Pee-Shy

by Frank Spinelli

  “Listen to me, Frankie,” she said. “It’s very important that you tell me every detail. So did you do that to him or did he do it to you?” Without uttering a single word, I pointed to myself and then down at her lap. “You mean you did it to him?” she whispered slowly.

  I nodded.

  “Did you do anything else to him?” she asked.

  I nodded again.

  Mrs. Duran took another deep drag of her cigarette. Then she stifled it in the seashell ashtray. The room was filled with smoke.

  “What else did you do?” she repeated, lighting another cigarette.

  I stared unblinkingly into her face.

  “Frankie,” she said sternly, grabbing both my hands in hers and shaking them. “You have to tell me.” I thought I saw tears well up in her eyes, and that made me want to cry, too. “Listen, you did nothing wrong. This is not your fault, but if you don’t tell me, then your parents and I are going to confront Bill.”

  “No!” I shouted.

  “No?” she repeated. “Well, then, tell me everything. Otherwise I’ll do it. I’ll get on the phone right now and call Bill.”

  “I can’t.”

  “You can’t what?” she threatened, reaching for the phone. “Tell me, goddamnit! Did he touch you in any other way?”

  I couldn’t say it out loud, so I leaned in and gently blew on her face. Her eyes glared back at me, confused at first; then, after a moment, recognition settled in. I watched her crumble, saw the blood drain out of her face as tears fell from her eyes. She clasped her hand over her gaping mouth.

  “Oh my God. What did that bastard do to you?”

  “I’m sorry,” I whispered. “I’m so sorry.”

  Mrs. Duran threw her arms around me, drawing me into her. I began to cry. It felt like a lead knapsack had just been taken off my shoulders, and I collapsed in her arms, resting my head on her chest and soaking in the comfort of her long brown hair, with its faint smell of nicotine and Charlie perfume. “I’m gonna cut that bastard’s heart out!” she said through gritted teeth. Then she pulled me off of her. “You did nothing wrong. You hear me?” Her voice cracked as tears continued to stream down her cheeks.

  Then she looked at Jonathan. “Did Bill do anything to you?”

  Jonathan shrank back against the headboard, gripping the pillow in front of him. “No, Mom. I swear. He never touched me.”

  Hearing Jonathan lie felt like the worst betrayal of all.

  CHAPTER 23

  Where Nobody Dared to Go

  THE EVENTS THAT FOLLOWED my conversation with Mrs. Duran included Bill’s departure from Troop 85. I’m not certain whether he was dismissed or he resigned. Either way, he was gone. I had betrayed him, and my betrayal left me depressed and isolated. Meanwhile, my family wanted to believe that my life would go on as usual, and it did, except I retreated deeper into my secret world in the bathroom, crippled by the belief that I was responsible for making Bill go away.

  Mr. and Mrs. Duran confided in Mr. Castro, who told them that Bill had made sexual advances on him once. Mr. Castro had written Bill off as a closeted homosexual. He had no idea that boys were involved. Once the Durans spoke with Mr. Castro, he met with Bill privately. The police were never involved, and no charges were pressed. I’m certain Mr. Castro and the other assistant Scoutmasters felt intimidated because Bill was a highly decorated police officer. Having Bill step down must have seemed like the best solution to this problem. Once they informed my parents of this decision, they convinced them not to go to the authorities, and being good Italian Catholics, they obeyed. I didn’t have to go back to Boy Scouts, even though Mr. Castro was now acting Scoutmaster.

  It must have been a shock to the other boys and their families, particularly their fathers, when they learned Bill had stepped down. As the truth slowly trickled out, I imagined these families must have felt humiliated. Everyone looked up to Bill. He was, in fact, a hero. Even though he used the NYPD, the Catholic Church, and the Boy Scouts of America to infiltrate the lives of every family that made up Troop 85, the parents had to have felt deceived, knowing they’d entrusted this man with their sons.

