-swallow like
a grub-hungry chick.
Seymour twisted the fork, keeping it
well above the heat, patiently roasting another powdery-white morsel to
yellowish, to beige, to wrinkled umber. Pulling it from the prongs with his
thumb and index finger, he blew on the marshmallow gently before dropping it
into VV's wide-open crop. This procedure was repeated until the 'nestling'
scarfed her fill.
Sugar-sated, VV prowled the premises,
alert for signs of change, spotting almost immediately the new laser
printer.
"This must have cost you a fortune. How did I turn out?"
Presuming rightly that Seymour's hefty
purchase was in deference to her, VV waited for VIOLETTA LADY to be
unveiled. One print framed and the second in a plastic dustcover were
perched side-by-side, draped by a pillowcase, and propped upon a ledge over
Seymour's Murphy at viewing height—VV's, that is, should she stand atop the
bed and face its wall-wedged niche, the position she assumed without a
moment's hesitation. Seymour, leaning sideways, lifted the makeshift
curtain, then stepped back to admire the admirer of his 'pornographic' work,
unprepared for the look it brought to VV's beady eyes... ill-equipped to
interpret their enigmatic glare.
"Men; I hate their dirty-minded
filthy-rotten guts!"
This remark, uttered sotto voce,
served to humble him who heard it, who suffered it like a barb jabbed
underneath the skin, poisonous and befitting in its blistering indictment,
making him regret his gender-based vulgarity. Abruptly, Seymour's TOT TARTs,
even this genteel one, made him feel ashamed.
"I'm not going to blubber."
"Okay, VV."
"He's not going to make me cry. This
one is yours?"
She indicated the framed print. She lifted it from the ledge. She turned and
squatted, seating herself cross-legged while holding the image at arm's
length for balance, then bringing it closer, resting both wrists on either
inner thigh.
"I'm never going to look like this,
The shock on
"Sorry to be so blunt, but I wanted
you to know. You mustn't tell a soul. Cross your heart and hope to die?"
Not knowing how else to answer,
"I'm handling it. He's threatened to hurt my Mom, so I have to be extra careful. If he finds out I've told anyone, he'll take it out on her. And he would, too; he's not bluffing. Now that I'm his sperm spittoon, Mom, he says, is 'expendable.' If I don't do the things he wants, exactly the way he likes them, he'll mutilate Mom with this nasty pair of pliers he's hidden under their mattress. He even showed me how and where he intended to use them."
Seymour involuntarily flinched, aghast at this revelation of scare-tactics
blackmail, afraid, on VV's behalf, of the culprit it impeached, and abashed
by the stir (irrepressible in his pants) upon noticing VV's nudity under her
outspread skirt—initially obscured by the frame's cast shadow, accidentally
conspicuous with her setting aside the print, and 'conscience-strickenly'
tempting given the sober situation, with VV's confidence shatter-able were
Seymour's yen betrayed.
Wincing shut both eyelids, he forbade himself to
peek, praying that his transgression (Please, God!) had gone undetected.
Mr. Middleton's analysis of the
phrases that were underlined in red:
"lately I have been in mourning"
"they come off easily"
"it is really what is under our skirts
that gets them hot and bothered"
"touching our own bodies or feeling
dirty after a grownup has"
convinced him that Violetta Vickers
had been sexually assaulted, and equally convinced that her conduct at the
service station (word had gotten around) was consistent with a victim
'acting out'; feeling cheapened by her experience with an adult, she was
giving-away sex to children.
"Dresses make us free"
was a double entendre; it meant she did not charge, owing to her diminished
self-esteem. How could he have missed such elementary indicators? Not that
he was wholly to blame for letting VV down. Bouncing among so many schools,
George felt like a pinball; his caseload was unmanageable, unforgiveable for
fostering neglect. Too many kids were in crisis, too few were getting
counseled, thus
"They made it sound important, Phil, asked both of us to be here."
"Who's 'they'; it was a conference
call?"
"In effect. They're all supposed to
attend: her teacher, her guidance counselor, and..."
"The 'Principal of Vice.' Your
daughter told me."
"Oh?"
"What I couldn't strangle out of her
was what she must have done to rate the attention. Are they suspending her,
or expelling her, or what?"
The white shirt and striped tie Phil
had donned (against his better judgment) made this powwow like an interview;
he felt garroted, as though the focal point were Stepdad rather than Little
Miss Incorrigible. Blue was the color of the collar he preferred; casual was
the dress style he had adopted. Disguising himself in corporate garb (at
Sophie's insistence) cast him as an interloper, trapped behind the lines of
an enemy encampment. In response to his predicament (or how he perceived
it), Phil began to sweat.
"Ah, the McNultys. Thank you both for
coming. Sorry about the wait; Mr. Middleton was delayed. I believe we're all
assembled now. Please step this way."
Mr. Cunningham ushered the couple into
a room reserved for "FACULTY," the term reviving memories, in both, of
episodes at school, each assailed by emotions common to their respective
childhoods, Sophie's mostly positive (she had been a model student), Phil's
a good-and-bad mix (his social skills adjudged "lacking" for solving
problems with his fists). George Middleton and Patty Grimes already sat
inside. Introductions were made—for Phil's benefit; Sophie knew the
triumvirate. Mr. Cunningham (Bruce), it was apparent, would preside.
"It has come to our attention that VV
may be suffering the effects of sexual abuse. I know, as a parent myself,
this is news hard to hear. We haven't had her 'physically' examined, though
we strongly recommend she sees a physician. But 'psychologically speaking,'
the signs are quite clear. Before we spell them out, we'd like for you to
share your initial reactions."
Few preliminary statements could have
spurred any worse distress for a mother and father caught totally off their
guard—or such read their expressions, each looking one to the other, both
evidently flabbergasted. Sophie was the first to find her voice.
"You're sure? I mean, have you asked
her? It's..." She looked to Phil for corroboration. "...outrageous. She's
only nine years old. But even so, she's articulate, talkative..."
"Sometimes obnoxiously," Phil
interjected. Patty Grimes quashed a smirk.
"... and candid to a fault."
"Children, if I may..." Mr. Middleton
offered, "typically feel ashamed when they've been molested.
They—erroneously—believe they're somehow to blame, so they tend to disavow
that any such thing has happened. In other words, they clam up. Only their
behavior gives the truth away. You two haven't noticed any telltale changes
in Violetta lately?"
The lipstick, the skirts, the moping,
the irregular return-times after school, were changes, certainly. But were
they symptomatic of something unspeakable, something so traumatic that VV
would conceal or deny the fact itself? Neither Phil nor Sophie seemed
prepared to give this notion credence. Both seemed indignantly skeptical
about the school staff's contention. Phil spoke next, measuredly, his anger
held in check by a clenched-fist restraint.
"Who do you suspect of committing this
abuse? Did it happen here on campus? Can you assure us it has stopped?"
Phil aimed each of his questions
pointedly, the first at George, the second at Bruce, and the third at Patty,
his steady gaze unblinking, his undertone accusatory.
Mr. Cunningham, sensing that the
McNultys were primed to 'shoot the messengers,' sought to soothe their
misdirected choler.
"Based on clues in an essay VV wrote
during class…" he handed out photocopies, one to each parent"…a grownup is
probably responsible. Background checks are run on all school personnel:
teachers, administrators, crossing guards, playground monitors, cafeteria
workers, everyone. We're fairly sure the perpetrator is not among us.
Possible suspects off campus are beyond our jurisdiction and will have to be
investigated by the SFPD."
"You've call the police!?" Phil's
attempt to maintain equanimity underwent a lapse.
"Without our permission?" Sophie
seconded her husband's alarm.
Once again Mr. Cunningham spoke on the
school's behalf.
"We are required by law to report such incidents to the proper authorities.
There's more of this to tell, if you'll hear us out."
Sophie closed her eyes and would have shut her ears, if they, too, had lids,
granting herself a momentary respite from a circumstance already sending
guilt pangs throughout her shell-shocked conscience. If these allegations
were true, what did they say about her motherhood? How could the
flesh-of-her-flesh have undergone… rape (?)... without Mom somehow sensing
it? Had mother and daughter grown so far apart that their connection had
grown tenuous, faulty, nonexistent? Whatever had befallen Violetta, Sophie
took the blame. Reopening her eyes, she likewise
addressed questions to the three staff members, except hers was the same for
each, and was asked without a sound: Please forgive me!
Having paused to let the couple regain
composure, the VP continued.
"Your daughter, in an effort, we
believe, to denigrate herself, has been granting sexual favors to a group of
little boys, and the parents of two are considering punitive action, which
may involve filing charges."
"WHAT!" Phil lost his temper. "She's a minor! What does a nine-year-old know
about
"Considering punitive action; neither
couple, as far as we know, has gone to that extreme. All of us here agree
that VV is not the corrupting influence. She's merely acting out as a way to
underscore her shame. Whoever assaulted her originally is the one who should
be prosecuted."
Phil ran his hands through his hair,
then folded them on the conference table.
"What do you advise?"
Sophie, still reluctant to believe her
daughter capable of whatever acts she thus far stood accused, suspended
judgment (except upon herself) until VV could be confronted, could answer in
person, could admit things or deny them. VV would not lie. She might
'withhold' the truth, but honesty would prevail.
While options were deliberated, Sophie
sat aloof, cross-examining herself—mother versus wife—to ascertain which
role was the one she had failed at worse.
Wayne had been so bright, so kind, so
talented, and so fucked up that a saint could not have lived with him.
