Megan Kanka was only seven years old when she was lured from her Hamilton Township, New Jersey, home by Jesse Timmendequas, the convicted sex offender who lived across the street from her. He had a puppy, was the ruse, and Megan wanted to see it. Instead, she was sexually assaulted, strangled, and her body dumped in Mercer County Park. Richard and Maureen Kanka were oblivious to the predator lurking in a lair that was visible from their front porch. The great treachery, so covert and sinister, was that their little girl, out playing, had become prey, watched and obsessed over, by the neighbor man.
It took only eighty-nine days for the Kanka's to get four hundred thousand signatures on a petition to mandate the registration of sex offenders in New Jersey and for the state to pass the first Megan's law. In 1996, President Clinton signed it into federal law. No longer do vigilant parents have to wonder if the man next door is a molester lying in wait for their child. Faces are posted next to addresses of sex offenders, and their crimes against children are exposed for all to see.
On a late spring day in 2006, I walked into my office. I was the owner of an after-school tutoring facility, and the director of the center was accessing the California Megan's Law website in order to follow up on a client's concern that another tutoring business close by was actually run by a man whose name and address appeared on the sex offender list. Unnerved by the discovery, our new client had immediately removed her child from the man's program and brought him to us for tutoring. That he could still be allowed to work in any capacity around young boys was unconscionable to her.
"There he is!" A picture appeared on the screen as my employee sat back in his chair, pointing at it. A mug shot, really. Hair disheveled. Whiskers ratty. Eyes bloodshot. Face distorted - too close to the camera so the nose was flattened and the cheeks too prominent. "He is a moderate offender who molested children under the age of fourteen." My director was incredulous. "And he runs a tutoring business! How does he get away with that?"
In his every day world, this business man seemed innocuous. Normal. Likes kids. Works with them one-on-one. That is his specialty. Individual instruction. Smiles. Pats the kids on the back. "Nice job!" Did not think to wonder if he is Satan in a suit.
"I wonder if my father is on the Texas list." A new thought. Was I really ready to see my father's mug shot staring back at me, proclaiming him to be the criminal in the neighborhood against which parents dead-bolt their door? That he was feared and disdained seemed incongruous with the Daddy of my childhood; but, that father was buried beneath years of shame.
My expectation was I would have an as yet undefined visceral reaction to my dad sharing the criminal website with the likes of Jess Timmendequas. When my father's face appeared on the computer screen, however, sadness surprised me with an aching longing to see Daddy as I once did. As a face I loved.
"Jim Strickling. 11-16-1919. Lewd and lascivious behavior with a child under the age of fourteen. Moderate offender."
Squeezed dry of respect, loosened from the binding chains of transferred ignominy, and freed at the fountain of divine forgiveness, I saw the "man next door" and not my father. A man who had earned his place with the untouchables - the lepers of our society.
Wednesday, February 17, 2010
Saturday, February 6, 2010
2004
The two young boys were excited about their road trip with Mr. Strickling. They had no father at home and the promise of a van trip with motel stays and eating out sounded like high adventure. Their mother trusted this older gentleman from her church with her boys; she waved good-bye, happy about their journey to the Midwest.
By day the threesome rode along through northern Texas to Oklahoma and upwards. Sometimes the boys slept. At meal times they helped Mr. Strickling out of the car and into his motorized wheelchair. Motels meant swimming pools and late night television with Mr. Strickling in one bed and the two boys in the other. Tired from the exercise of swimming, the long hours in the car, and the general fatigue of traveling, the brothers usually fell asleep quickly and slept deeply. Lying awake in the bed beside them, Mr. Strickling awaited the opportunity signaled by their stillness and the even rhythm of their breathing.