  MY RELATIONSHIP WITH JONATHAN CHANGED after he lied to his mother. I could not bring myself to forgive him for that. Later I learned that Mr. Castro left Troop 85 and went on to become Scoutmaster at St. Theresa’s School. The final nail in the coffin came when I learned that Jonathan joined Mr. Castro’s new troop. Eventually, he went on to make Eagle Scout, fulfilling his dream.

  Right before the holidays, Sister Catherine made an appearance in our homeroom. When she entered, all the students immediately stood at attention, and, in unison, sang out, “Good afternoon, Sister Catherine.”

  “Good afternoon,” she replied. “Mrs. Hansen, may I speak to you in the hall?”

  “Of course.” Before she left the room, she warned us: “Not a single word from any of you.”

  At the same time, an announcement came over the school intercom: “Attention, all altar boys. Please see Father Roberts immediately in the gymnasium.” The usual boys stood up that day, except for me and, now, Jonathan.

  Seth immediately took notice. “Hey, Jon,” he whispered across the room. “You’re not going to queer practice today?”

  “Shut up, Seth,” mumbled Jonathan under his breath.

  “What?” asked Seth, holding his hand up to his ear. “I cunt hear you.”

  The entire class now had their eyes trained on Jonathan, waiting to see what he was going to do next. I looked at the door. Through the small window, I could see Mrs. Hansen still talking to Sister Catherine.

  “Seriously, Jon,” continued Seth. “I have a bum ear. Your mother knocked me in the head with her knees last night when I was eating out her pussy.”

  The class now seemed divided among those who urged Seth on with clapping and laughing and those like Daisy Dickenson, who tried to protect Jonathan.

  “Mind your own beeswax, zit face,” snapped Seth. “Go on, Johnny boy. Tell us why you aren’t going to queer practice today.”

  Jonathan cringed nervously in his seat. I could see his leg bobbing, and I took delight in watching him squirm, thankful that it wasn’t me and feeling that he deserved it.

  “Hey, Spinelli,” called Seth. “Do you have any idea why Jonathan isn’t going to queer practice today?”

  “Seth, be quiet,” insisted Daisy. “You’re going to get us all in trouble.”

  “I said I’m not talking to you, dick-head,” warned Seth again. Daisy shrank back in her chair. “Come on, Spinelli. You know Johnny. Why isn’t he going to queer practice?”

  I shrugged. From across the room I could see Jonathan peeking over at me, begging for help in the midst of all this chaos.

  “Oh, come on now,” said Seth. Then he stood up and began walking up the aisle. He was fearless, and that made him even more frightening. “You and Johnny boy here used to be best buds. You should know why he doesn’t want to go to queer practice.”

  Josephine once told me the only way to survive Catholic school was to either be a smart-ass or a tough bitch. At thirteen, I realized you had to be both.

  “Come on, Frankie boy. Why doesn’t Jonathan want to go to queer practice?”

  Staring across the room at Jonathan, I summoned every last bit of anger I felt toward him and said, “Maybe because he doesn’t need to practice anymore?”

  Silence followed as though the entire class was collectively holding their breath. Seth looked at me, his mouth hanging open, a wild look of surprise on his face. Then he howled loudly, clapping and jumping up and down. Others were laughing, too, myself included. It felt good not to be the brunt of their jokes this time. Jonathan pretended to read his novel, but I saw the hurt on his face.

  Just then, Mrs. Hansen entered the classroom. She appeared visibly disturbed. Seth returned to his seat before she could notice him. Walking back to her desk, Mrs. Hansen picked up a textbook and called the class to order. “Okay, pick up your science textbooks and begin readin
g where we left off.”

  “Excuse me, Mrs. Hansen,” said Daisy. “But we were reading from our English literature book before Sister Catherine arrived.”

  Bewildered, Mrs. Hansen looked up and stared at Daisy. “Excuse me?”

  “We were reading from our English literature book,” repeated Daisy.

  Mrs. Hansen’s cheeks grew red with embarrassment. She seemed completely confused. I could see it in her eyes. Something had left her so disoriented that she’d forgotten we were reading “The Lottery” by Shirley Jackson. “Well, then, continue reading where we left off right before Sister Catherine arrived,” she replied.