Sophie somehow had managed for seven exacting years, the birth of their
"love child" (translation: "out-of-wedlock") the point of demarcation as
parenthood generated pressures for which both were unprepared. The quirky
balance they, as male-and-female had achieved, was abruptly tipped off
kilter as father-and-mother. Sophie coped. Violetta struggled. Wayne
collapsed then fled. Simple were the broad-strokes, intricate was the
brushwork that painted their portraits in common, in crisis, and in mutual
isolation. Colors, initially complimentary, ultimately clashed. One
definitive example, of scores that any of them might cite (though VV's
developmental stage would have precluded her remembering this particular
incident) was Wayne's near-fatal attempt to give their ten-month-old a bath:
-
Sophie a wage-slave,
-
Wayne a stay-at-home dad,
-
VV a chronic squirmer needing conscientious safeguarding,
-
Sophie having to trust that Wayne's devotion to his studies (his interim unemployment due to passing nine exams required for formal certification as a fully-licensed architect) would not preempt their rambunctious prodigy's welfare
-
Wayne, enjoined to carry his weight as a house-husband, future breadwinner, and trustworthy nanny, overtaxed to the point of sabotaging concentration,
-
Violetta at the mercy of a man whose tension-triggered trances could last for seconds critical to sustaining life itself, hers in immediate jeopardy as the water level rose, as Daddy got that look in his eyes like he wasn't really there and couldn't be relied upon to turn off the taps in time to save her;
Mommy come instead, rushing past her comatose helpmate, shoving him aside to reach their sputtering, close to submerged, ill-looked-after infant, ramifications terminal for their functioning as a family, Wayne defensive, at first, then apologetic, then terrified lest a recurrence cause consequences none of the three could abide: -
VV the hapless casualty,
-
Sophie the imprudent mom who had left her offspring to an attendant of dubious dependability,
-
and Wayne the goat, the blackguard for pretending he was competent when he knew full-well he was not, when worry only increased the odds of his being a liability, when side-effects of medication he was prescribed neutralized his sex drive, thus neutered their relationship and landed one last blow to a devastating wedge
-
that Phil exploited masterfully, he-man to the rescue, shoulder lent to lean on, lover extraordinaire (no one catered to a clitoris like McMulti-Climax Phil), patient while the rift with Wayne widened, grew dispassionate with its ever-increasing distance, his departure from the state (to nurse his ailing parents) a welcome opportunity for Phil and Sophie finally to cinch their nuptial knot, their marriage a godsend for the overworked single mother saddled with a child whose phenomenal intelligence was year-by-year more challenging, more off-putting, frankly, VV's early sophistication foreign, her premature quick-wittedness a source of alienation,
-
most problematic for Phil, whose anti-egghead bias expressed itself as bullying (Messrs. Middleton and Cunningham still recovering from McNulty's pulverizing handshake),
-
but Sophie, too, felt estranged from her esoteric sprout,
-
whose inclination to seek a mother's counsel seemingly shrank in adverse proportion to her word-stock's expansion; the more she 'could' confide the less she chose to share,
until it reached the uncommunicative phase endemic to the current predicament, wherein Sophie and Phil had been kept entirely in the dark, neither privy to events that might be shaping the soft-clay character of their one and only child (brothers and sisters unlikely, given Phil's port of choice), -
Phil, who was holding his own, three against one, as the school staff waxed academic,
-
Phil, who met trials head on, who made firm decisions, and who acted without wavering,
-
Phil, who saw situations plainly and thus could discriminate right from wrong in almost every instance...
... barring those arising in his
dissolute subconscious:
Wet dream #2: exhorting her to
'masticate' (if the bitch liked fancy words, he would give her one to chew
on) just below the juncture of penal shaft and head where the foreskin was
bunched, gnawing at it (lustily, please) while fondling balls and scrotum
with her KY-jellied hand, squeezing then releasing, squeezing tighter,
harder (quit) then greasing the entire length, all the way to its tip
(that's it; keep nibbling) palming the s-curve orifice, massaging the
throbbing hood, rubbing, biting, rubbing, biting, priming the pump to spurt
(DON'T STOP!) until the last big gobs had jettisoned (now, milk that lizard
dry).
When Seymour finally reopened his eyes
he saw that VV had barely budged; her crotch, if anything, was more
blatantly exposed. He looked from it to her eyes and found himself
confronted with an earnest supplication. 'You, too, Seymour?' she seemed to
ask despairingly, waiting for his hunger to consume her fleeting hope that
males, when it came to sex, were not all alike, that one, at least, might
overcome lust, resist illicit temptation, and value friendship more dearly
than oral copulation
(the act she knew her lap could make a
man perform, a man like Phil, for instance, who she could picture abrading
her with his whiskers, invading her with his tongue, seducing her with his
skill to induce fibrillation, supplanting her repugnance for the cause with
the bliss of its effect, against her will but not against her vulva's
double-crossing raptures, more intense than those she could instigate by
herself, those in which she had lost interest since being introduced to
gratification featured on a certain website, where appetites kin to
Stepdad's informed, insulted, and inflamed her... making her own mouth water
for a taste of callow cock, the starchy sap extracted (for real not
vicariously) more and more to her liking, the little shivers incited often
bringing on fits of laughter as prepubescent tensions were eagerly
alleviated; which made her glad so long as giggles turned not into snickers,
so long as older, bigger brothers were kept from butting in and from using
disparaging terms like slut, whore, tramp, and prostitute, none of which
applied, innocence reinforced by servicing strictly peers, child upon child,
girl upon boy, grownups disallowed because their minds made sex disgusting,
sullied everything playful and turned it into spoils, transformed love
itself, when expressed erotically, into superficial pandering).
"I'm a little sleepy, Seymour. Mind if
I take a nap?"
Handing him the print, she flopped
straight backward across the bed, her legs, unfolding lazily, extending from
her skirt like stamens from a flower, their junction (no less visible,
underneath the ruffled hem) hairless, oval-shaped, and definitively cleft...
...like a change purse, Seymour mused,
the kind you have to squeeze for its aperture to open, VV's slightly puffy
as if many coins inside were pressuring the slit to widen, to glisten, like
the money was maybe wet, with something poking through at the top that
looked just like an 'outty'—which Seymour wanted to smooch; it looked so
moist and sweet. Yet risen qualms demurred; a grownup should not betray the
trust of a helpless little child; everybody knew that much. How could Phil,
her own stepfather, treat his daughter like those women you could watch
doing sex-stuff on the internet? Try as he might to fathom Phil's behavior,
Seymour thought it vile. "Every time he fucks me his semen stunts my
growth"? Had VV actually said that, experienced it, been subjected to
repeated intercourse with her clueless mother's husband? How could Mrs.
McNulty be so unaware? Why hadn't VV told her, regardless Phil's cruel
threats?
Unless she truly believed he would ply that pair of pliers; "He
even showed me how and where he intended to use them." No matter if she was
scared, the person to tell was Mom. That's what Seymour would advocate,
whether VV asked or not. "I'm handling it," she had asserted. Seymour
thought, 'Not well.'
Not if it was happening over and over,
like VV said it was. Believe you me, I wanted to go and sock him, punch him
right on the jaw. But I guess I'm just a coward; I didn't do a thing.
VV then woke up—or pretended to; she
wasn't really sleeping. I was being tested, is what she told me. I guess I
must have passed.
Phil got off scot-free, though; I
never laid a hand on him.
Wet dream #3: instructing her to
straddle him, facing backwards, to impale her tight tween twat on his
billy-club erection, then fasten to her clitoris the accoutrement he
provided, with its battery pack and dial in close proximity to his
autocratic hand so he could activate and control the strength of its
vibration, turning up and down the juice to match her buttocks' bounce, more
when he was in her, less when almost out, off if she got careless and lost
her slippery clasp, buzzing her into a frenzy as his climax built, reached
peak, and erupted into her lubricated loins like a submarine volcano, molten
lava spewing into viscose saline sea, boiling from its own internal
temperature, mutual mucous fusing their mismatched cock and cunt.
"Your defending VV against those three
was wonderful, Phil. I'm proud of you."
Sophie was incensed about the staff's
'ill-founded allegations.' An essay was not an affidavit. Accounts by horny
schoolboys did not a strong case make. Violetta would no more conceal being
ravaged than she would stoop to perform fellatio. Charges to the contrary
were leveled by the envious, by those for whom VV's intelligence was a
threat, her wit an aberration that challenged self-styled 'experts' drunk on
their petty authority. 'We' recommend this, 'we' recommend that, 'we' think
it best to do or best not to do the following. Sophie had not listened,
beyond making sure that Phil committed them to nothing until their misjudged
daughter could answer for herself.
As Phil drove home, Sophie stewed. In retrospect, she felt humiliated. How
dare they think a mother could be oblivious to sins so reprehensible—the
ones perpetrated against her child more sinister than those her child may
have 'innocently' committed. Children fondled one another; it was natural.
Why make such a fuss? The "grownup" VV wrote about 'probably' was Phil,
written out of anger at his use of corporal punishment—Violetta's way of
getting even. Wayne, by contrast, had never so much as raised his voice to
her, let alone his hand—which had spoiled their daughter rotten, according
to Phil, for whom discipline meant a beating. And though Sophie disapproved,
she looked the other way. For all she knew, a spanking, to Violetta, was
tantamount to abuse. If that fact proved to be apt, perhaps this 'trauma'
had been grossly overblown.
By the time Mom and Stepdad found a
parking place back in the neighborhood and walked to their apartment
(individual subtexts mostly unexpressed), Sophie had convinced herself that
neither she nor Phil was seriously at fault and that Violetta (hopefully)
had been neither victim nor victimizer.
Phil, on the other hand, seethed with
uncorked malevolence:
-
furious at the 'Brain' for setting such a trap, for hinting he (or an adult, at least) had been touching her "inappropriately," was the term 'they' used, the 'brass,' the 'gang of three,' as they tiptoed around 'transgressions' that made them each uncomfortable, as if sex were something alien, something so outside their everyday experience they could barely bring themselves to call a spade a spade (or to call VV's going down, on some piss-pot, a blow job),
-
that prissy Patty Grimes a perfectly prudish example; Phil believed he had her pegged: mission position only,
-
-
hypocrites all, for tsk-a-tsking practices that strayed from their unstated
norm.
Though two out of Phil's three conjectures were considerably off the mark
(and even Mr. Middleton's breast fetish rarely found him inseminating
décolletage), Phil's point was well taken; those who condemned the appetites
of others ought to pass judgment first on whatever made them salivate
sensually; everyone's sexual hunger, when examined out-of-context, could
appear 'untoward.' Hence 'polite' conversation about matters-of-the-flesh
entailed euphemism, innuendo, or outright obfuscation, none of which was
Phil McNulty's style. When he had sex, the language used throughout was
colloquial, candid, crude, and by common standards 'dirty.' That's how women
liked it, in his experience. That's how he liked it. Maybe, in public, he
would lower his voice when propositioning a partner, but privately she would
know exactly what he intended to do to her, and what he wanted done to him
in return; carnality, with Phil, was graphically instructive. Not that he
was overly chatty; actions outnumbered words. But whatever permutation of
sex he-and-his engaged in, both, upon completion, were thoroughly schooled.
Therefore Violetta's 'prowess' (now widely touted) owed a debt to Phil? Or
were her antics staged, her aptitude limited to mimicking actions watched?