Slipping out of his bed as gingerly as a snake venturing from beneath a rock, Mr. Strickling moved stealthily toward the bed that held his prey. With beating heart and sweaty palms, he slipped his hand beneath the covers and violated the young body of one of the boys who trusted him. Perspiring and weak, Mr. Strickling hobbled back to bed, his mission finally accomplished. He had won the confidence of a family in order to gratify his fantasies with impunity. What could it hurt? They were asleep.
Only they were not always asleep. Shame and perplexity kept their mouths shut. At about ages ten and twelve, the boys did not really understand what this old man was doing. All of his signals were mixed; at once grandfather and child molester. They must not have understood what to feel. Years later at least one of them found a reason to accuse Mr. Strickling and the courage to follow through. They were almost adults by February of 2004, but they had clearly never forgotten the transgression of trust thrust upon them when they were too nascent to have clarity about what the old man's fondlings meant. I still do not know what life event prompted their coming to terms with their abuse. I am quite sure, however, that Daddy had put it out of his mind with the passage of so much time.
Though my father understood that I would not be there for him, my sisters did not. We all have our own story about our father; we each handled the knowledge of his pedophilia differently. For many years I feel they were more hopeful than I was that the season of actively pursuing children was in the past for Daddy, and he was just a sad old man. I confess I had no real hope of that, especially following our Sunday morning with him. Without sounding like I did not want to help my sisters through the miasma created by the new revelation of indiscretion, I made it clear to them that I would not be there for Daddy in any fashion other than prayer this time. Living in California precluded my ability to actually be physically involved; but, I did want to be of whatever support I could to my family handling the brunt of the felony and its consequences. They executed with incomparable grace and wisdom the ongoing melodrama of Daddy's second arrest.
Over the years, when I came across a book or sermon that touched a deep place in me, I would send a copy to Daddy with a note. Occasionally, I would email him a verse from the Bible that was helping me along in my own struggles. On Father's Day of 2003, I sent Daddy a book by author John Eldridge entitled The Sacred Romance. I rarely heard from Daddy about these communications; but, I received this letter from him dated March 12, 2004.
Dear Kay,
I have agonized and wept before writing this letter. I could not bring myself to telephone until this morning, knowing how much I have failed you and that your heart would be broken once more by the actions of a father in whom you placed your confidence and for whom you have lifted up in prayer for such a long, long time. But, I believe my heavenly Father meant me to write to you because I tried several times to reach you but the line was continually busy. I know that He has used you as an instrument to guide me to Him. I know that He loves me even though I have sinned against Him and my family and my fellow man.
Now I have come to the end of my turning away and am reaping the results of a lifetime charade of the Christian on the exterior but one beset by the arrows on the interior. What the Father has in store for me I do not know! But I do know that the play is over and the final scene can be set in a prison or my death.
The irony is that you must have known how much I would need your gift of The Sacred Romance. I only read the first few pages after you presented it to me on Father's Day, but after February 20, when the detectives knocked on my door and presented me with the latest accusation of my sordid actions, it became a firm foundation to help me find some source of peace. For the first time I have really faced what I have become and what I should have been all my life! I called my pastor and in tearful and grinding confession with utmost humility told him of my life. He has assured me that he will stand by me and offer his support in every way possible.
I am home, on bail, waiting for the court date to be set. Each day is one of deep sorrow which burrows into my very being and never-before desire to humble myself and pray and seek His face as He reminds us to in His Word.
Thank you for your longsuffering and patience and supplication for me and my problem! I have asked God for forgiveness and also forgiveness from the victim of my action. I can only pray that you will always love me, difficult as it may be, and that, you also, can find room in your heart to forgive me...
I will always love you!!
Daddy
Over and over my eyes told my mind the literal meaning of the words they drew in from the hand-written letter before me. Though I could feel the tears welling up, I could not decipher from what well they sprang. Wailing and sorrow poured raw and bloody from my parents' bedroom in 1985 on the evening of Daddy's first arrest. Prayers and hymns mixed with the dirge of death, chanted over their lamenting as they grasped for some comfort from their familiar religious rituals. Recognition of a need from a God who rescues; petitions to Him for grace and mercy. Bullet-ridden hearts, aching to recover and heal, barely beat for the fresh, crimson woundings; they cried out for restoration, or at least the promise of it.
