Mommy, Mommy : A Danny Boyland Novel

by Henry Hack

  “What, Frankie? What’s not right?”

  “You know, doing what you’re doing. I mean, you’re married.”

  “That’s beside the point,” she said. “My needs are not being met, but you, Frankie, can be taught to meet them.”

  “But, Mrs. Jonas…”

  “No buts about it, and call me Vicky when we’re alone.”

  “This isn’t right.”

  “You liked it though, didn’t you?” “Well, yeah, but…”

  “Listen, Frankie and listen close. You and I are going to make love whenever we get the chance, so you’d better get used to it.”

  “And if I won’t?”

  “Then I’ll tell my husband you raped me. He’s a powerful man – and a jealous one. If he doesn’t kill you, then the police will arrest you. Do you understand?”

  Although I said yes, I did not understand at all. I did not understand that because of my young age, I was the victim regardless of what Vicky Jonas asserted. She was the predator and she was guilty of rape and endangering my welfare. But I did not know that at the time. I was frightened so I went along with Vicky’s demands and desires. I certainly did not want to go back to the Home once again.

  June turned into July and Vicky took every opportunity to have sex with me. “You know,” I said, “you better be careful. You might get caught someday.”

  “You mean we might get caught someday, don’t you, Frankie? And if we do, you’re the one that’s in for it for raping me. Harold would never believe I did it willingly with a boy like you.”

  “You’re an awful person,” I said.

  “Could be,” she laughed. “Now get those clothes off.”

  On August 14, it finally happened – Harold Jonas came back home from town sooner than expected and found his naked wife beneath me. Jonas grabbed the heavy table lamp and shouted, “Son-of-a-bitch!” and whacked me across the back of my head with its marble base. As I collapsed on top of Vicky I heard her say, “Jesus, Harold, your timing couldn’t have been worse. I was just ready to come.”

  Then just before I blacked out completely, I heard Mr. Jonas say, “Well, ain’t that just too bad. Come on and help me tie him up.”

  When I came back to consciousness ten minutes later I found myself still naked on the bed and bound tightly with rope and duct tape. My eyes widened as they focused on Harold Jonas standing over me with a shotgun in his hands. “Rape my wife, you little bastard? I’ll fix you.”

  I struggled to break free but couldn’t move. I wanted to speak, to tell Jonas that this wasn’t my fault.

  “You know, kid, I just had a better idea than just shooting your balls off. Fuck my wife? Well, now I’m gonna fuck you. See how you like it, boy.”

  My god, it was happening again! He turned me over onto my stomach and I heard him unzip his trousers. I felt a greasy substance being spread between my cheeks and then the pain of penetration.

  “There, you little bastard. Do you like it? Well, maybe you’d better get used to it. You’d better learn to take it or I’ll kill you.”

  When it was over and Jonas left the room, I sobbed and my body shook uncontrollably. I hadn’t yet calmed down fifteen minutes later when someone sat on the bed and I felt a warm hand caress my back. “Oh, Frankie,” Vicky said, “I hope you’re all right. I just had a long talk with Harold. Things may not be so bad after all. Here, let me get these ropes and tape off you.”

  When she removed all my bindings she handed me my clothes and said, “He knows you didn’t rape me now. I just told him.”

  “Why didn’t he beat you up or something?” I asked.

  “Because deep down he knows that he can’t satisfy me – or any other woman. His passion is for boys – like you. He agreed to let us continue our affair, but you have to let him have his way with you when he wants.”

  “This is sick, Vicky.”

  “No, this is the real world, Frankie. I’d go along if I were you.”

  “And if I don’t? If I run away?”

  “Where are you going to run to? He’ll come after you and if he can’t find you he’ll go to the cops and press a rape charge against you. The cops will pick you up right away, and you’ll go to jail for a long time.”

  “Not if you don’t testify against me. Not if you tell the truth,” I said.