Irrespective, Stepdad was incensed by VV's reported behavior; he rankled at
the thought. Picturing her with dicks in her mouth (and/or elsewhere) turned
his complexion green—a shade both unbecoming and ominously vengeful, as
Violetta (when next he got a hold of her) was likely to affirm. Except he
must be cautious, clever; suspicions already aroused about 'abuse' must not
be cast upon him. Damn that little minx for pointing her accusatory
stink-finger! Lies, all lies; it was not he who had broken-in her box; he
had merely dreamt about it. How fend off such slander, though, with
circumscribed denials? Justice craved a wrongdoer; one must be delivered.
VV took the print I gave her. Mine
stayed behind my bed. The only time you could see it was when I pulled down
the Murphy—which was every day I went to sleep, of course. I used to have a
cross up there in that niche. I used to pray. But, after I moved Jesus, I
only prayed to VV. That sounds bad, I know; and God eventually punished me.
For a while, though, I was happy to look at VV's picture and treat it like a
'relic' (I looked that up; it means something you hold sacred). I didn't ask
for stuff the way you would from the Virgin Mary. Mostly I just stared and
imagined we were pals. Which we were; VV said so. After she pretended to be
asleep and had her dress pulled up so I could see her naked you-know-what,
she told me we were 'best friends' on account of I could be trusted. Believe
you me, that made me feel good and guilty both. Good because it's better to
be trusted by somebody than just about anything. Guilty because I wanted to
give her lap a smooch, a big wet one, the kind you sometimes see in videos
on the internet. I wish I'd told her right then and there that I wasn't
truly 'noble' (I looked that up, too; it means "of an exalted moral
excellence"). I wish that things had turned out differently, especially for
me.
Fortunately, Sophie was the parent who
waylaid Violetta first, for a let's-talk, heart-to-heart across the family's
kitchen table. Phil, impatient and restless, had gone to run surveillance on
the now-notorious service station. As he conducted drive-bys, his wife
conducted a 'chat,' VV and her 'licentiousness' the focus of each.
"Your father and I..."
"You mean Phil?"
"Phil and I have been speaking with
staff at your school. They told us you've..."
"Which 'staff'? No, let me guess:
George, Mrs. Like-Like Grimes, and the Principal of Vice"
"Mr. Cunningham is much too kind for that unkind designation."
VV rolled her eyes but otherwise let
this lame defense pass.
"You were saying?"
"They're concerned. They think you may
be 'acting out' as a way of trying to cope with some heavyhearted problem."
VV, cautiously optimistic that her
strategy may have worked, judged it well-advised to let details be
'extracted,' lest Mom, as usual, champion him whose ouster was her
pertinacious goal. She answered with a deep breath only, letting the air out
slowly, analogous to a sigh.
"Is that true, Sweetie; has something
been bothering you? Someone?"
VV shook her head 'no.' Mom would have to 'drag' it out of her. Too bad Phil was not on hand to witness this performance. Though he might misconstrue her reluctance to expose him as allegiance to debauchery (real or imagined), instead of as anxiety about him carrying out his threat (real or imagined)—the chance of which, though 'logically' remote, 'psychologically' held some sway; nine-year-olds, high IQs notwithstanding, were prone to being spooked. Had Phil not applied his pliers (by way of a demonstration) to one of VV's nipples?
Had the sight not
rendered it easy-to-imagine what a fiercer pinch might wreak? Was not
reason, by sensation, thereby overruled? Physical harm to Mom, at all costs,
must be averted. (This was VV's cover story—having first convinced herself).
Sophie next produced the copy of VV's
essay.
"Recognize this?" She held it up. "Do
you really think of me as 'a hired household servant'?"
Of all the 'hints' provided, VV thought, for her Mom to mention none,
focusing instead on something so incidental, struck her as incredible.
Nonplussed, she merely blinked, whereupon incredulity flared into red-hot
resentment at Sophie's failing to protect her, at her discarding a gentleman
husband and replacing him with a stud, exchanging a loving father for a
filthy-minded 'Stepfuck' (VV's latest tag for her concupiscent parent), and
at Mom's systematically siding with said sex-fiend against her 'defenseless'
child. Physical harm to Mom, at all costs, must be what? Facilitated,
Violetta screamed soundlessly, bristling with disdain and righteous
indignation, seeing, of a sudden, that Mom was so self-centered she had
sacrificed everything: her home, her congenial partner, her refined social
set, and, least forgivable of all, the innocence of her only offspring! In
order to wallow with a swine whose sole redeeming asset was inducing, in his
conquests, rapid-fire orgasms (big fucking deal)—Mom's, of late overheard
(and secretly begrudged) spurring VV's self-abuse while fantasizing
(disgustedly) that Phil might prove more enamored of youth's
indefatigability; for VV, once excited, could climax in quick succession, a
trait inherited from Sophie yet augmented by preteen resiliency (in cahoots
with a hypertrophic clitoris, which Mom did not possess), though
self-induced responses paled compared to those inspired by him (who Violetta
hated for his overrated knack).
As mother sought (circuitously) to
ferret out the truth, daughter (straightaway) hatched a surreptitious
plot—angling for some foolproof form of double indemnity.
Meanwhile, Stepdad, abandoning drive-bys for a stakeout, scanned the
derelict structure wherein VV, it was alleged, had been siphoning spunk from
'peepees,' visions of which refreshed Phil's out-and-out vexation. Why
consort with neophytes when a pro was readily available? How risk
who-knew-what from intimate contact with contagious little boys? Who did
'Daddy's Little Girl' think she was, cheating on him who would willingly
teach her, introduce her to raptures well in advance of her puerile
autoeroticism? He could be her mentor, her seducer, her instructor, and her
Realm of the Senses guide... not that he really would; recalling himself to
himself, Phil shook off his vagary. 'Men who victimized children,' he still
maintained, 'were namby-pamby wimps.' Although children who victimized men
were more accurately at issue. Violetta knew that he had been watching while
she masturbated, had intended to arouse him, to inflame his imagination,
which in turn had given rise to wet dreams chronicling raw temptation,
channeling latent urges into guiltless inaction. Yet if she falsely accused
him...? May as well be hanged for a lamb as for a sheep? Or had Phil, in
effect, fucked ewe and suckling both?
Sophie was struck momentarily dumb by VV's glib confession; her daughter
had, indeed, been jerking off classmates (!), her rationale as upsetting as
the wanton acts themselves; she wanted to be "foremost in their thoughts
when they harkened back to firsts," was Violetta's verbiage, her use of
highfalutin language all the more shocking coming from a nine-year-old.
Sophie sometimes had to remind herself that her child was still a child,
years away from adolescence (not to mention menstruation). Except for the
pitch of her voice, VV sounded like an adult—a literate, loquacious, often
eloquent adult, compounding the illusion that a grownup had somehow gotten
trapped inside the body of a munchkin. Now this... further affectation,
taking on an air of sexual sophistication. "I do it rather well," had been
the brazen hussy's boast. And what else had she performed on this troupe of
randy cub scouts?
"That's for me to know and for you to
find out."
Sophie wanted to slap her, right
across the face.
Or to watch while Phil spanked the cheeks of VV's bottom a
penitential fuchsia. AGGRAVATING was the supercilious smugness of Violetta's
tone... as if she knew something that gave her an advantage—putting Sophie
at a commensurate disadvantage, their heart-to-heart turned tête-á-tête
turned adverse tooth-and-nail. Whatever information Daughter was
withholding, Mother's need to know was compromised by foreboding. Sophie
sensed competition. Her reaction, as if anticipating a camera's illuminating
flash, was to shut, despite compunction, her see-no-evil eyes.
Only after school let out did Phil's
reconnaissance yield the slightest indication of who (Mr. Cunningham had
named no names) might be recipients of his stepdaughter's 'generosity,' as
three boys 'loitered' by the cordon of chain-link fence erected to
discourage further 'assignations.' With VV out of action (for all intents
and purposes), 'suspended' in lieu of 'expelled' (pending the results of a
thorough investigation), restricted to her room while her parents went to
hear the administration's case (so why was she not there, Phil itched to
know, when he and Sophie returned?), the prepubescent threesome lacked
sufficient motivation to ignore decrees and climb. They did cast 'longing
looks,' Phil would have sworn, at the dilapidated building, but suchlike
speculation, even from an irate parent, was dubiously actionable. In truth,
Phil's seeking out the 'crime scene' was doomed to ineffectiveness. Stymied
by frustration, he U-turned toward home...
... arriving well past Sophie's
termination of her 'shouting match' with VV (who had disappeared again as a
parting-shot 'up yours'), leaving both parental antagonists to rue the
bitter outcome.
"Still not here?"
"Came and went."
"'Went'? Went where? Went when?"
Phil, once more infuriated, charged
off in pursuit!
With calls for "VIOLETTA" ricocheting
up and down corridors—floor one, floor two, floor three, through foyers A,
B. C, and D—everyone home in the complex was intrusively aware that someone
thusly named was:
-
missing,
-
being chased by a maniac,
-
and no doubt in deep-shit trouble.
As the racket waxed and waned, only
two of these tenants took more than a passing interest: the fugitive
herself, and he who gave her refuge, the former leaning backward, spine
against the door, as if her fifty-two pounds could bolster the flimsy
clapboard barricade, her heartbeat fast as a bunny's, her lipstick chewed
half-off, her green eyes glistening with ambiguous agitation—frightened,
angry, impish, droll, defiant in mercurial combination, virtually unreadable
to the latter, who had been (urgently) interrupted (knock
knock-a-knock-knock, the last two knocks preempted by "Seymour, it's me!")
from fitting the final border piece into a gigantic jigsaw puzzle covering
nearly two-thirds of the available floor space (its subject indecipherable,
the box-top picture lying face down and housing a mountain of
yet-to-be-placed pieces). Not waiting for an invitation, VV joined her
(inadvertent) rescuer (taken unawares by Stepdad's one-man task force) and
proceeded to sort through the pile, separating bits of sky. For a while,
neither spoke—Seymour accepting the help, VV leaving her SOS-visit
unexplained. Both enjoyed an introspective interlude of parallel
companionship.
VV, all out of breath, barged in after
rapping on my door like a king-size woodpecker. I thought she was fooling,
maybe, trying to have some fun by make-believing someone, or something, was
after her. Turned out it was Phil, her Stepdad, and, boy, did he sound mad!
We heard him hollering in and out of the building and all around the
grounds. No wonder VV ran to hide; Phil McNulty's mean. At least he was back
then when awful things were happening. Worst was stuff that VV blamed
herself for, on account of she couldn't stop. But how could somebody nine
years old be at fault for sins of her elders? Thou shalt nots are guideposts
for adults more than for misled children. Breaking God's commandments has to
be on purpose for the punishment to be fair. VV didn't realize that she was
misbehaving. 'How come what felt good was seen by others as being naughty?'