How was this confession different? Deeply flowing distrust had collided with the tiniest ray of hope in my daughter-heart, and the combustion stirred up enough confusion to prime a well of hidden waters. Grace, abundant grace, deluges flood-like from the God of love, and in my need, I have joyfully, thankfully, incredibly splashed in the cleansing ablution bought by my Savior's blood. I would not deny that to my father; my Father has never denied it to me. An authentic heart is precious to God; no bull, no pretense. The prodigal can still come home and be embraced by merely understanding how lost he is without his Father.
Still - there was the line in the letter: "I have asked God for forgiveness also forgiveness from the victim of my action."
Had he confessed to only one victim? Did his pastor think this Daddy's first and only arrest? The manacles of manipulation had taken me several years to escape, and my heart would not easily be refettered to their ruses. For years I had endeavored energetically and sincerely to mediate between my God and my father. I read Daddy's epistle to me one last time and then gave him completely over to God alone.
In August of 2004, Daddy was given probation instead of prison time. Incomparable mercy. An old man with an old problem. Court ordered counseling once again and a court trained chaperone every time he went to church. Since he could not be within a hundred feet of a child without court oversight, his future locked him into his home. Relief, for him, was great; I did not really know what to think. Probation had not dissuaded him before. And always there was the quandry, "What is my role in this?" Picking up my journal on that warm August afternoon I wrote:
"Again he was given probation. God's grace to him is great. I pray he discovers his True Father out of all this. I am not much help as my own pain is too close to his - I cannot go to the depths again with him. I no longer want to be a pit dweller, but I am still encrusted with some of its slime - the sights and smells are too new for me and the great heartache I feel would long to be comforted should I bend over the pit and reach down to Daddy. Father, You see him there. If he is Yours, I am certain You will pull him out of this. I cannot. I tried the first time and fell in with him."
By day the threesome rode along through northern Texas to Oklahoma and upwards. Sometimes the boys slept. At meal times they helped Mr. Strickling out of the car and into his motorized wheelchair. Motels meant swimming pools and late night television with Mr. Strickling in one bed and the two boys in the other. Tired from the exercise of swimming, the long hours in the car, and the general fatigue of traveling, the brothers usually fell asleep quickly and slept deeply. Lying awake in the bed beside them, Mr. Strickling awaited the opportunity signaled by their stillness and the even rhythm of their breathing.
Slipping out of his bed as gingerly as a snake venturing from beneath a rock, Mr. Strickling moved stealthily toward the bed that held his prey. With beating heart and sweaty palms, he slipped his hand beneath the covers and violated the young body of one of the boys who trusted him. Perspiring and weak, Mr. Strickling hobbled back to bed, his mission finally accomplished. He had won the confidence of a family in order to gratify his fantasies with impunity. What could it hurt? They were asleep.
Only they were not always asleep. Shame and perplexity kept their mouths shut. At about ages ten and twelve, the boys did not really understand what this old man was doing. All of his signals were mixed; at once grandfather and child molester. They must not have understood what to feel. Years later at least one of them found a reason to accuse Mr. Strickling and the courage to follow through. They were almost adults by February of 2004, but they had clearly never forgotten the transgression of trust thrust upon them when they were too nascent to have clarity about what the old man's fondlings meant. I still do not know what life event prompted their coming to terms with their abuse. I am quite sure, however, that Daddy had put it out of his mind with the passage of so much time.