  “Oh, but I will testify against you – how you forced me to do your bidding, how you threatened to kill me if I said a word. I’ll tell them that, Frankie, because if I don’t, Harold will surely kill me.”

  “I’m confused,” I said. “I need sleep.”

  “Of course, Frankie, you rest now. I’ll leave you a plate of dinner on the countertop if you wake up hungry later. It won’t be so bad, you’ll see.”

  She kissed me goodnight and closed my bedroom door. I had told her I was confused so I could buy some time, but I was not confused at all. I knew exactly what I was going to do – I was going to kill Harold Jonas and, if necessary, I would kill the treacherous Vicky Jonas, too.

  I slept solidly for a few hours and awoke around ten p.m. The house was quiet. I walked softly into the bathroom and washed up. I realized I was starving, so I crept quietly down the stairs into the kitchen and, just as Vicky had promised, there was a plate of food, covered in aluminum foil, on the countertop.

  I uncovered the plate and placed it in the microwave. I pressed the “reheat” button and went over to the fridge to get a Coke. I ate and drank slowly, planning my next move. There really was nothing to plan – I had to wait for the opportunity to present itself. But I know one thing for certain – it would have to be soon. I would not allow myself to be sodomized again. Jethro Hammond did it and I took care of that situation. I would take care of this one, too, but probably couldn’t set another fire this time.

  Two days later while cleaning out the stalls of the dairy cows in the barn, I spotted what could be the way to dispose of Harold Jonas – and make it look like an accident – much as Mommy had done years ago to my father. A truck engine was suspended by chains from a beam in the ceiling of the barn. The chains were around the engine and the four ends were hooked onto a large hook screwed into the bottom of the beam. Jonas planned to eventually replace the one in his truck with this one.

  The bottom of the engine was about eight feet off the floor of the barn. Harold was building a sturdy, wooden bench which he would slide under the engine and use it to overhaul the big eight cylinder unit. It was not a priority for Harold as his truck was running fine for now, but he knew its engine wouldn’t last forever. This spare engine had been hanging there for a couple of months. It was not in the way of any chores, and would probably remain there until the truck was on its last legs.

  Harold was away delivering milk and produce to the market and I studied the engine and the chains. My concentration was interrupted by the entrance of Vicky who said, “Come inside, lover boy, mamma needs to get laid.”

  I followed her inside and we headed upstairs to the bedroom. After a heated session of love making, Vicky said, “That was great, Frankie, but remember, my husband needs his lovin’ too. Be prepared when he gets back form the market.”

  “I’ll be in the barn,” I said, “finishing the stalls and moving bales of hay.”

  Two hours later I heard the truck return and watched Harold go into the house. He came out ten minutes later and walked toward the barn. I was ready. When Jonas passed through the door, I came out of the shadows behind him and hit him hard on the back of his head with a Belgian block. Jonas went down and seemed to be out cold. I dragged him over and placed him directly under the truck engine. I then got a ladder and pinch bar. I climbed up and inserted the bar into the open eye of the hook. It was a good thing I had checked the hook out earlier in the day. It was screwed in securely and it had then taken all my strength on the end of the bar to free it just slightly from the beam.

  I looked down and saw Jonas begin to stir. I came down the ladder, took the Belgian block and hit Harold again. I repositioned him, fa
ce down, with his head directly under the engine and climbed the ladder once more. I inserted the bar into the hook, and still with some difficulty, started to turn it. It began to move easier after two turns, and then as I turned some more, it gave way ripping loudly out of the beam and dropping the engine squarely on the head and shoulders of Jonas.

  I put the ladder back in its place on the wall and picked up the Belgian block. There appeared to be no blood or hair on it, but I wiped it with an oily rag and placed it back in the obscure corner where I found it. I glanced at Jonas and noticed a puddle of blood growing larger under his head. I moved the straw around the floor where the ladder’s four legs had stood. Satisfied, I turned and ran out of the barn shouting, “Mrs. Jonas! Mrs. Jonas!” while thinking, Thank you, Mommy, for showing me the way.

