1931

The man in the red Chevrolet five-window coupe was wearing a charcoal gray suit, smoking a Lucky Strike cigarette, and had a new pork pie hat perched somewhat askew atop his head. Jim saw the bright new red automobile rolling up the street and stuck out his thumb hoping to catch a ride to his dad's house.

It had been six years since A.J. had left the dollar bill on the ironing board and walked out on Jim and Celestia. Jim, on crutches, had almost immediately begun selling magazine subscriptions door to door so that he and his mother could afford to live. Celestia took in ironing, but the mother and son just barely eked out an existence.

A.J. had remarried. Jim's new stepmom was the antithesis of Celestia. There was little or no room in her busy life as the wife of a top-notch salesman for an obese twelve-year-old from small-town Ashland. The few times Jim had been allowed into their home, he had had to find his own transportation there and back. The new Mrs. Strickling disdained her stepson's manners and made him wash his own handkerchiefs by hand as she did not want his filthy rags mixed with her good wash. Still, Jim went. He needed a dad, no matter how shabby the facsimile was to the real thing.

The first year after A.J. left, his boy often sat on the front porch waiting for his dad to return. His hopeful little heart ached for the smell of his dad, for a fatherly pat on the head, for protection, affirmation and love. Something must be wrong with him for Pop to have left so abruptly. Never spoken. Never reasoned. The thought was planted deeply into him that he was damaged goods unworthy of the kind of attention paid to his peers by their fathers. Though Jim had recovered full use of his leg by the time he was seven, simple activities like playing catch or going fishing were denied him because he had been abandoned. He longed to be loved by a man-to be wanted by a father. Ached to be touched by a dad who might kiss him good-night or hug him before he left for work each morning.

It became clear all too soon that A.J. was uninterested in returning and had left his youngest son with impunity. Celestia was quiet and acquiescent, leaving here son to his own thoughts and devices; so, he interpreted his world as clearly as a little child could and came up with conclusions that would ultimately sabotage his adult life.

Frank Smith found Celestia's fleshy, soft body and unassuming nature quite attractive. A hard working man, rough around the edges, he had met Celestia through her neighbors. Without much formal courting, they were married when Jim was nine years old. Frank moved mother and son into his home, and life began to normalize somewhat. Frank, however, was older and not much interested in Jim. Her  new husband took good care of Celestia; Jim was her responsibility.

So it was on that Saturday morning in 1931 that the man in the shiny new Chevy pulled over and offered Jim a ride. Reaching across the passenger seat, the man opened the door for him from the inside.

"Need a ride, kid?" asked the man.

"Sure! Thanks!" said Jim. "This is a really nice car, sir!" He climbed into the passenger seat through the opened door.

The man took a big, long Lucky Strike puff and blew the smoke out slowly before he responded with, "Why, thank you, son! She is a beauty, isn't she?"

"Yes, sir."

"So, where are you off to?" asked the man as Jim closed the door and settled into the comfortable black seat.

"Gonna see my dad."

Once the pair in the car established directions to Pop's place and the stranger had shifted into DRIVE, the man questioned Jim about his dad and why Jim needed a ride to see him. With some coaxing, which substituted for genuine interest, Jim was encouraged to tell the nice man about how Pop had left him and about how Pop's new wife did not really like him all that much.

"That must've been quite a blow to a kid like you," said the man as he lifted his right arm and relaxed it over Jim's shoulders.

"Yeah, it was," said Jim, rather enjoying the full attention being paid him by this genial man. "But Mom has a new husband. And he's all right."

"Bet it's hard not having a dad around to play ball with and all..." The man's voice trailed off as his hand moved up to Jim's curly dark hair where his fingers began fiddling with the unruly locks that refused to behave on the crown of Jim's head.

Vague sensual pleasure mixed ominously with a sense of alarm in Jim as his body stiffened and he stared straight ahead at the oncoming traffic. Men did not touch him, yet there was a hand, smelling of stale nicotine, warm and large, massaging his hair lovingly.

 

"You gotta lot of hair, kid," said the man, breaking the awkward silence. "Yeah." Jim's pre-adolescent response.

The Chevy began to slow as the driver gingerly made his way down an unfamiliar neighborhood street. He steered the car to the curb and put it into PARK, leaving the motor running. Confused, Jim turned to look at the man whose face was covered in a light, shining layer of perspiration. An unfamiliar glint danced in the stranger's eyes and a quizzical smile slithered menacingly across his face.

"Don't be afraid, kid," the man all but whispered. "Everything will be okay."

The next moment, the man slipped his left hand from the steering wheel and placed it under the waistband of Jim's pants where it worked its way with horrifying warmth and swiftness to defile Jim's innocence. The man was still massaging Jim's curls as he fondled him, and Jim could smell tobacco and breakfast on the stranger's breath as the man panted lightly with pleasure.

Bursting awareness, crashing terror. High arousal, crushing shame. Wanting the man, hating the man; resisting retreat, needing to run.

The moment became eternal as the twelve-year-old fought his way back into the present. It was as though he had to shake himself awake from this illusion in order to escape it. Bearing suddenly down upon Jim was the reality that he was alone in a car with a perfect stranger and he should be afraid. The dark green eyes of his attacker now seemed glazed, like a dead man's, and Jim felt himself being pulled down into their same inexplicable darkness. He decided to fight against the force and grabbed hold of the man's forearm, yanking it free from his body. Jim slapped away the hand that had continued to play with his hair; he reached for the door handle, opened the door, and ran! Ran like prey that knows it has been spotted by the hunter. Ran from the terror of titillation, from the savagery of shame, from the desperation of desolation. A pursuer he could not out-pace, this secret molestation required repetition to quiet it demons. Jim had no voice in the red Chevy. Just a kid no one listened to. The kernel was sown. Vanquished would become vanquisher.