Believe you me, that was really hard to explain to someone way more smarter
(sic).
See? I got another "sic," meaning
Seymour is a dunce. Okay, I'm uneducated; I don't care anymore who knows.
The thing that's more important is understanding VV and how a little kid got
all tangled up when grownups didn't act right. Having sex with children when
you're lots older is a harmful thing to do. I know that's why I went to
prison and why I have to wear this anklet and why the public hates me; I
would, too—I'm as hard a judge as the next person. Harder, maybe. But never
mind that. The truth is what I have to tell, and just like I told VV, the
truth is not as simple as people make it look.
The speed at which VV found and fitted
puzzle pieces astonished
"Just because something feels good doesn't always make it good for you."
"How about masturbation? I'll bet you
jerk off constantly. What's the difference if you're doing it alone or
someone helps you out?"
|
PHIL
Listen, Kid. You're a live wire sexually. Hotter than your mother,
maybe, and that's saying something. Go ahead and snitch, if you
think it'll do any good. Odds against, it won't. And the reason is?
You love hearing it, thinking about what I could do to you. I'll
wager it makes you wet, makes you wish I'd finish what you started
with your Cabbage Patch dildo. Good luck explaining that to your
understanding mom, if and when you decide to blab about my offer.
PHIL
Forget the goddamn pliers; I said that to scare you. Why would I
want to mutilate your mother's private parts? The reason you're
considering my proposal is the promise of nonstop sex. Kid, when it
comes to potential, yours is unlimited. I could make you climax in a
thousand different ways. A thousand and one, if you'd let me,
orgasms so intense I'm sure you can't imagine them. |
Sex, unless it's only done for money, means a caring person with another caring person, so if either of those persons doesn't truly care, then the stuff they do is naughty. It might feel okay at the time, but afterward it gets yucky on account of the uncared-for person usually ends up hurt. I pretend that somebody watches over all the things I do. Whenever I'm self-conscious, I'm probably doing bad. It's true that your bad and my bad and other people's bad aren't always the same. But pretty much they are. The times they aren't you'll have to figure out yourself.
SEYMOUR
Grownups can't be trusted all of the time, true; it's smart to ask
some questions. But if you get good answers, it can save you from
mistakes. I've made lots, which maybe I wouldn't have, if I'd
listened to my elders. Elders have experience, and sharing it can
help. Maybe, when you cuss at grownups, VV, it only makes things
worse because instead of good advice you mostly get punishment.
Think of all the times that you've been grounded. |
Input speculative and genuine toyed
with VV's consciousness, her brain like a ball of yarn batted between
extremes: Phil's inferred enticements versus Seymour's chaste banalities,
Miscreant versus Moron, Profligate versus Monk—with VV's unripe sagacity
hovering in between? One thing that a surfeit of sex may have taught
Violetta already (beyond a premature grasp of venereal techniques) was that
sex, as a be-all and end-all, might well be overrated.
As a species, VV reasoned, human beings reproduced; sex felt good to
encourage that biological imperative. Mankind bred prolifically; the
survival strategy worked. But human beings were capable of more than humdrum
procreation. The sciences, the humanities were testaments of a much greater
scope, ventures superseding simple multiplication. And yet, she couldn't
help noticing, people kept on propagating. Even at the risk of
overpopulation and all the strains it placed on other living things. Sex
felt good but not that good. Or did it?
"Why do couples keep having babies,
Seymour, when A. the world has more than enough already, B. doesn't
childbirth hurt (?), and C. when there are vastly more adventurous ways to
spend ones time and energy?"
"Hey, how come you thumped me?"
"Because you spaced out, Blockhead;
totally. I'll rephrase my question. Why is fucking still an all-time
favorite pastime for a species supposedly smarter than a chimpanzee's?"
Demanding no less effort to impart an
apt reply, VV's query—revised—was at least a consolidation—her trinity
reduced to a manageable one—which Seymour weighed deliberately (not
interminably) in hopes of sounding wise (though more than willing to settle
for anything short of stupid).
"Maybe we keep doing like the animals
on account of we think they're happy."
This, in turn, gave VV pause; she
studied one of the puzzle pieces—which depicted part of an infant and a
cloud that served as its bed—holding it with her fingers prior to fitting it
in, its little pink portion of face reminiscent of her own... when she was
simpler than Seymour, certainly, simpler than an ape, struggling to make her
powerless appendages move as they were charged, blinking to focus eyes
frustratingly nearsighted, straining to generate sounds less jejune than
gurgles, burbles, and burps, dependent on Mom's intuition to anticipate
every need; even bodily functions were beyond her vain control back then.
Happy? Marginally, VV remembered—or 'imagined' she remembered. Was babyhood
accessible to memory's clumsy reach? Or did uncoordinated limbs betoken
uncoordinated thoughts, rendering recall fickle, unreliable, or humanly
impossible? In any case, simplicity did not equate with happiness. Seymour
must be miserable, was Violetta's hunch. Once again, for the first time in
their relationship, VV bore witness...
... to Seymour's cockeyed features
pathetically composed, hanging on her retort, wary lest it be critical or
casually dismissive of an opinion that, by commonplace standards, should not
even count, coming from a Retard who prized a pintsize girl for her
disproportionate smarts—gigantic and oh so enviable—able to say how she felt
with such precision that it let emotions out instead of trapping them inside
a thick post-encephalitic skull whose resident wit was blunter than a
croquet mallet.
"But are they really?"
"Huh?"
"We call animals 'dumb.' Would you say
dumb means happy?"
The wariness lodged in Seymour's look
dissolved, then trickled down his cheeks—set on fire by embarrassment,
wounded pride, and sheer humiliation; mistaking VV's question for an insult
unduly sharp, resenting her comparing him to God's lesser creatures,
expecting him to speak on behalf of the lowly, not as might Saint Francis,
but rather as a beast himself. Straightening his shoulders, arching his
back, and lifting his quivering chin, Seymour snapped a rejoinder that gave
them both a start.
"I'm no monkey's uncle; answer for
yourself!"
"Wow!" was VV's instant
acknowledgment, patently impressed, understanding clearly how her words had
been misinterpreted. "Here," she handed him the puzzle piece.
Without a moment's hesitation, Seymour
plopped it in—a stroke of luck, for sure, but nonetheless effective.
VV grinned ear to ear.
Seymour likewise smiled, then reached
across to Violetta's forehead and gave it a tit-for-tat 'thump.'
Friends again, they contentedly
resumed their picture-puzzle enterprise.
It was a shock. It raised a swarm of
questions. It offended. It enraged. And it bemused. It mesmerized with a
curious prurient mix of what was natural and unnatural, familiar and
unfamiliar, decent and indecent. It had been hidden yet not so securely as
to escape discovery. It had to have been concocted but did not betray by
whom; the 'for' whom element was obvious and maddeningly inescapable. Its
implications ranged from scurrilous to outright abominable. Its utter
corruption of innocence censored all except the filthiest connotations. Its
brazen qualities affronted; their ill-effects were visceral. Sophie felt a
double-breasted rash of personal degradation that overlapped and itched,
that chafed parental conscience and rubbed marital mores raw, for surely he
who commissioned such an icon, who had stashed it none-too-subtly underneath
his briefs, and who had used it as an aphrodisiac (?), she conjectured, to
whet his furtive appetite for ravaging 'her' daughter, 'his' stepdaughter,
'their' solo dependent, doubtless was the culprit, both adulterer and
incest-craving profligate rolled into one deceitful, disgustingly
duplicitous, son-of-a-bitch and bastard! The longer Sophie stared at
VIOLETTA LADY the angrier she became, first and foremost at herself for
gross imperceptiveness (even Wayne had cautioned her about marrying a
"jock"; sour grapes, she had smugly diagnosed, her body eagerly making up
for wasted, ungratified time, her mind infused with endorphins, her child
not at risk), secondly at Phil for proving to be a monster (shamming
fatherly concern while plotting twofold treachery, violating vows and
Violetta both, sullying everything sacred about parenthood and matrimony),
thirdly at her child for concealing the atrocity (enduring what, how often,
where and when, she shuddered to think), knowing Phil's proclivities,
ignorant of Violetta's yearnings—if a nine-year-old could be said to yearn
for sex per se at all, unless led astray, introduced too soon but no less
consequentially by a man whose carnal knowledge was second to none, and who
might indeed get off on indoctrinating a schoolgirl, irrespective her age,
so long as it was he who staked his claim first; Phil, if anything, was
possessive, and 'took' possession greedily.
Such were Sophie's thoughts upon
uncovering VV's evidence, wife-with-mother-with-self at odds, at all-out
war, incredulity her only haven, should denials by Phil be forthcoming,
convincing, and, if God hath mercy, true.
"I knew that kid of yours was hanging
out with a nogoodnik. This is proof positive she's under some pervert's
influence. Incredible!" Phil looked again at Seymour Starkey's handiwork,
converting id-triggered Eros into irate-Dad solicitude, his outrage at the
print's obscenity less genuine than his vouchsafed ignorance about its
existence. "You found this where; in 'our' dresser, under 'my' underwear?
That's a low blow, if you'll forgive the pun. By process of elimination,
there's only one person who could have put it there. Would you care to
speculate why? I know Violetta 'dislikes' me, but this is malevolent. Child
pornography plus molestation-of-a-minor equals jail-time, big-time." Again
he examined the print, ostensibly to deduce its origin, covertly to absorb
its pristine licentiousness. "Is it possible she's protecting her real
seducer by pointing the finger at me?"
Sophie, so relieved that Phil, in lieu of a confession, was positing an
alternative to her precipitous condemnation, balked before accepting what
was too good to believe, reluctant to suffer a replay of her abject anguish,
if Phil, despite this reprieve, ultimately proved guilty. Hating herself for
doubting her beloved husband, weighed against hating herself far worse for
doubting her only begotten child (who had not, in point of fact, accused
Phil, or anyone for that matter, of seducing her, but had admitted seducing
others), Sophie fought off the urge to be persuaded outright. Sensing this,
Phil reinforced his defense's plausibility.
"Remember that time she ran away,
spent the entire night 'out,' and came home no-worse-for-wear—or so we
assumed—still dressed in her pajamas? We never did drag out of her where it
was she went. My guess is, someone in this building has been offering VV
refuge, exacting God-knows-what as payment in return. I don't suppose she
told you anything specific before she hightailed it out of here?"
Putting Sophie on the defensive let
Phil rest his case. While he indulged in one more lingering look at VIOLETTA
LADY, Violetta's mother connected the damning dots.