Though my father understood that I would not be there for him, my sisters did not. We all have our own story about our father; we each handled the knowledge of his pedophilia differently. For many years I feel they were more hopeful than I was that the season of actively pursuing children was in the past for Daddy, and he was just a sad old man. I confess I had no real hope of that, especially following our Sunday morning with him. Without sounding like I did not want to help my sisters through the miasma created by the new revelation of indiscretion, I made it clear to them that I would not be there for Daddy in any fashion other than prayer this time. Living in California precluded my ability to actually be physically involved; but, I did want to be of whatever support I could to my family handling the brunt of the felony and its consequences. They executed with incomparable grace and wisdom the ongoing melodrama of Daddy's second arrest.
Over the years, when I came across a book or sermon that touched a deep place in me, I would send a copy to Daddy with a note. Occasionally, I would email him a verse from the Bible that was helping me along in my own struggles. On Father's Day of 2003, I sent Daddy a book by author John Eldridge entitled The Sacred Romance. I rarely heard from Daddy about these communications; but, I received this letter from him dated March 12, 2004.
Dear Kay,
I have agonized and wept before writing this letter. I could not bring myself to telephone until this morning, knowing how much I have failed you and that your heart would be broken once more by the actions of a father in whom you placed your confidence and for whom you have lifted up in prayer for such a long, long time. But, I believe my heavenly Father meant me to write to you because I tried several times to reach you but the line was continually busy. I know that He has used you as an instrument to guide me to Him. I know that He loves me even though I have sinned against Him and my family and my fellow man.
Now I have come to the end of my turning away and am reaping the results of a lifetime charade of the Christian on the exterior but one beset by the arrows on the interior. What the Father has in store for me I do not know! But I do know that the play is over and the final scene can be set in a prison or my death.
The irony is that you must have known how much I would need your gift of The Sacred Romance. I only read the first few pages after you presented it to me on Father's Day, but after February 20, when the detectives knocked on my door and presented me with the latest accusation of my sordid actions, it became a firm foundation to help me find some source of peace. For the first time I have really faced what I have become and what I should have been all my life! I called my pastor and in tearful and grinding confession with utmost humility told him of my life. He has assured me that he will stand by me and offer his support in every way possible.
I am home, on bail, waiting for the court date to be set. Each day is one of deep sorrow which burrows into my very being and never-before desire to humble myself and pray and seek His face as He reminds us to in His Word.
Thank you for your longsuffering and patience and supplication for me and my problem! I have asked God for forgiveness and also forgiveness from the victim of my action. I can only pray that you will always love me, difficult as it may be, and that, you also, can find room in your heart to forgive me...
I will always love you!!
Daddy
Over and over my eyes told my mind the literal meaning of the words they drew in from the hand-written letter before me. Though I could feel the tears welling up, I could not decipher from what well they sprang. Wailing and sorrow poured raw and bloody from my parents' bedroom in 1985 on the evening of Daddy's first arrest. Prayers and hymns mixed with the dirge of death, chanted over their lamenting as they grasped for some comfort from their familiar religious rituals. Recognition of a need from a God who rescues; petitions to Him for grace and mercy. Bullet-ridden hearts, aching to recover and heal, barely beat for the fresh, crimson woundings; they cried out for restoration, or at least the promise of it.
How was this confession different? Deeply flowing distrust had collided with the tiniest ray of hope in my daughter-heart, and the combustion stirred up enough confusion to prime a well of hidden waters. Grace, abundant grace, deluges flood-like from the God of love, and in my need, I have joyfully, thankfully, incredibly splashed in the cleansing ablution bought by my Savior's blood. I would not deny that to my father; my Father has never denied it to me. An authentic heart is precious to God; no bull, no pretense. The prodigal can still come home and be embraced by merely understanding how lost he is without his Father.
Still - there was the line in the letter: "I have asked God for forgiveness also forgiveness from the victim of my action."
Had he confessed to only one victim? Did his pastor think this Daddy's first and only arrest? The manacles of manipulation had taken me several years to escape, and my heart would not easily be refettered to their ruses. For years I had endeavored energetically and sincerely to mediate between my God and my father. I read Daddy's epistle to me one last time and then gave him completely over to God alone.