  Harold Jonas’s death was ruled an accident by the county coroner and the county sheriff’s department. Before the sheriff arrived Vicky Jonas looked at me and said, “You did this to him, didn’t you?”

  “No, ma’am,” I said. “I was on the other side of the barn when I heard that thing fall out of the beam and hit Mr. Jonas. I tried to help, but I couldn’t move that engine.”

  Vicky Jonas decided to keep her suspicions to herself. No use bringing up anything that would cause the authorities to interview me at length. She knew the law with regard to sexual predation of minors. Better to just keep quiet and get on with her life. I would have to go, of course. She reasoned that, delightful as it was to make love to me, too many suspicions would arise if I remained. Besides, I wasn’t old enough to help her run the farm. She needed a man, an older, stronger virile man who could satisfy her needs and take care of the business. After the funeral, she said, “Frankie, I can’t keep you here any longer. I’ll take you back to the Home tomorrow.”

  And then what? I wondered. Where would my lousy life go now? Where are you Mommy? Mommy, I need you now more than ever.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  The next few years at the Home passed by rapidly. Of course, due to my past troubles and my age, no other family had expressed interest in taking me in. When I turned sixteen I had finally reconciled myself to the fact that my mother was never coming back to claim me. But the nagging question of why she deserted me would not leave my mind. She had obviously gotten away with my father’s murder – I was now convinced she had done it – so why not take me with her? I just couldn’t banish this past incident from my mind despite plunging into my schoolwork and trying to look forward to the future.

  During my last two years of high school I concentrated on vocational skills, especially electrical work and computer repair. Although I turned eighteen years old on March 22 of my senior year, the Home allowed me to reside there until my graduation in June. Mr. Eglund, who turned out to be a pretty good guy after all, arranged an inexpensive furnished room rental in a home in the town of Baldwin, Long island, about five miles from where I grew up. He also got me a job in a local branch of a popular quick oil change franchise.

  The day after graduation I packed up my things and thanked Mr. Eglund for what he had done for me. He shook my hand, slipping me a couple of twenties, and wished me good luck. He had a staff member drive me to the nearest bus terminal. I repressed the desire to look back and wave goodbye. I never wanted to see that place again.

  After I was settled into my room I called Detective Boyland and he invited me to come up to see him at the Levittown stationhouse the following morning. When I got there he greeted me with a smile and seemed happy to see me. He said, “Look at you, Frankie, all grown up and what a handsome lad you have become!”

  And maybe he was right. I had filled out to 175 pounds and was 5’ 10” tall. I said, “Thanks, I’m finally out of the Home and I got a room in Baldwin.”

  “Are you working?”

  “At the Rapid Express Oil and Lube on Sunrise Highway,” I said. “Doesn’t pay much, but with the economy the way it is, it’s the best around so far.”

  “Did you ever get another foster home after the Ryan’s?”

  “Yeah another farm upstate, but that did not last too long and I was back in the Home for my last few years.”

  I did not elaborate on my experiences with the Jonas’s nor did Boyland ask. He obviously had not heard about Harold Jonas’s untimely accidental death. Small talk out of the way I asked the question that had been at the forefront of my mind. “Any word on my mother?”

  “No, Frankie, she never turned up. I’m sorry.”

  “Do you think she killed my father?”

  “I’m convinced of it,” he said, “and Wally Mason sure thought so.”

  “Is he still around?”

  “No, he retired a few years ago and went out to travel the country with his wife. Knowing you were coming over I went over his entire case file on your dad’s death, and I found out a few things I hadn’t known.”

  I perked up a bit and said, “Oh, what things?”

  “When your mother took off her car turned up the same day in Chambersburg, Pennsylvania. She traded it in at a used-car lot for a newer Honda and drove off. Wally changed the alarm out for her to now include the new plate number and vehicle ID number of the Honda.”

  “Did it ever turn up?” I asked.