The long-anticipated visit by Child
Protective Services took place in accordance with Hawthorne School Board's
plan to "act in everyone's best interests," VV's expulsion having appeased
the litigious-leaning parents of her (happily) sodomized peers, an approved
transfer for the coming year (to a middle school within the same district
but outside their immediate neighborhood) putting VV beyond reach, it was
hoped, of her "unfortunate reputation," and a thorough medical examination
scheduled (with a Psychologist/Pediatrician appointed by the State) to
determine whether mental and/or physical damage from sexual abuse indeed had
been sustained—an examination VV, for reasons unknown, stubbornly resisted
and managed to get postponed pending the results of CPR's preliminary
twofold interview:
-
part one with the alleged victim's parents,
-
part two with the youngster herself,
were steps devised to investigate, analyze, and remedy the thorny situation.
|
EVALUATION
CHILD: Violetta Vickers (age 9)
MOTHER: Sophia McNulty (age 30)
STEPFATHER: Phillip Lawrence McNulty (age 40)
SIBLINGS: none
BIOLOGICAL FATHER: Wayne Paul Vickers (age 37) resides
out-of-state Neither parent reported being aware of
subject's possible sexual abuse until notified by school authorities who
observed behavioral shifts that include:
·
applying lipstick (red shades exclusively)
·
wearing skirts and dresses (pants had been typical prior)
·
exhibiting marked interest in opposite gender (reciprocated)
· erratic application of body illustrations (subject known for
decorating limbs with ink-drawn doodles and witticisms)
·
composing an essay in class about recent life changes that suggest
illicit intimacy (with an adult)
·
performing oral sex on several male classmates at a site off
campus (recounted after-the-fact by boys involved). Both parents describe subject's
attitude toward stepfather as hostile. Mother expressly concerned about
subject plotting revenge for spankings administered by husband. In support
of this likelihood, parents produced a photographic print hidden by subject
in stepfather's underclothes that depicts her in the nude with a
fully-developed physique. Parents suspect whoever created this image is the
grownup molesting their daughter and further suspect the subject is
protecting this person's identity. Neither ventured to speculate why such
might be the case. Subject, by all accounts, is remarkably articulate, with
a genius-level IQ, hence equally adept at evasiveness and candor. |
"So, Violetta; or do prefer VV? Which
of us would you like to talk to? Your choice; him or me? My name is April.
This is Seth. We work at Child Protective Services, meaning what our job
entails is protecting kids like you. If they need protection, of course. If
everything is safe, we don't intervene. The way we find out whether we can
be useful is by having a little chat."
VV sat in the living room armchair,
Seth and April on the rug, their heads intentionally lower than the
interviewee's—who tilted hers to the left then to the right in a dumb show
of deciding. When, at length, it appeared she might be stymied, Violetta
chose.
"Both."
Predicting that their subject would be
more at ease with a female, Seth and April registered joint surprise—April
mildly disappointed; she was good at getting children to open up, girls and
boys alike, better at it than Seth, who was too intellectual, always eager
to engage in a 'meeting of the minds.' His smiling eyes, when VV's mutely
met them, read 'diplomatic choice.' April, anxious to begin (and to prove
her superiority), introduced next a pair of dolls, each equipped with
anatomical features specific to its gender; tactfully explicit, their
genitals ranked as 'cute,' replete with sufficient detail to gainsay
ambiguity.
"These are our assistants, who,
unfortunately, have no names. We were hoping you would suggest a couple?
What should we call this one?"
April held up the she-doll for VV's
consideration. Anticipating its purpose, 'the subject' thought it droll. She
took it from April's hand to examine it more closely.
"Sarah."
"Sarah she is." April held up the
he-doll. "And this one?"
VV eyed it analytically.
"Elmer."
"Elmer he is. Because?"
"His face is like Elmer Fudd's."
"And Sarah?"
VV shrugged.
"First girl's name I could think of."
"Do you know any Elmers or Sarahs?"
"Nope. Except for the old cartoon."
With her free hand VV took "Elmer," swiveling him by the waist to inspect
his genitalia juxtaposed to "Sarah's," tickled by the user-friendly nature
of the pair's sewn-in parts—similarly fashioned from sculpted nylon
stockings.
"Cool."
She moved to hand them back but April
gestured otherwise.
"Keep them while we talk, why don't
you? Maybe they can help? You know, by showing us, through them, how people
have behaved? People in your life who are making you sad or happy?"
"Which?"
"Which people?"
"No, which effect?"
April's use of inflection, lifting her
voice at every statement's end, turning each into a question, was getting on
VV's nerves. Perhaps she should have chosen Seth as her confidante cum
confessor. Men were easier to handle, she was learning, prone to being
charmed. Even Phil betrayed a weakness for succumbing to feminine
wiles—without understanding them, as if an inclination to take a thing by
force precluded comprehension, the victor rendered blind to all save
subliminal cravings... though Phil, to be strictly fair, grasped female
anatomy, VV extrapolated, knowing where to touch, how roughly or how
tenderly, what to hurry or what to prolong, and somehow always sensing when
an orgasm—Sophie's, in actuality—was (audibly) imminent. Selfishly
unselfish, her stepfather's sex drive drove (in episodes VV observed,
therefore strictly vicarious) a woman's body crazy. Though below the age of
consent, VV felt 'informed,' her carnal knowledge expanding on each
(conjectured) occasion that posited Phil's skilled influence on VV's private
practices—her loss of innocence blamed less on McNulty, of a sudden, than on
his undiscerning spouse, VV's mother Sophie bearing the brunt of her
daughter's fickle enmity, gratified undeniably while exposing her only child
to being sinned against and soiled; Violetta reassessed her (supposed)
violation's origin. Phil, neither kith nor kin, could be excused; his crime
was opportunism. Whereas Sophie, as flesh-and-blood, could never be
absolved; hers was a crime of woeful lack of taste and ruinous denial
causing VV's vengeance to refocus: sicking CPS on Phil might be ill-advised.
Stealing him from 'Mom' might serve Sophie right. Crosshairs suddenly
shifted, VV's wrath re-aimed.
|
EVALUATION (continued) Subject admits openly to having an
avid interest in sex. When asked about actual experience, however, answers
were evasive. |
"Has anyone, other than you, ever
touched your peepee?"
"My what? Are we talking about my
urethra, my vagina, or my euphemistic 'cleft of Venus'?"
|
Though subject demonstrates a
remarkable vocabulary and appears to know the basics and-then-some about
human sexuality, she betrays no sense of shame about conduct divulged. |
"Oh, that. Only the kids who wash.
Boys my age are filthy, especially their so-called 'peepees.'
Scrub-a-dub-dub beforehand or please do not apply."
|
Subject's disarming precociousness may
double as a defense mechanism. |
"How would you describe your
relationship with Mom and Dad?"
"Snugly uncommunicative and distantly
affectionate."
"Really? Your mother seems to think
you bear your father some sort of grudge?"
"True; my father left and I hate his guts for that. Otherwise, I regard him
rather fondly... Oh, you mean Phil. Do I bear my stepfather a grudge? Safe
to say, I can't bear Phil at all."
|
Anyone in authority is viewed
by subject with hostility. This may stem from resentment about parents'
separation or indicate an adult, at some point, has been abusive. |
"George? Well, George is being 'phased out,' so to speak, due to a
'budgetary crunch,' is what I was told. That makes Mr. Cunningham, our
Principal of Vice, my default guidance counselor, who's not much good as a
psychologist but listens when I speak. Like most adults, however, power has
fucked him up."
|
Supporting parents' suspicion that
subject may have befriended the person molesting her, an inadvertent mention
may have been made. |
"Grownups with half a brain can figure out what's fair. Children know
instinctively. Yet the only grownup I've ever met who acts fair happens to
be a dolt."
|
Subject's placement and wording of
'tattoos' would appear to be self-defacement; one such, unrevealed, was
nonetheless described. |
"I copped it from a vintage flick in
whatshisname's VCR collection, starring some actress who drowned—though Wood
is supposed to float. Sorry; bad joke. In lettering fitted into a cheese
wedge shape, THIS PROPERTY IS CONDEMNED is how it reads upside-down."
|
When asked, pointblank, if subject
required our services, assistance was declined. |
"I changed my mind, is all. Sometimes
kids feel overwhelmed when confronted by icky problems. Mine aren't that
unsolvable, I've decided; I can handle them myself. Thanks, but no thanks,
is what I'm saying, if you're really asking me."
"My say-so regardless, they'll do whatever they want. April was the cagey
one. Seth was more straightforward (though he hardly said boo). Neither
thinks that 'Dad' is double-dicking, which may be just as well. The print I
planted evidently backfired; instead of incriminating Phil, it gave him
grounds for convincing my own mother that I was trying to frame her
hairy-handed spouse, her super-stud-of-a-husband, her two-timing 'backdoor
man'—I saw them, Seymour, going at it, Phil's 'you-know-what' inserted like
an inverse turd. Don't look 'inverse' up; it'll gross you out tout de
suite."
The puzzle, all but finished, still
lay spread across Seymour's floor, one piece left unplaced awaiting VV's
return to execute that honor—accomplished incidentally, as she deconstructed
her meeting with the "Governmental Agents," hirelings of the State whose
mission made life miserable for one side, the other, or both, custody issues
seldom settled equitably as viewed by those involved.
"Mom cut up your print, by the way, and flushed it down our toilet. Over the
objections of April, Seth, and Phil. A stroke of luck that saved me the
trouble, and you the remote possibility that fingertips I wiped clean might
still have been retrievable. So much for Plan A; Plan B is 'in development,'
specifics T.B.D."
Seymour looked perplexed.
"To Be Decided, Puddenhead. How'd you
assemble this without me?" VV studied the jigsaw. "And what are we looking
at anyway; airborne cherubs? Weird. Where'd you buy it?"
"I ordered it special from a Jigsaw
Puzzler online. I sent in a CMYK jpeg; they sent it back as a puzzle."
"Cool. So this is one-of-a-kind? An
original Seymour Starkey? What's it of."
"Limbo, of course."
"Babies floating around on clouds?"
"These babies are unbaptized and it's
on account of that they're here... 'in a state of perfect natural
happiness.' I told you this before. Don't you remember?"
"Vaguely."
"You said you wanted to go there."