In August of 2004, Daddy was given probation instead of prison time. Incomparable mercy. An old man with an old problem. Court ordered counseling once again and a court trained chaperone every time he went to church. Since he could not be within a hundred feet of a child without court oversight, his future locked him into his home. Relief, for him, was great; I did not really know what to think. Probation had not dissuaded him before. And always there was the quandry, "What is my role in this?" Picking up my journal on that warm August afternoon I wrote:
"Again he was given probation. God's grace to him is great. I pray he discovers his True Father out of all this. I am not much help as my own pain is too close to his - I cannot go to the depths again with him. I no longer want to be a pit dweller, but I am still encrusted with some of its slime - the sights and smells are too new for me and the great heartache I feel would long to be comforted should I bend over the pit and reach down to Daddy. Father, You see him there. If he is Yours, I am certain You will pull him out of this. I cannot. I tried the first time and fell in with him."
Monday, February 1, 2010
2004
There are certain life events that etch themselves so keenly into the mind that it can recall every important detail of the revelation. I was walking across the parking lot at work after having bought a bottled water at the major grocery store that was part of the strip mall where my business was located. My cell phone was in my pocket, and I was fiddling with the change the cashier had just given to me. Early evening coolness was refreshing the California desert and the smell of orange blossoms from the nearby groves was wafting on the breeze. I still had two hours of work to accomplish before heading home to make dinner, and my mind was organizing those one hundred twenty minutes into a mangeable rubric. Cars were treacherously maneuvering around the varied businesses at the shopping center, and I remember thinking I should pick up the clothes as I passed by the dry cleaning establishment a few doors from my business; but, I did not have the ticket or the money on me to rescue my apparel. Almost to my office, I walked past a gentleman who greeted me. I smiled and acknowledged him; then my phone began to sing its familiar song to me. I recognized the number scrolling across the screen to be from Texas, but did not yet know to dread the message.
"Hi, Kay." I was surprised to hear from my older sister.
I greeted her and then she said: "Well, he did it again."
"What?" I did not understand her.
"Daddy. He did it again."
"Oh, no!" Stomach turning inside out with a familiar rhythm. "What happened?"
"Some kids form his church. Happened there a few years ago; but, they have just now told their mother and she pressed charges."
"So, is he in jail?" Deja vu.
"They arrested him. He posted bail. He's at home now but will go to trial."
Deep, deep breath. Don't know what to say. Neither does my sister. A little small talk. A promise to keep me apprised. She is back to her life in Texas and I to the job before me.
I had told Daddy about this a few years prior. Bill and I took a trip to Dallas on business and made plans to attend church with Daddy on Sunday then take him to lunch. Arthritis had handicapped Daddy's hip and knees and the extra hundred pounds he carried around on his body had forced him into a motorized wheelchair. His van was equipped with a lift, so he was able, with the help of a walker, to go pretty much wherever he wanted.
As we drove to his church with Daddy that morning, I remember thinking that I had not seen him for a while, so I did not really know what to expect. Never had I watched him in a wheelchair, but he drove it the same way he did his car - lots of honking and running into things. One young congregant actually told him he was annoying that morning; she had become irate at his expectation of the "Red Sea" parting every time he tooted into a crowd of churchgoers spilling out onto the concrete directly in his path.
I sat through Sunday school and the subsequent sermon with great difficulty and agitation of spirit because of what had taken place when we pulled into the parking lot. As soon as the ignition in Daddy's van was turned off, two young boys came running across the church parking lot to help Daddy out of the driver's side. What transpired next was clearly a routine with which man and boys were very familiar. One child opened the back door and got Daddy's walker while the other went to the back and opened up the door latch. Daddy clump-clumped back to the rear of the van while the boys operated the wheelchair lift and practically cheered as the wheelchair touched the asphalt and was ready for bumper car races in the parking lot. The older of the two boys grabbed the key from Daddy, and off they went burning up the pavement in Daddy's dandy hot rod!
