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| 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.