Seymour pondered the finished
skyscape, every piece in place, residents each aloft, sedate, and seemingly
self-satisfied—or as satisfied as possible in the absence of God Almighty,
who ought to reconsider the wisdom, Seymour dared to advocate, of punishing
infants for sins committed by adults. Adam and Eve were grownups, after all,
when they disobeyed God's order. And though every soul thenceforward was
required to be cleansed of Original Sin, it seemed a bit unfair to include
itty-bitty babies. It seemed unfair, by Seymour's simple reasoning, to
punish innocents at all; leastways not for all Eternity—which struck him as
an unreasonably long sentence for just about any crime, let alone one
inherited by unwitting newborns. Since Seymour had taken down his crucifix,
putting VIOLETTA LADY in its place, God's laws seemed too strict and
unforgiving in a world that needed fairness more than it did piety. The Ten
Commandments, with their dos and don'ts, were important, but The Golden Rule
was simpler: "Do unto others as you would have others do unto you," was easy
to understand, could always be applied, and it helped no matter who or what
a person prayed to. Religion caused too many fights; The Golden Rule struck
nothing but truces. Not that a Retard's musings were worth anyone's
consideration. Seymour knew too well the cost of his limitations. Insights,
brainstorms, breakthroughs, and the like, at his level, admittedly were
jokes. Still, he could only do his best with the head atop his shoulders,
and Limbo, as he envisioned it, was rendered to a T, with a place reserved
for VV—lower right-hand corner on the puzzle's foremost cloud.
"Hey, is this one supposed to be me?"
Seymour grinned.
VV struck a semblance of the
coppertop's comfy pose, bent legs crossed at the ankles, one hand resting on
her chest, the other behind her head, an elbow flush with her temple,
forearm pressed to her cheek, eyes closed miming slumber... until she
peek-a-booed a look, catching Seymour with his mug so melancholic it made
her want to cry.
"You created this puzzle for me, huh?
And you saved me the last piece to place? And you've had to step around it
for who knows how long until I came to see it?"
As VV asked these questions she
resumed a seated posture, folding her legs politely under the hem of a
vintage skirt, her scabby knees protruding like a two-headed tortoise.
Seymour, sitting opposite, noted the
abrasions—rug burns, possibly. From sliding into bases on artificial turf?
Or caused by an activity considerably less wholesome? Conjecturing the
latter had overcast Seymour's brow, saddened by yet another manifestation of
his visitor's troubled character, VV's youth misled but no longer unawares.
An element of collusion had compromised her status and lent to her
flirtatiousness an almost venial look... unless hers was a bluff that some
callous grownup called, taking foul; advantage in lieu of taking her to
task...
... Phil, perchance, confident 'Daddy's little girl' had weighed the pros
and cons and chosen not to indict him, her change-of-heart rewarded by
mutual magnanimity; he would overlook her injudicious dalliance with that
coterie of boys; she henceforth would avoid them—the rug burns incidental to
this godforsaken pact, or proof that Sophie's place indeed had been usurped?
Seymour, none too sure about this
superficial evidence, nonetheless intuited VV's squirmy conscience,
incurring first her solicitude then the fickle youngster's wrath. 'Who was
he to judge? To pronounce her unfit for Paradise? To maroon her in his
airhead's notion of an Afterlife so implausible it was as stupid as a
Loony-Tunes cartoon?' Affection swapped for animus, Violetta bristled.
Pertinent to nothing said, she scrambled to her feet. Seymour, taken aback,
looked on in horror as the hothead lifted her skirt (THIS PROPERTY IS
CONDEMNED nakedly revealed) squatted over the jigsaw puzzle and peed—uric
acid blistering, on contact, the splashed and splattered image, which VV,
stepping to the door—CLUNK—left in her spiteful wake!
Violetta didn't mean to do that. It
was my fault she got angry. It was my fault she got in trouble with the
police. And it was my fault she got abducted. Most of what took place from
this point on I could and should have prevented. But maybe I better start
with what came next when she stormed from my apartment and ran smack-dab
into—guess who (?)—Phil, who was waiting down the hall.
VV left the door ajar upon exiting
19D, a happenstance of which Phil took headlong advantage; "I'll settle with
you shortly" was his over-the-shoulder threat as he shoved past Violetta's
guard, her outstretched arm ineffectual in impeding the madman's momentum,
which thrust him into Seymour's startled presence with mayhem-minded fury:
unappeased by finding 'the weirdo' on
his knees mopping up urine with a sponge,
unsympathetic upon seeing The Retard
drop his jaw in frightened anticipation, and
undeterred from damning 'the pervert'
outright for high crimes and misdemeanors
thus unrepentant when delivering a
sanctimonious kick,
and then another,
and then another,
to a man already down,
already clutching the broken rib
inflicted by his attacker,
by him whose upright onslaught brewed
adrenaline out of guilt or jealous indignation, then managed to suspend
further abuse lest he be cast as villain when the authorities pressed
'several' charges, among them (as Phil spotted Seymour's PC, modem, and
printer) production, possession, and doubtless distribution of felonious
child pornography, its most egregious example—VIOLETTA LADY—hidden by the
Murphy bed:
(indecent-exposure framed,
niche-in-the-wall enshrined,
imagery geared to prey upon
best-suppressed 'inclinations')...
... 'tendencies' were all that Phil
admitted to under oath—and that was done to none save his parish priest...
... whereas Seymour Starkey pled 'no
contest' to every accusation, guilty as he was of thought, word, and deed,
imagining VIOLETTA LADY come to life, as he did often, asking her to be his
girl, his sweetheart, his wedded wife, and touching her—yes, all over—on her
'coccyx' and her crotch, the Vs of VV's body like his heart's pathetic
vortex, throbbing unrequitedly, doubly starved for love, for fondling rather
than groping, for desire that transformed lust into tenderness unto
passionate compassion in communion with delight at having, holding, and
cherishing someone above all others,
thought, word, deed condemning him,
guilty, guilty, guilty
of every crime as charged,
if not on counts in court, nonetheless
deserving of ridicule and chastisement, the former for pretending that a
person as dumb as he could woo and win a person as smart as VV (once she
turned eighteen), the latter for his woeful (current) failure to offer her
protection; of what use was a security guard who left his post unmanned, who
left a child unsafe, and who left her plight to a pedophile (?)…
... alleged, alleged, alleged;
"bless me Father for I have sinned; it has been several weeks since my last
confession, and here are my offenses," yet Phil spoke not the words required
for absolution. Why were thoughts considered sins when they did not rank as
crimes? Profanity, he understood, could be hurtful therefore sinful. Actions
were, of course, either laudable or deplorable. But why should he confess to
'thinking' about having sex with a minor? Even if that minor read his mind
and behaved as if he had, made accusations behind his back, impugned his
reputation, as if he could and would indulge in acts immoral and/or
illegal—though both terms were relative:
-
girls had once gotten married at the tender age of twelve
-
incest must have been sanctioned Originally, the proof, irrefutably Eve, the human race having started necessarily through interbreeding
Not that his recent 'wet dreams' qualified as incestuous; he and his
hot-pants stepchild (as 'step' implied) were blood-wise unrelated, his
attraction to both mom and daughter not only conceivable but blamelessly
natural, VV a youthful incarnation of her super-sexy mother—Phil's object of
desire, the apple of his eye, with reference again to Eve, and Adam's
predisposition to mate with any and all lookalikes (albeit never mentioned
in the Book of Genesis); surely sex with a nine-year-old had pardonable
precedents, if merely serving as practice for when a child could a child
conceive, VV's being premenstrual an ideal state for prefacing procreation
with impeccant play, as other mammals mimicked adult behavior during the
maturation process, fumbling with their siblings, more often than not, until
they learned how to couple, instinct tutored by experience, by repeated
trial and error; why not learn from an expert? Should grownups educate
children in everything 'other' than reproduction, leave that one significant
area for children to school themselves, even when a child awakened early to
the rhapsodies of sex, hungered for its turbulence, thirsted for its
thrills, bounced with greedy enthusiasm when impaled on a full-grown member
(?)—or so Phil had 'hypothesized' while hearing about VV's exploits with
that raunchy band of boys, or while watching her masturbate, or while coping
with her brazen trick of baring her buns for spankings; it was she, not he,
who fanned the flames of iniquitous sensuality, her coquettishness a weapon,
her standoffishness a ploy, her very innocence anything-but...
... as he slapped her buttocks pink,
then splotchy rose, then candy-apple red, having dealt with her
confederate...
(Seymour left in a heap, sputtering blood bubbles, further defacing the puzzle over which he huddled dejectedly).
... Phil having then given chase out
the door and along the corridor, catching the misbegotten imp mid-foyer,
hauling her (howling like a banshee) down the stairs and into their
apartment, where Sophie, this time, watched her wayward daughter's
well-earned chastening, saw how VV managed to flaunt her lack of panties by
grasping fistfuls of fabric, hiking up her skirt, and exposing herself plus
icons, her indiscreet 'tattoos'—more elaborate than ever, with pictographs
and words documenting the trials and tribulations of a vacillating tween
gung-ho and reluctant to shed her childhood trappings, frightened and
emboldened by her enigmatic intellect, prematurely ripe and loving-hating
every minute of it, seized not only by Phil (hell-bent on ousting his and
her demons, as if they could be purged via pain from palm prints plied) but
likewise seized by a spasm of vulvar excitation; her hypertrophic clitoris
rubbed against Phil's obliging thigh, denim darkened on contact with
Violetta's discharge, indigo bruised to purple like her black-and-blue
behind...
... nursed alone in her room after
Stepdad left off walloping (satisfied he had hurt her, if perturbed by his
pant-leg's stain), tender to the touch, almost mushy, like a pulverized
roast of rump, antipathy come full circle, brute force besting wit,
neutralizing guile, and curbing disobedience; adults (!), how VV loathed
them; how she knew she must become one, yet resisted it; how her brain
outstripped physique, which set her senses in a whirl, churning up such dust
as to obscure her true identity—reduced to an insubstantial shadow, to a
self in silhouette, to a character sketched in outline antipathetic to its
gradual filling-in, aware that grownups lurked to render her like 'them,'
with colors from their box of commonplace Crayolas.