There was that tingle-face blushing, a need to ask questions that I already knew the answers to, the antisness of recognition defined. I knew he had molested these kids. Their mother came up to me in the midst of my processing what was playing out before me.
"Your father is such a nice man." She was grinning from ear to ear, watching her boys speeding past my father and waving to him as if they were winning the Indy 500. "My boys just love him."
She was a single mother, probably in her mid-forties. Her long brown hair was tied back, but loose strands hanging around her face from the hasty hair-do belied a frazzled life of keeping things together. Her admiration for my father was based on trusting that this older Christian man was good for her kids.
"He took them on a trip with him to the Midwest." She was smiling. "They had such a great time."
"Really?" Oh, my God....Oh, my God! "How long were they gone?"
"About a week." She had no clue; and I just wanted to take my father by his throat and make him tell me what he had done! Daddy was, by then, in his wheelchair beckoning us toward the church building. For me, there was no closure for the conversation I had just had with the trusting mother. I wanted to scream at him as I caught up to the chugging motor of his chair: "Did you hurt those boys, Daddy? Did you touch them?" Had to wait for the festering questions until we were alone.
For the two and a half hours of church, I could barely look at my father. My stomach felt like the spin cycle of a washing machine as the questions, unanswered, whirled faster and louder in my mind. Thought I might implode. Little boys retrieved the chair and hoisted it to its resting place when at last the final chorus had been sung and the congregation wandered lazily to their cars. I had taken Bill aside to forewarn him of my impending eruption. "Please wait until after lunch, Kay. You don't know that he has done anything wrong."
Texans tend toward cafeterias after church, so we waited in line behind the Sunday crowd in their heels, hats, suits and ties piling fried chicken, fried okra, fried potatoes, greens, sweet iced tea and pie onto trays they pushed along in front of them to the weary cashier. Stewing in me was a storm and eating a pile of mashed potatoes was not going to ease my rage. I managed to ask a few questions about the children and their mother, and Daddy gave me some details of the trip. He said the boys had been a great help to him. I shook my head appropriately, but I was phrasing in my mind just what I would say when at last we were back at his house and he was safely ensconced in his large plush recliner, out of earshot of the rest of the world.
When the moment finally came to confront my father about his relationship with the boys, I seemed to have finally found my voice. Perhaps it was because I was just so outraged this time and had kept my anger so pent up for those several hours that I did not care whether he raged back at me. All I cared about were the boys and their mother who trusted this "nice old man" from the church. As Daddy cranked up the footrest of his chair, I sat down across from him on a rocking chair. Bill was to my right on the couch, and I could tell he was nervous. Hyper-ventilation is not pretty and he did not want to see it again. I was coming from a different place this time, however. I was done!
"Daddy, I want to talk to you about the kids you took on the trip with you."
He did not respond but sat looking at me with an expression that I can only describe as child-like fear. Like I was about to spank him.
"Do you think it is fair of you to take these boys on a trip with you when you are a homosexual pedophile?" It seemed t me that he had to be constantly reminded of the fact.
Still silence from my father.
"Do you think their mother would have allowed her precious sons to go on a vacation with you if she knew you are a convicted felon?" I stared him down waiting for some response. "Do I need to call your pastor right now and tell him about your criminal record, Daddy?"
"No, Kay."
"Did you hurt those boys, Daddy?"
"No, Kay."
"If you EVER, EVER are arrested again for child molesting, I WILL NOT be there for you! Do you understand, Daddy?"
"You have never forgiven me, have you, Kay? You still hate me for what happened in 1985, don't you?"
I recognized the shift in focus of the conversation, making it suddenly about my unforgiveness and not his activities with the boys. I had not expected a confession - secretly hoped there was not one to be made. I had said what I needed to say.
"You have never asked me to forgive you, Daddy."