  As Daisy began, I watched Mrs. Hansen pace from her desk to the door and back again. I stared at her long enough for her to notice me. When our eyes met, she had the most troubled look on her face. That was when I realized she knew about Bill. Immediately, she turned away. Her eyes gazed across the entire class. When they fell upon Jonathan, she cringed, angry at the sight of a paperback in his hands. “Mr. Duran!” she shouted. “I understand our taste in literature may vary, but would it be too much trouble for you to join us in reading today?”

  Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Seth cheering quietly to himself.

  Daisy stopped reading. Like the rest of us, she was watching Jonathan. Unexpectedly, he began to cry. Mrs. Hansen walked over to him. She helped Jonathan up and escorted him out of class. Right there in front of everyone, Jonathan was falling apart, and I wasn’t helping.

  BY THE TIME JUNE ROLLED AROUND, I couldn’t wait to graduate. As I hoped, I won the literature award. After the ceremony, the Duran family came over to congratulate me. Mrs. Duran kissed me on the cheek and whispered, “How are you?”

  “Fine.”

  “I want you to talk to Jonathan,” she pleaded. “He misses you.”

  Our families moved outside into the parking lot. In those few awkward moments, they discussed the weather and vacation plans for the summer. I worked my way over to where Jonathan was standing, in a navy blue suit with a red tie.

  “Well, it’s over,” I said. “Next stop, high school.”

  “Congratulations on the award.”

  “Thanks,” I said. “Congratulations on being voted Most Shy.”

  “What an honor,” he said sarcastically. “So are you really that excited about high school?”

  “I’m glad to be done with this hellhole,” I said. “Not that I’m looking forward to spending the next four years at an all-boys Catholic high school in Brooklyn, but at least I won’t see anyone from good old St. Sylvester’s.”

  “All-boys school, huh? I don’t think I could handle that.”

  “It doesn’t matter. All boys, no boys. When it comes right down to it, school is school. It’s four more years of torture, and then it’s off to college. That’s when life really begins. I just have to get through the next four years.”

  The truth was that neither of us was looking forward to high school. But we were starting over again. For the past eight years, I’d spent nearly every day with the same group of boys and girls. We’d started off together practically as babies, and now, here we were, teenagers.

  Seeing Jonathan at graduation and remembering when we first met, I was overcome with nostalgia. Even after all we’d been through, I still felt as though we were the same kindred spirits who treasured Stephen King novels and had experimented with telepathy.

  “Hey, I got an idea,” I said. “Why don’t you sleep over at my house this weekend for old times’ sake? Maria is taking me to see the movie Xanadu. You should come!”

  “Okay,” he said. “I’d like that.”

  THAT SATURDAY AFTERNOON, MARIA AND I MET JONATHAN AT THE LANE. I loved seeing movies at this particular theater because the building was a landmark. Unlike the growing number of multiplexes popping up all over Staten Island, the Lane still showed only one movie at a time.

  Entering the theater that day, I was surprised by how crowded it was. An old woman with silver hair and a red vest took our tickets and escorted us all the way to the three available seats at the front of the theater. Once we sat down, the lights dimmed. The burgundy velvet curtain that draped over the screen retracted on each side, revealing a luminous projection: WELCOME TO THE LANE!

  After several trailers, Xanadu began. From the start, I knew this movie was going to change my life forever. In the first musical number, a mural of the nine muses comes to life while the sisters dance to the music of the Electric Light Orchestra’s song “I’m Alive.” Immediately, I was captivated, and with every musical number that followed, I kept looking over at Jonathan, who seemed even more mesmerized. The film’s finale was an extended musical number where Olivia Newton-John sings “Xanadu,” with more costume changes than I had ever seen before in one musical number.

  After the movie, Jonathan and I sang all the songs we could remember, making up the lyrics and thoroughly annoying my sister. We made a deal to stop singing if she agreed to drive us to the mall so we could buy the soundtrack. That night we played the album over and over on my sister’s stereo. I stole two hairbrushes from the bathroom, and Jonathan and I sang the duet “Suddenly,” screaming into our makeshift microphones.