  “No. A week later Wally had to cancel the alarm because your dad’s death was ruled an accident.”

  “But wasn’t it a crime to abandon me?”

  “Yes, but only a misdemeanor. The county won’t extradite anyone for less than a felony level offense.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “Who gives a damn about a nine-year old orphan anyway?”

  “Frankie, I feel bad about what happened to you. You know that.”

  I nodded and said, “Where do you think she was headed?”

  “Not Florida,” Danny said. “Chambersburg is on I-81 which heads southwest down to I-40 which runs way out west. She could have ended up anywhere from Tennessee to California.

  “Danny, could you run that Honda’s VIN now and see what turns up?”

  He hesitated a few seconds then turned to his computer and said “Sure, Frankie, I can do that,” as he accessed the screen and typed in the numbers and letters.

  It took about two minutes for the screen to fill with the information and after studying it for a bit, Danny said, “It doesn’t list all previous owners, only the last one, a guy named William Lattimore. The car was impounded by the authorities after Lattimore died and left it on a city street. It was crushed for scrap. Happened last year.”

  “What city?” I asked.

  “Los Angeles.”

  I repressed my internal excitement at this information and changed the subject by asking, “Is the social worker still around… uh…Miss Saunders?”

  “No, Pam was fortunate to find the love of her life and get married and quit. Her job was really depressing – she saw worse things than I did.”

  We went to lunch together and Danny asked me how I was getting around town. I told him by bus and on foot as I had no money for a car at this time. He told me he still had my bicycle covered up in his garage and offered to bring it over to my place. He said, “It may be a poor substitute for a car, but you can use it to get from home to your job and to the stores until you get real wheels.”

  “I’ll gladly take it,” I said. “Other than you, it’s the only tangible item left of my past life.”

  Danny nodded and said, “When you save a few bucks, I’ll throw some money in and help you get a car, but there might be a better path for your life to travel on first.”

  “What do you mean?” I asked.

  “Have you ever thought about going into the service?”

  “Yeah, that’s what a lot of the guys from the Home do when they reach eighteen. But I really don’t want to go to the deserts of the Middle East and come home in a body bag or maimed.”

  “Join the Navy or the Air Force.”

  “Were you in?”

  “No, but a close friend of mine was in the Navy. He learned a lot in tho
se four years and he was able to save enough money to complete his entire college education when he got out.”

  “Really?”

  “Really, and you don’t have to crawl through the sand dunes on your belly.”

  “You know, maybe I will look into that,” I said.

  Danny walked with me to the bus stop and told me to call him when I wanted him to bring my bike over. The idea of going into the Navy intrigued me and I made a note to talk to the recruiter soon. It was time to move on as Danny suggested.

  I had long ago come to terms with Jethro Hammond and the gang from the Home – what purpose would it do to exact revenge? They couldn’t hurt me again. And I had to do what I did to Harold Jonas to stop him from sodomizing me again. Yes, it was time to move on. Two months later I was in the United States Navy for a four-year hitch, but thoughts of my mother still refused to be buried with the others no matter how hard I tried. And my bike was once again back in Danny Boyland’s garage.

  After a year of sea duty, I found my vocation – the world of computers. I knew the basis of their operations from high school, but the Navy opened a whole new world of information. They taught me how to take them apart, re-build them from scratch, and recover data thought lost. They also introduced me to the basics of programming and software development. I now knew what I would spend my education allowance on when I got out – a degree in computer science – the key to a respectful well-paying job.

  My last three years in service were spent at the San Diego Naval Base, and as my enlistment neared an end, my thoughts returned to Mommy once more. For the past year or so I had searched several available data bases for her with no luck. I decided to seek advice from an investigator in the Naval Investigative Service whose offices were close by. I recognized one of the guys I had often seen in the cafeteria and approached him. I didn’t know his rank because he was in civilian clothes, so to be on the safe side I said, “Sir, would you have time to answer a few questions for me? I’m Petty Officer Frank Chandler from purchasing and provisioning.”