"Will you forgive me for hurting you and your mother and sisters by my actions?" He looked relieved and sincere. I would, of course, understand the relief more fully later; his desire to be forgiven was a true one, in the moment.
"I forgive you, Daddy."
He was crying. I was not. Something in the scene was incomplete and disingenuous, and I felt emotionally distant, merely observing the moment as if it were a televison drama. I had purchased snake oil from this salesman before.
Bill rose from his seat and put his hand on Daddy's shoulder, comforting him. I could not. I knew he was guilty still; so, though I could forgive him for the past, he was unrepentant of his present.
I rose from the rocker so quickly it heaved back and forth as if some playful child had pushed it into motion from behind. "It's time for us to go, Daddy." I walked over to stand in front of him. "I do forgive you of the past, but just remember, if you are arrested again, do not call me. I will not be there."
"I heard you, Kay." His voiced tinged with irritation. I patted his knee, kissed his cheek, and hurried out the door behind Bill.
"Hi, Kay." I was surprised to hear from my older sister.
I greeted her and then she said: "Well, he did it again."
"What?" I did not understand her.
"Daddy. He did it again."
"Oh, no!" Stomach turning inside out with a familiar rhythm. "What happened?"
"Some kids form his church. Happened there a few years ago; but, they have just now told their mother and she pressed charges."
"So, is he in jail?" Deja vu.
"They arrested him. He posted bail. He's at home now but will go to trial."
Deep, deep breath. Don't know what to say. Neither does my sister. A little small talk. A promise to keep me apprised. She is back to her life in Texas and I to the job before me.
I had told Daddy about this a few years prior. Bill and I took a trip to Dallas on business and made plans to attend church with Daddy on Sunday then take him to lunch. Arthritis had handicapped Daddy's hip and knees and the extra hundred pounds he carried around on his body had forced him into a motorized wheelchair. His van was equipped with a lift, so he was able, with the help of a walker, to go pretty much wherever he wanted.
As we drove to his church with Daddy that morning, I remember thinking that I had not seen him for a while, so I did not really know what to expect. Never had I watched him in a wheelchair, but he drove it the same way he did his car - lots of honking and running into things. One young congregant actually told him he was annoying that morning; she had become irate at his expectation of the "Red Sea" parting every time he tooted into a crowd of churchgoers spilling out onto the concrete directly in his path.
I sat through Sunday school and the subsequent sermon with great difficulty and agitation of spirit because of what had taken place when we pulled into the parking lot. As soon as the ignition in Daddy's van was turned off, two young boys came running across the church parking lot to help Daddy out of the driver's side. What transpired next was clearly a routine with which man and boys were very familiar. One child opened the back door and got Daddy's walker while the other went to the back and opened up the door latch. Daddy clump-clumped back to the rear of the van while the boys operated the wheelchair lift and practically cheered as the wheelchair touched the asphalt and was ready for bumper car races in the parking lot. The older of the two boys grabbed the key from Daddy, and off they went burning up the pavement in Daddy's dandy hot rod!
There was that tingle-face blushing, a need to ask questions that I already knew the answers to, the antisness of recognition defined. I knew he had molested these kids. Their mother came up to me in the midst of my processing what was playing out before me.
"Your father is such a nice man." She was grinning from ear to ear, watching her boys speeding past my father and waving to him as if they were winning the Indy 500. "My boys just love him."
She was a single mother, probably in her mid-forties. Her long brown hair was tied back, but loose strands hanging around her face from the hasty hair-do belied a frazzled life of keeping things together. Her admiration for my father was based on trusting that this older Christian man was good for her kids.
"He took them on a trip with him to the Midwest." She was smiling. "They had such a great time."
"Really?" Oh, my God....Oh, my God! "How long were they gone?"