Pardon this interruption but I'm a little bit confused about who did what to
whom and why nobody has gone to jail yet. Is Phil McNulty in denial or has
he been molesting Violetta Vickers? Is Violetta Vickers a victim or a
pathological liar? Is Seymour Starkey a dimwitted sexual predator or a
dimwitted dupe? One of the liabilities of telling a tale through an idiot is
that much of that idiot's story fails make sense. My job is to record but
also to extrapolate. Seymour couldn't have known countless details that
already have been related—'intuited,' if you will, by yours truly—during the
process of recreating them. He feeds me the facts (those he recollects,
limited as they are given their source's limitations) and I endeavor to
'fabricate' an account that weaves a woof of truth. Not "the whole truth,
and nothing but the truth, so help me" Santa Claus (liar or not, VV won my
heart with her skeptic's take on Jehovah), rather the truth as it might
dawn, say, on members of a jury as they weigh the facts communally but
construe them individually as they are instructed. Seymour was a fool to opt
for a plea bargain. Once you admit to the State that you are guilty of a
crime, you're at a judge's mercy. On the other hand, claim your right to a
jury trial by entering the plea not guilty and you have a twelvefold chance
of getting off. If only a single Reader, at this stage, has doubts about
Seymour's culpability, you understand my point; people empathize with
people. And though judges, lawyers, bailiffs are (ostensibly) people, too,
they tend to develop calluses on their humanity that jury members don't; not
in court, where laymen typically feel guilty themselves, are relieved that
somebody else is on the stand, and are reluctant to sit in judgment lest
they be judged in turn. Seymour, I repeat, was a fool to cop a plea of
guilty.
Unless what we've been told is some elaborate rationalized whopper. The
thought has occurred to me. Yet, ironically, of the characters thus far
introduced, Starkey seems the least likely to spin deliberate falsehoods. He
may be pathetic (curled up in a pool of blood and pee, the place where I'll
resume, once taking you on this detour), but honesty rivals stupidity as one
of our Retard's unfailing traits. As much as I hate to admit it, he may not
be such a reprobate—though I still have my doubts. As well should any Reader
who shares my confusion about the aforementioned 'ambiguities.'
Fiction, unlike 'real life,' is 'contrived' to make it appear plausible... in the finale, at least... when every mystery gets solved, every question gets answered, and every loose end gets tied. This book, if pre-existent as I have maintained, should prove no exception. Though frankly, I've begun to worry; it continues to write itself, but has contradictory elements; expectations (mine, for example) are straying far afield, and issues crystal clear (again to me) have gotten rather murky. 'Pedophiles Unite' is not the clarion call I want this work to sound. 'Hang 'em from the yardarm, by the balls' is still my sentiment; whereas split-hair qualms to the contrary disregard what every abused child feels when trust in a trusted grownup gets 'Violetta Violated.
Adhering to his piss-moist cheek when
Seymour tried to rise, to overrule the lethargy that had commandeered his
pride and left him indisposed to do much of anything, was a jigsaw puzzle
piece of discolored cloud and sky... which stuck all the while he propped
himself on an elbow, grimaced at the paralyzing pain that shot through his
injured side, forced his gone-to-sleep feet to bear his weight, albeit
buzzingly, circulation slow to help him gain his bearings and support his
shaky steps to shut the left-ajar door, its deadbolt—CLUNK—resounding in his
wake en route to the bathroom, where the puzzle piece lost its grip, at
last, and fell into the sink... over which, in the medicine chest mirror,
Seymour raked his features, distorting them grotesquely with his fingers'
downward trawl, his expression reminiscent of "The Scream" by Edvard Munch.
Sadness seeped from every pore. His
skin appeared to be jaundiced, as if tinged by the sickening certainty he
would see Violetta no more, her Stepdad's withering condemnation fiercer
than the kicks it reinforced, inflicting damage to his psyche far exceeding
that done to his ribcage; it put him in his place with the same tenacity of
the judge who eventually passed sentence, both entirely justified to hold
him in contempt, awkward, useless, and stupid as Seymour felt he was,
scrawny, scruffy, and goofy as he knew, too well, he looked, undeserving of
sympathy, mercy, or anyone's forgiveness, much less his own, for doting upon
a nine-year-old, imagining she might marry him—once her little body caught
up with her ultra-grownup smarts and she resembled VIOLETTA LADY in all her
unclad glory... ignominious icon as that graven image proved when entered
(Exhibit A) into evidence against him, a memento even then with which he
parted grudgingly, cleaving to his pipedream with pitiful devotion,
heartened by its promise (no matter false), by its winsomeness sustained,
ideals somehow more durable than everyday reality, hope, like faith, a boon
irrespective any semblance to the truth.
Such were Seymour's reflections upon
his reflection as framed by the bathroom's gilt-edged glass, its imitation
gold befitting an artificial virtue that the 'Scatterbrain' now confessed,
lack of wit a poor excuse for dubious moral conduct, in his humble
estimation—seconded by the court, in a case that never went to trial;
Seymour Starkey's confession sufficed to remove him as a menace to society.
I'm not supposed to skip stuff, I was
told by you-know-who, like how I got arrested—which I didn't want to mention
on account of who turned me in—but something happened before that, something
connected but way more important; the night Phil beat me up, VV disappeared.
I know because the landlord claimed Phil made him open my apartment to check
if his "missing-person stepdaughter" had been kidnapped and was
"bound-and-gagged inside." Phil was making such a racket banging on my door,
hollering "VV," and calling me bad names that a neighbor phoned our landlord
on his cell and he came straight over. I was away at work, thank goodness,
or Phil might have hurt me worse. Our landlord figured 'better him than the
police' so he let himself in. As soon as he reported that my place was
totally empty, Phil went looking elsewhere, mad as a hornet.
Funny thing is I wasn't all that
worried when I found out VV left. What Phil called "an abduction" wasn't
really. He just said so to cause trouble when he guessed where it was VV
went. And sure enough she made it, all the way up to Seattle. Got there
almost faster than she would have if she'd flown. Wayne—Wayne Vickers, VV's
biological father—phoned to tell her mom that their daughter was safe and
sound. That's when Phil insisted she must have been abducted; who ever heard
of a nine-year-old hitchhiking from San Francisco, California to Seattle,
Washington, alone, overnight, and finding an address where she'd never ever
been on an off-shore island? The FBI also was suspicious. They got involved
on account of VV crossing not one but two state lines. So Blue—Wayne
Vickers' girlfriend, who he lives with—hired a lawyer. Phil got even madder
because he couldn't afford one. And Wayne not only was protecting himself
from possible criminal charges, he was maybe going to sue for custody of
Violetta. Believe you me, things got complicated quick. But I was
happy—happy for VV—who was better off away. What she needed most was a brand
new start.
Kindness was the virtue that delivered
Violetta Vickers into the arms of her dumbstruck father on Orcas Island;
kindness aided and abetted by sheer luck and the runaway's little white
lies:
"You're running away from home?"
"I was."
"Meaning what; you've changed your
mind?"
"Uh huh."
"So now you're going back? Where do
you live?"
"On one of the San Juan islands."
"Off the coast of Seattle?! You got all the way here from there?!"
And that was how the Good Samaritan
came to be 'schnookered' into taking Violetta "home"—an act of softhearted
selflessness nonetheless, considering he, an auto mechanic from Tacoma, was
only going that far yet agreed to "take a little detour" in the spirit of
reuniting a brave if delinquent daughter with her no doubt desperate dad,
whose "second wife" (another fib the returnee confided), "wasn't all that
bad."
Meanwhile, justice came a-knocking on
Seymour Starkey's door, its Cyclops peephole unable to ward off the warrant
for his arrest, while eyes espying from without could not detect if those
within were scared, looking for an escape route, or presently not therein.
Advised that the suspect worked nights, the officers had come mid-morning,
timed to find him home and, with any luck, asleep. The element of surprise
was generally useful for minimizing resistance—though experience taught, in
cases such as these, that suspects surrendered passively, many of them
grateful, even eager, to be apprehended at last, agreeing with the public's
characterization that they were, indeed, pariahs, and wishing for some means
by which they might atone, in some sense already imprisoned by the social
stigma damning them for crimes admittedly base but beyond their
self-control.
Joining the pair of officers, passkey in hand, was
"Like I told you, he works graveyard;
normally he'd be in."
"Open the door, please."
"You fellas know there are rules about
entering a unit when the occupant…"
"We have a felony warrant."
"Of course, of course."
The landlord, sorry to be involved,
complied with the request. Stepping aside, he let the policemen in, then
made as if to leave.
"We may need you to sign for items
taken into evidence."
"Of course, of course. You want me
to…"
"Wait in the hall, if you would,
please."
Resigned to his role as adjunct, the
landlord assumed his post.
"Looks more like a kid's room, with
all these action-hero comics."
"Candy-wrapper type."
"You think?"
"They make me sick; use this stuff as
lures. 'Come play with my toys, little girl.' Next thing you know, she's
screwed; physically, psychologically; these assholes do a number. Kids end
up in therapy, fucked up for life. Look at this crap; everything's geared
toward mesmerizing a minor."
From a prosecutorial viewpoint,
"Better let the lab-nerds work their
wiles on this. Seal it."
"Wow."
"'Wow' what?"
"Check out the Murphy bed. Haven't
seen one of these since the old I Hotel."
"That's a bed?"
"Yeah, watch. You pull it down, like
so."
And that was how the police found
VIOLETTA LADY, in all her 'incriminating' glory, a near-identical match with
the order left uncollected in Berkeley, the little girl downstairs, as both
parents vouchsafed, depicted in each, the perpetrator clearly him whose
as-yet-unexplained absence merely delayed his imminent and overdue
apprehension.
They caught me at work; the police
did. Walked right up and cuffed me. Then they read me my rights, which meant
I didn't have to talk to them. Not without a lawyer; which I didn't have
yet, so, in the meantime, we just chatted. Everything I said, though, "could
and would be used against me." And sure enough it was. They were good at
remembering; I got quoted word for word, just like a celebrity. The public
defender they lent me said I'd "let the cat out of the bag," meaning stuff I
blabbed while talking with the detectives "cooked my goose." I thought that
was funny. He thought it was bad, and the best thing we could do, under the
circumstances, was to plead guilty and ask for the judge's mercy. One thing
I was careful not to blab was stuff I'm telling you. In this book, I mean.
About VV. Every time they asked about her I played dumb. They asked and
asked and asked. But I did like I promised. They said VV was in trouble, and
it was up to me to help. I thought that was maybe a trap so I kept my trap
shut. They also told me it was VV who turned me in. I didn't want to believe
it—us being friends, and all—but if what they said was true, then VV must
have had her reasons. She was up there on that island with her father, like
she wanted, so I figured she was happy, and I didn't want to spoil things. I
wished I could have said goodbye or called or sent an email, but all my
stuff was 'confiscated' the day they arrested me, the same day I got a tooth
pulled then took myself to lunch then fell asleep on a pew at Old St. Mary's
Cathedral in Chinatown. Luckily (sort of), I had my uniform on, or I would
have been late for work. "Son, observe the time and fly from evil," it says
on that church, right outside on the steeple: Ecclesiastes IV, verse 23.