  Later that evening, my father set up the cot in the den while my mother made up the couch. Jonathan and I talked well into the night, lying side by side in the dark and not wanting that day to end.

  “This was the most fun I’ve had in a long time,” I said.

  “Me, too.”

  “You know, Jonathan, I’m sorry I was such a jerk to you that day in class with Seth Connelly.”

  “That’s okay. He instigated it.”

  “But that’s still no excuse,” I offered. “Jonathan, there is something I have to ask you. Once you told me that Bill used to come by and take you on errands. Remember that day? We were in his truck.”

  “Yes.”

  “You also said that Bill did things to you. Were you telling me the truth?”

  Jonathan remained quiet for a long time. Long enough for me to think he wasn’t going to answer. But then I heard him sniffle, and finally, he whispered, “Yes.”

  “What kind of things did you do together?”

  “He used to pick me up after school, and we did the same things you told my mother you used to do with him when you were over at his house.”

  “Including the sex stuff?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “I was scared.”

  “Scared of me?”

  “Scared of what you’d think of me.”

  “I would have never thought any less of you. I only got mad when you didn’t come forward that day in your mom’s bedroom.”

  “I couldn’t.”

  “But why?”

  “Because there was more to it than that.”

  “Like what?”

  There was a long pause, followed by movement. In the darkness I felt Jonathan moving closer to me.

  “Did Bill ever make you have sex with other boys?”

  “No,” I said. “Did he make you do that?”

  “Forget it,” said Jonathan, settling back.

  “No.” I reached out to grab him. My hand grazed his cheek. It felt moist with tears. “Please, Jonathan, you can tell me anything.”

  I heard him sobbing. The world around us seemed to slow down. Then after several more seconds, Jonathan told me a story that haunted me for years.

  “One night Bill invited me to sleep over at his house. When I arrived, there were two other Scouts already there with Bill’s policeman buddy, Larry O’Hare. They were hanging out in his living room. After a while, Bill went upstairs and brought down these magazines. There were naked people in them. Larry pulled his pants down and started playing with himself. Bill did the same thing. Then they told us to take off our pants and get on our hands and knees. I was so scared. The other two boys were staring at me. I didn’t know what was going to happen, so I kept my eyes closed.”

  �
��What happened?”

  “Bill and Larry went around, taking turns on us.”

  “Took turns how?” I asked.

  Jonathan pushed his head into the pillow. I could hear him crying. Through the muffled sound of his tears, I heard him say, “They fucked us.”

  I was speechless. The feeling of remorse that coursed through my body was so powerful and sudden that all I could muster was, “I’m so sorry.” When I reached out my hand to comfort him, he recoiled.

  “Now you know everything,” he said, lifting his head up off the pillow.

  It was painful for me to hear him tell that story, but I imagined Jonathan felt relief, having finally confided in someone. The torture of carrying that secret around for so long must have been as crippling as the actual experience itself. “I understand now,” I said, “but I have to ask you one more thing.”

  “What?”

  “Who were the other two Scouts?”

  “I can’t say.”

  “Why?”

  “Because.”

  “Because why?”

  Then Jonathan sat up. The moonlight streaked in through the sliding glass doors and outlined his face. He was looking directly at me. He no longer looked like himself, and that was the most frightening thing of all. Quietly, he whispered, “Because when Bill and Larry were done, they made the other two boys take turns on me.”

  Reeling from all these revelations, it took me a while to respond. “Jonathan, I understand you’re upset, but you have to tell me who they were. You have to tell me!”

  Jonathan fell back down on the couch, sobbing into the pillow, but I didn’t care. “Jonathan, if you don’t tell me, I’m going to call your mother, and I’m going to tell her everything you just told me . . .”

  “All right, all right,” he cried. “It was James Mendola and Chris Spivey. Are you happy now?”

  It suddenly all made sense. That wounded expression on Spivey’s face the first time I went to Bill’s house must have been the mirror of mine when I saw Jonathan in Bill’s truck the last time we were all together.