"About a week." She had no clue; and I just wanted to take my father by his throat and make him tell me what he had done! Daddy was, by then, in his wheelchair beckoning us toward the church building. For me, there was no closure for the conversation I had just had with the trusting mother. I wanted to scream at him as I caught up to the chugging motor of his chair: "Did you hurt those boys, Daddy? Did you touch them?" Had to wait for the festering questions until we were alone.
For the two and a half hours of church, I could barely look at my father. My stomach felt like the spin cycle of a washing machine as the questions, unanswered, whirled faster and louder in my mind. Thought I might implode. Little boys retrieved the chair and hoisted it to its resting place when at last the final chorus had been sung and the congregation wandered lazily to their cars. I had taken Bill aside to forewarn him of my impending eruption. "Please wait until after lunch, Kay. You don't know that he has done anything wrong."
Texans tend toward cafeterias after church, so we waited in line behind the Sunday crowd in their heels, hats, suits and ties piling fried chicken, fried okra, fried potatoes, greens, sweet iced tea and pie onto trays they pushed along in front of them to the weary cashier. Stewing in me was a storm and eating a pile of mashed potatoes was not going to ease my rage. I managed to ask a few questions about the children and their mother, and Daddy gave me some details of the trip. He said the boys had been a great help to him. I shook my head appropriately, but I was phrasing in my mind just what I would say when at last we were back at his house and he was safely ensconced in his large plush recliner, out of earshot of the rest of the world.
When the moment finally came to confront my father about his relationship with the boys, I seemed to have finally found my voice. Perhaps it was because I was just so outraged this time and had kept my anger so pent up for those several hours that I did not care whether he raged back at me. All I cared about were the boys and their mother who trusted this "nice old man" from the church. As Daddy cranked up the footrest of his chair, I sat down across from him on a rocking chair. Bill was to my right on the couch, and I could tell he was nervous. Hyper-ventilation is not pretty and he did not want to see it again. I was coming from a different place this time, however. I was done!
"Daddy, I want to talk to you about the kids you took on the trip with you."
He did not respond but sat looking at me with an expression that I can only describe as child-like fear. Like I was about to spank him.
"Do you think it is fair of you to take these boys on a trip with you when you are a homosexual pedophile?" It seemed t me that he had to be constantly reminded of the fact.
Still silence from my father.
"Do you think their mother would have allowed her precious sons to go on a vacation with you if she knew you are a convicted felon?" I stared him down waiting for some response. "Do I need to call your pastor right now and tell him about your criminal record, Daddy?"
"No, Kay."
"Did you hurt those boys, Daddy?"
"No, Kay."
"If you EVER, EVER are arrested again for child molesting, I WILL NOT be there for you! Do you understand, Daddy?"
"You have never forgiven me, have you, Kay? You still hate me for what happened in 1985, don't you?"
I recognized the shift in focus of the conversation, making it suddenly about my unforgiveness and not his activities with the boys. I had not expected a confession - secretly hoped there was not one to be made. I had said what I needed to say.
"You have never asked me to forgive you, Daddy."
"Will you forgive me for hurting you and your mother and sisters by my actions?" He looked relieved and sincere. I would, of course, understand the relief more fully later; his desire to be forgiven was a true one, in the moment.
"I forgive you, Daddy."
He was crying. I was not. Something in the scene was incomplete and disingenuous, and I felt emotionally distant, merely observing the moment as if it were a televison drama. I had purchased snake oil from this salesman before.
Bill rose from his seat and put his hand on Daddy's shoulder, comforting him. I could not. I knew he was guilty still; so, though I could forgive him for the past, he was unrepentant of his present.
I rose from the rocker so quickly it heaved back and forth as if some playful child had pushed it into motion from behind. "It's time for us to go, Daddy." I walked over to stand in front of him. "I do forgive you of the past, but just remember, if you are arrested again, do not call me. I will not be there."
"I heard you, Kay." His voiced tinged with irritation. I patted his knee, kissed his cheek, and hurried out the door behind Bill.
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