That's what's called 'ironic' on account of I flew into evil, rushing to my
job where I got handcuffed and hauled off to jail, then to the penitentiary,
a nasty place that made me think of Purgatory all while I was there.
 |
Seymour inhaled deeply, held it a
moment, then let his breath out slowly... an unvoiced sigh seeming to
punctuate his lengthy exhalation, his hands, eclipsing antimacassars at
armrests' end, relaxed, fingers spread like full-sized pinions attached to
stunted wings; he looked small, in the old-fashioned armchair, almost
shrunken in its overstuffed midst, toes scarcely reaching the floor in front
of an unemployed footrest, its panel flush with Naugahide upholstery that
wheezed with every shift of weight grown less substantial during the course
of this marathon interview... ... recorded for posterity by the author seated opposite, whose scrutiny flared like an atheist's eying an errant priest, whose overriding attitude seemed angrily hypercritical, whose left hand twitched disaffectedly as if it had betrayed him by failing to avenge some underreported travesty, one mentioned only in passing but neither probed nor amply analyzed, dismissed, thereby, as a motive for undertaking an exposé that left the guilt of its pivotal villain too much in doubt and cast a shadow of uncertainty where conclusiveness had been anticipated; black and white, yielding to ambiguity and the fuzziness of gray; good guys with bad guys disgracefully interchangeable to the detriment of closure... |
 |
... unless retaliation was my understated goal, Seymour Starkey the whipping
boy for wounds—of mine—redressed, which might be why I feel this sense of
unfulfilled vindictiveness, taking out on Starkey, here, what my mind's eye
aimed at her, who crept into my bed when I was nine, who gave me untold
orgasms, who shamed me into silence with a string of bribes and threats that
kept our sins a secret for three, no, four long years, who had me
half-convinced that what we did was 'natural,' who likened it to wet dreams
that all boys my age had, though few could boast of having them so often, or
with such benign intensity, for who could better siphon seed from a child
than his trusty maiden aunt aka babysitter, sister of the mother who gave
him life, then suck, then commended him to the mercy of her sybaritic
sibling who devoured in a long-drawn wealth of hungrily wickedly ways,
consumption that consumed, obsessed, corrupted, and converted him into
something he was not, a boy become a man, then taxed, as an awkward
adolescent, to cope with an avaricious legacy wherein Auntie Maisy Jean left
a rouge-red mark, mouth perpetually painted with incendiary shades, lipstick
that lent Technicolor impressions in the wake of her fellatio, lipstick she
applied to her nether parts, as well, that fed with an appetite rapacious on
the nights she duly 'sat,' all the while professing love incarnadine, love
long-lasting, love professed even now, proud of novels Mr. Good Hand has
written. But what of Mr. Bad Hand's? How will Maisy Jean react to seeing her
crime in print, erupting like some pus-distended blister from underneath
thin skin? Incest was the impetus for this 'pre-existent' work, 'found' as
much as fashioned, fragmented yet intact, finished before completed like an
act of divination, future, past, and present in a single tense combined,
will be, was, and is simultaneous, synchronous to a fault, with you, Dear
Reader, made privy to dislocations in a fiction writer's spine, gathered, as
is this volume, by a crosshatch binding stitched, pages sewn onto empty
pages filled with paragraphs bold and blind.
What is this author ranting about; finish the goddamn story!
"So here you sit with this device
around your ankle that pinpoints where you are but not what it is you're
doing, after having spent... how many years in jail?"
Eight.
"Eight years in confinement, for
crimes that you confessed but, in spirit, did not commit? You have to
register, yearly, as a sex offender? Your mug shot is published on the
internet—alongside the offenses that label you as warped? You lost your job?
You have no home—save this dismal, cheap motel? From which you have to move
because it's too near a school? And all because you befriended a precocious
little brat?"
VV 's not a brat! You shouldn't say
that, Jack. When kids get abused they change. Phil is maybe the one they
should have put in jail. But VV got away from him. And stayed away.
"You're sure of that?"
I'm sure.
"Who told you?"
You did.
"When? How? I didn't even know. You're
the guy who is up on the cold, hard facts. All I do..."
Is make stuff up.
"Is 'report.'"
Okay, the facts:
A month after VV got to Orcas she sent
an 'urgent' email that Seymour never read. His password had been changed.
Hotmail, by court order, had frozen his account. Its cache had been
subpoenaed. VV's message bounced back, much to her consternation. Calls,
too, went unanswered—"service disconnected"—leaving her the only other
option: antiquated snail mail.
|
Hey Dumdum,
Sorry for the radio silence; I've been a tad busy. Living on an island is
cool. Living on this one is... well, dull, frankly, but a whole lot better
'situationally' (look it up) than life with mega-turd Phil. I hope he didn't
hurt you. The Perv sure manhandled me. After he went Postal and stormed into
your place, he waylaid me in the stairwell and dragged me into ours, where,
under the approving eye of my traitorous mother, he beat me to a pulp. That
did it: I split, hightailed it here, and I'M NEVER GOING BACK! And guess
what; I don't have to! Dad and Blue won custody; Mom and Phil cut a deal:
either I stay put on Orcas, or Phil defends himself in court against a slew
of heavy-duty charges—most of them 'invented,' I admit, but 'substantiated'
enough to make him worry that some might just stick. Dad 's got a really
sharp attorney, whereas Cheapskate Phil refused to spring for one, so rather
than risk my tall tales swaying a judge, the McNultys 'capitulated' ('gave
in,' Ninny), setting the stage for everyone to live "happily ever after."
Yeah, sure, right. Problems may change settings and personnel but life as a
ten-year-old (no kidding; just turned) sucks when most grownups and nearly
all of one's peers are relative nincompoops. Speaking of which, you are
maybe the smartest dumbest person I'll probably ever meet. I miss you,
Peabrain; truly. More than I miss my mom. More than I miss just about
anything you could name back in San Francisco. Funny, huh, how you and I
turned out to have so much in common, with me having too many marbles and
you, alas, too few? Which taught me something important; intelligence isn't
everything. It can make a person devious—my brand especially, and that's as
bad as ignorance , which can make a person mean. Goodness, though, shows up
at both ends of the spectrum (as well as in between) which is my
'convoluted' (LOOK IT UP!) way of paying you a compliment. And of thanking
you for being decent, and honest, and loyal, and maybe the best friend I'll
ever have.
Okay; enough Hallmark sentimentality. You remain a lamebrain and I your
wiseacre pal. Why I'm writing this letter is to give you a (late) heads up.
Fuckface Phil is gunning for you. That's right; watch out! He maybe didn't
do half the sleazy things I claimed, but rest assured he wanted to. You
could see it in his leer. Phil had a way of 'looking' at a person that felt
like being 'licked.' Stuff I said he 'committed' was stuff in his
filthy-dirty mind. He's capable of just about anything in the realm of
unsafe sex. Chances are he'll shift the blame to you for evil deeds he
contemplated. So you'd better burn a certain picture; and after that you'd
better trash a certain person's files, and after that leave town, if you
haven't split already. At least till Phil cools down. Lastly, if anybody asks you about me,
you have my unalloyed permission to tell them I'm a fib factory. Sincerely yours, VV ps. I'm really, REALLY sorry I peed on
your jigsaw puzzle. Please forgive me? Sometimes I behave badly; that was me
at my worst. You're a kind person, Seymour, way, way kinder than most, and
"believe you me" that's better than being smart. |
Okay, okay; this didn't work out in the manner that I forecast. Blame the
Creative Process; I just took the ball and ran, the ball being Seymour
Starkey with his 'controversial' scoop. The problem is I pitched this dud of
an exposé to a 'pal' at St. Martin's Press, sent him a rough draft Monday.
It's Friday, now. He already passed. Did he even read it, I can't help
wondering? Awfully quick decision. Or did he see straight off I'd
misrepresented the material? So much for my illusions—make that
'delusions'—of fame and fortune. So much for my assurances to Seymour that
his account would make a splash. I can't so much as deliver on my promise of
publication. Unless I go the Vanity Press route; perish the thought.
CreateSpace, an offshoot of Amazon, will put an author's title into print
for virtually nothing up front; they produce a respectable product and pay a
decent royalty. The drawback is publicity; their contract offers none. At
least there'd be an artifact—albeit printed-on-demand—a 'single' artifact,
therefore (after the author's proof) which makes more sense (and saves on
trees) than mass-producing zillions then having to eat them if your 'tome'
fails to sell. Seymour would get his copy. I'd send him a dozen; he could
share them with his friends, if the schmuck has any left; known sex
offenders are persona non gratae here, there, and everywhere. Justifiably
so; I haven't changed my opinion much on that score. Starkey is an exception
who doesn't dispute the rule. I have to concede, however, I was rash in
misjudging him—failing to overcome my self-acknowledged biases... which, I
trust, intruded minimally on the narrative as a whole. Writers have no place
inside their fiction, if they're wise. My excuse for 'trespassing' stems
from this work's 'blank book found' aspect—lo, so many pages and over
fifty-thousand words ago—which now bears all these progressively legible
scribbles by my liberated hand... "Mr. Bad Hand" striking back, martyr to my
cause, if choosing rather poorly the 'Vehicle for Vengeance.' I can't speak
for you, but for me, Seymour is off the hook. Even Phil, given VV's belated
'testimonial,' might deserve a break. Let any of those among us who has
never transgressed 'in thought' cast the first stone at McNulty. As for the
sexual behavior of others herein described, tact, it would appear,
recommends restraint that I crassly disregarded, offending, no doubt,
everyone (sans those who skipped ahead and bailed). Let me extend a
'qualified' apology. To wit, write down what you like to do with, and have
done unto you by, your all-time favorite sex partner, then read it to an
audience of strangers and measure their and your discomfiture. If you pull
it off with nary an interactive blush, then I'm sorry for upsetting you.
Otherwise, please appreciate that sex is as it is, with equal potential for
turning us off as for turning us on. This rendition is faithful (pardon the
expression) to events as they transpired (allowing for poetic license
invoked to fill in sundry gaps) and as such represents the in-depth,
retrospective plea of a court-convicted pedophile.
EPILOGUE
Do the math. Shorty after Seymour Starkey was released from the
penitentiary, Violetta Vickers turned eighteen. Shortly after Seymour
completed an in-depth interview with yours truly, Jack, he detached his GPS
(illegally) and left California. And shortly after bussing his way to
Seattle, taking the ferry to Orcas Island, arriving in time for VV's
graduation party (graduation from college not from high school), he
re-introduced himself and asked her to marry him. As of this writing—or so I
have been informed—Violetta is giving Seymour's proposal serious
consideration. Based on a true-life story? No; this is a true-life story.
Only the names were changed, "believe you me."
* * *