Young Flesh

Sisters

             I doubt I’ll ever forget this particular coupling: young flesh.  My mother brought me to my grandma’s apartment in Queens.  The following day, we were going to visit the Intrepid: an aircraft carrier that had been converted into a New York City museum.  I’m assuming that I must have been very excited about it, because, as a kid, I was fascinated with all sorts of war machines.  In fact, in elementary school, I was sent to the school psychologist as a result of my penchant for drawing pictures of planes, tanks, and battleships during class.  However, the only thing I remember about that weekend was being molested by my mother’s Uncle Harvey.
            My grandma’s apartment has 2 bedrooms.  My mother slept with my grandma in her bed.  Harvey and I slept in the guest bedroom.  When I woke up in the morning, Harvey was sitting on my bed.  He was also kissing me on the mouth and fondling my crotch.  I’m not exactly sure how old I was at the time, but I think I was 14, 15, or 16 years old. 

            In addition to the kissing and fondling, Harvey murmured something about “young flesh” at least once.  This incident happened many years ago.  However, sometimes, when I see an attractive young woman, the words “young flesh” will pop into my head.  What a sick world.  Once Harvey realized I had woken up, he looked terrified.  “Shhh!” he emitted while gesturing toward my grandma’s bedroom.  I don’t remember him saying anything other than that to me about his transgression.  At least he stopped molesting me once he realized I was awake.

The possibility that I was 16 years old when it happened shamed me for many years.  If I was 16, then I should have hit him at least once.  If I was 16, I shouldn’t have let him get away with it unscathed.  I stopped beating myself up over it years ago.  I was in shock.  The molestation caught me completely by surprise.  After all, he molested me while I was asleep.  That’s what I woke up to.  Maybe I thought I was in the midst of a nightmare before realizing I was awake.  Also, as far as I know, he had never done that to me before.  However, when I was approximately 10 years old, I accompanied Harvey and my grandma on a trip to Niagara Falls and Canada.  I remember nothing about that trip.  Perhaps he wasn’t attracted to me then.

            I told no one about it until after Harvey died; then I told my mother.  Considering that I was telling her about the time her only son was molested by her uncle, she seemed pretty underwhelmed.  I’ve since come to the conclusion that she has some sort of a mental block about it.  I mentioned it to her again one day, and her reaction startled and disappointed me.  Her recollection of it is he asked me for my permission to touch him, I said no, and that was the end of it.  That’s not what happened, and that’s not what I told her.  I made sure to set her straight about it.  Years later, I broached the subject again, and, once again, according to her, he had asked for my permission, I denied it, and that’s all she wrote.  I set her straight again.  Even though she’s a motor-mouthed gossip, I strongly doubt she’s told anyone about the time her son was molested.

            Fairly recently, I moved back in to my mother’s house.  I wanted to try to find an affordable apartment on Long Island; I must have been temporarily insane.  It didn’t take me long to notice a familiar face amongst my mother’s framed photographs.  It was Harvey.  In her defense, it wasn’t a picture of only Harvey.  His three sisters also appeared in the photo.  Regardless, I thought it was inappropriate for my mother to display a framed photo of a molester in her home: especially one who had molested her own son.  I picked up the frame and placed the image against the shelf.  It took a while, but my mother noticed what I had done.  She said nothing to me about it; she simply picked up the frame and proudly displayed the photograph once again.  I was flabbergasted.   I usually try to avoid confrontation, but this time it was unavoidable.  Since there were other issues to discuss with her, I made a list of them in my notebook.

            It happened nearly every day.  While I was sitting at the dining room table to use her laptop, she was sitting in her favorite chair in the living room.  We sat close enough to each other so we wouldn’t have to raise our voices, but, today, we’d raise them anyway.  I was very nervous about confronting her; it even affected my breathing.  I kept putting it off.  I don’t recall all the things I eventually confronted her about that day, but I’m pretty sure I checked everything, or nearly everything, off my list.

Besides my issue with the photo, another incident comes to mind.  I hadn’t seen my mother in many years.  How many?  I’m not sure: at least ten.  I ignored her for many years.  I didn’t return any of her phone calls, emails, or letters.  We planned to meet in a Manhattan restaurant.  She arrived first and sat down.  I entered the restaurant, saw her, and made my way to the table.  First of all, she didn’t even get up to hug me.  This is when I began to realize what a cold fish she is.

It didn’t take very long for her to smile, point at me, and say, “One of your eyes is bigger than the other!”  I didn’t appreciate that.  As long as I can remember, my mother has been fat: especially her thighs and buttocks.  I’ve only seen her as a slim person in photographs.  Despite her imperfect physique, she has always enjoyed criticizing other people’s appearances.  In other words, she’s living in a glass house, but that doesn’t stop her from hurling stones.  I wish I had a billion dollars for every time she pointed at someone who was more obese than her, and whispered to me dramatically, “Look at how big that person is.”

I definitely confronted her about the comment she made about my eyes that day.  After I had reminded her of what she had said, that was my cue to say, “By the way, you have a giant fat ass!”

“Hey!” she said angrily.  In fact, it had been many years since I’d seen her so angry.  It seems like so many people think that calling a fat person fat is the second worst thing you can do after mistreating a child.  I disagree.  If a fat person messes with me, then I might call them fat.  Why not?  I’m not fat, and he or she is.

“That’s what you get for saying what you did about my eyes!”

“Oh, no!  Asses and eyes aren’t the same!”

True, but what do you say to that?  “At least I can’t do anything about my eyes!”  I responded.  The implication was clear.  If one of my eyes is bigger than the other, it’s not my fault.  Her big ass is her fault and no one else’s.  Trust me; I’ve seen the way she eats.  I finally got around to the photo.  “What kind of a mother would put up a picture of a child molester in her home: especially one who molested her own son?!”  She lifted her fat ass out of her chair, waddled over to the photo, picked it up and put it into a drawer.  I heard her sigh as she was on her way to the photo: as though I was the one that was out of line, not her.  Even though I couldn’t see, because I was behind her, I believe she rolled her eyes too.

She’s gotten better about it.  I since gave up on trying to find an affordable apartment on Long Island and instead moved back to Rochester, NY for the third time.  We last discussed the molestation in an email exchange.  It bothered me that I didn’t remember how old I was when it happened.  I asked her if she knew.  As previously mentioned, I believe she has a mental block about it.  She seems to know how old I was when this or that happened, but this time she drew a blank.  However, she added, via email, “If you ever want to talk about it, let me know.”  Once again, she couldn’t recall the details of the molestation and asked me to remind her.  I told her again; perhaps the fourth time will be the charm.  Her response?  “I remembered the fondling, but not the kissing.”  Immediately after that sentence, she asked me if I had seen a certain movie, which is what our emails are usually about.  She’s a movie nut, and I enjoy good films too.  Hell of a segue though.